During Compline, the priest lead them in the All Saints' Eve Vigil. It was a time to recall those who had departed to heaven. The image of blue lights flickered through Lydia's mind as she tried to concentrate on the words of the priest. Had she seen her mother and sisters? Why would her mother haunt her? She felt sick to her stomach and her head had began to ache. Was she coming down with hysteria or the pox? Please God no! When the service was over she went to her room. Susanna was not there. Surely, Cobb had found her by now. Was Susanna isolated somewhere as punishment? Had she been caned or worse? So many questions swirled around inside her head and sleep did not come. After an eternity, the light of All Saints' Day began to push away the night. She got up and dressed for morning Mass.

When the bells began to ring, she went into the hall and followed the nuns to the church. Today was the day to honor the dead. Without Susanna beside her, Lydia felt very alone. Her eyes traveled to the few remaining nobles who still attended classes. They could not return home anymore than she could.

After Mass, Lydia snuck out to the garden to see Cobb. In the frost bitten garden Cobb was assessing damage. She went up to him and asked, "Did you find her?"

"Aye."

"Is she here?"

Cobb shook his head and gave her a look that demanded she asked no more questions.

Not heeding the look Lydia asked, "Where is she?"

'"No more. She be alive, that be all ye need to know." He clamped his jaws with such force, Lydia knew he would not tell her a word more. His expression also revealed how very diappointed he was in her.

She dropped her eyes to the frosted ground. "I know I was bad Cobb. I should have stayed put and I should have made sure Susanna did too."

Cobb put a clumsy hand on her shoulder and said, "That Miss has a wild streak. I reckon she put you up to it. Be times the only answer is no. Remember that. Now go on, it be too cold to be out here." With a wave of his hand he dismissed her.

*

Susanna did not return to Romsey Abbey. What had happened to her no one would say. Had she been sent home? Lydia did not know. No one spoke her name, not even Sister Timothy. The loss of Susanna, and the erasure of her name and presence hurt. Lydia had lost her friend as surely as if she had died.

After Christmas, Sister Timothy taught Lydia how to make an ink pen out of a reed and how to make ink from walnut hulls. Ink on parchment scraps was not as forgiving as wax was. Her pen spat ink and made ugly spots. The ugly spots would not go away. The ink stained her skin. Her smudged letters covered scraps of parchment. The ruined scaps could not be melted down like wax. The only way to get rid of them was burn them, but Sister Timothy would not let her do this. She said, "One must remember one's mistakes to see how far one has come." This bit of wisdom annoyed Lydia. She was making slow progress in her goal of becoming an illuminator. In fact, what she was becoming increasingly aware of was that writing in wax was her pleasure. It was the wax, it was the wax's link to candle making that enchanted her. Tied to dirty ink there was not any joy in writing. She just did it because she was supposed to...because it passed time.

The desire to make candles again grew into an endless ache. Making wax tablets with Cobb was no longer enough. Her free spirit began to resist the confines of the Abbey. She longed to walk freely, live freely...was freedom even possible if one were born female? Aunt Rachel knew a degree of it. The fierce and independent blood of the Wades flowed in Lydia's veins. Her blood was beginning to tell.

One morning hoping to encourage Lydia, Sister Timothy sent to her to Sister Clare's room. Sister Clare was an illuminator. With an air of pride Sister Timothy ushered Lydia into the nun's cluttered room. She said, "This is the novice I have been telling you about." She intoduced them.

Sister Clare rose from the desk where she was seated. On the desk was a rectangular sheet of parchment with beautiful letters written in black. There was a smudge of ink on Sister Clare's nose. The fingers on her right hand were stained black. Lydia glanced down at her own hand. Would it one day be permanently stained?

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Sister Clare said, “It is good to finally meet you, Lydia." Her eyes traveled to Sister Timothy. "I will send her back to you after mid meal."

Sister Timothy bowed and left the room.

