Shroud of Shadow by Gael Baudino Page A

came back, no one had missed her because Mary had taken her place. Mary does things like that.”
    Amen.
    The voices trailed off. Prime was done. In Shrinerock Abbey, Omelda's sisters in Christ w3ere filing out into the cloister, preparing for the mixtum . Relief flooded into her, and she put her hands to her face, rubbed, blinked as though only now had she really awakened.
    On the river, the boat was still passing, moving off into the distance, fading out of sight like the convent and the convent life and all the predictability and surety Omelda had ever known. She suddenly missed the four thick walls, the gardens, the constant reassurance of unutterable sameness. Only her knowledge that the voices—incessant, battering—would return at terce kept the longing from turning abruptly into heartbreak. “At least, they say she does.”
    Natil was watching her.
    “But . . .” It was a painful admission, but Omelda said it. “But I don't think that would happen if I went back,” she said. “I don't think things like that happen anymore. Besides . . .” She shrugged heavily, indicated her head.
    Natil's eyes were damp. “I understand.” She looked off at the sunrise. “Perhaps they might happen again. Someday.”
    Omelda felt herself grow hopeful. “Do you believe that?”
    The harper's face was solemn. “I want to believe that. I want very much to believe that. I think that I have . . . dreams . . . of that. I want very much to believe those dreams.”
    The conversation had taken an odd turn, and Omelda felt the sudden chill and queasiness that came from a close encounter with a prophet . . . or a madwoman. “Some say that dreams come from the devil,” she said cautiously. “Dame Agnes said that they come from impure thoughts, and that we should ignore them.”
    Natil was still staring off at the sunrise. “Do you think that is what they are? Simply impure thoughts? Is hope an impure thought?”
    These were genuine questions. Natil really appeared to have no idea what to think about dreams. “I . . . I don't know,” said Omelda. “God says we should hope. It's a virtue, after all.”
    Natil nodded slowly. “Do you dream?”
    “Yes . . .”
    “Do you ever dream dreams . . . that come true?”
    “I don't know.” Omelda writhed. “I . . .”
    Natil became aware of Omelda's distress. “I am sorry, beloved. I did not mean to pry.”
    The harper said nothing more about dreams. Instead, she made food, and the two women ate eggs and bread from Maris and three fish that the harper coaxed from the water. Omelda, hungry and trying to shake her sudden homesickness, crammed her mouth full as she muttered an inward grace. Natil, however, bent her head over her meal and remained so for the better part of a minute.
    Omelda flushed. Here was a musician more devout than a nun. Hastily, she put down the bread in her hands and crossed herself, trying hard to make her second thanksgiving more sincere and deliberate than her last.
    Natil lifted her head, smiled. “Everything worth doing, Omelda, is worth doing consciously, attentively. Eating, harping, saying grace . . . even chanting.”
    Omelda shrugged heavily. Natil's words seemed obvious: how else did one plod through a life? But, still feeling guilty about the rudeness with which she had awakened the harper, she did not pursue the subject until after they had both finished breakfast. Then: “What can I do . . . about the chant in my head?”
    “What can you do?” Natil wiped her hands, unwrapped her harp, tried the strings. The morning had warmed, and the instrument with it: the chords rang true. “I fear you might not like what I have to tell you.”
    Like? Did she like the chant? “Tell me anyway.”
    Natil spoke simply. “I believe you will have to live it.”
    “I'm . . .” Omelda had hoped for more. She had hoped for hope. “I'm already living it, Natil.”
    Natil shook her head, plucked a few strings. “You will have to live it consciously, attentively,