With a sparkle in her eye, Sister Clare said, "Hye, first I will show you my store room.” In the west wall was a door. Sister Clare opened it. A terrible smell poured out of the room. It stank like Aunt Rachel's garden shed. In this room dried woad and fresh buckthorn berry protruded from crocks. Dead bugs were in a bowl with their little legs sticking stiffly toward heaven. On a shelf was an array of glittering rocks. Some were in shades of yellow and orange, others were in hues of blue. One large flaked stone was as blue as the deepest night. It was beautiful. Sister Clare picked it up and asked, “It is lovesome, is it not?”

Lydia nodded.

“I crush this azurite into powder to make the blue of the Virgin’s robe and the blue of the sky.”

An insect with long legs pushed itself out of a box. With one hand, Sister Clare grasped it and shoved it back into the box. “That little critter makes a lovely shade of red.” She touched the buckthorn berry branches. “These make green.” Aunt Rachel used Buckthorn bark and leaves to treat coughs, tummy trouble and diarrhea. Were recipes for illumination close kin to that of medicine? When Sister Clare opened a box of finely ground black powder she said, “There are various recipes but this is what I use to make black ink. It is burned bones and oak gall.”

Lydia’s mind went to Aunt Rachel's shed. Inside of it was a box of bones. Rumor was they were human bones. Was illuminator ink made of human bones?

“Why are you looking like that child?”

Unsettled, Lydia asked, “What kind of bones do you use?”

“Sheep. What kind did you think?”

Lydia lied, “I dunna know.”

“In time I will show you how to prepare all my inks and pigments.” Sister Clare opened cupboard. Inside of it were the split skins of calves, some had been cut, others had not. These would become pages of parchment. Beside skins were ready pages of parchment and a stack of wax tablets. At the sight of the tablets something inside of Lydia relaxed. Even the presence of wax calmed her. Instinctively, Lydia’s fingers reached out to caress the wax.

From another shelf Sister Clare pulled out a wax tablet and showed it to Lydia. Drawn on the surface of the wax was the form of Eve. Delicately lined flowing hair covered her nakedness. Her eyes were riveted on the snake that wound himself around the Tree of Knowledge. Adam looked away from Eve and the snake. Lydia did not like this story. All the faults of the world were heaped on poor Eve.

*

December passed into January. The weather was bleak and Lydia was lonely. While she interacted some with the nuns, she was the smallest hen in the Abbey pecking order and no one outside of Sister Timothy and Sister Clare bothered with her. At night alone in her room she would try to remember what she had to be thankful for, food, shelter, her virginity, her ability to read and write. These things alone were not enough though. Thoughts of escape filled her mind. Where would she go, what would she do? She did not know.

On an afternoon in late January a familiar voice echoed in the halls of Romsey Abbey. On her way to Sister Timothy's class she heard her father shouting, “I hear tell my daughter is here. She dunna belong to you." Lydia stopped where she was. The door to Mother Therese's room was open. Fader was in there! He continued, "She is betrothed and I am a man of my word. Back she goes with me. I will go to the priest, he will see things my way and you know it!”

Mother Therese murmured something. Lydia felt a hand close around her wrist. She almost screamed with fright. When she turned she saw Sister Timothy. Her lips were pressed tightly together. She jerked her head to the side, bidding Lydia to follow her. Quietly they crept to Sister Timothy's room. From the cupboard, the nun produced a man's coat and hat. To Lydia's astonishment she also handed her the tunic and britches Father Peter had given her. "Quick, put these on."

Lydia stripped off her novice dress and pulled on the boys clothes. Sister Timothy helped her slip on the coat and hat. In the pocket of the coat Lydia felt a reed pen, an ink pot and a book of parchment. Sister Timothy kissed her forehead. "Now be gone. Cobb will meet you at the gate. I will go and help stall your father. Run girl, run!"

With one quick glance at the Christ on the wall, Lydia fled the Abbey. At the gate Cobb was waiting for her. He handed her a bag. It contained her candlebox. He jabbed his chest and said, "Follow me."

Old though he was, Cobb's stride was massive and swift. They ducked into the woods and he cut a path only he could follow. Lydia panted behind him clutching the bag. The faint scent of honey filled her nostrils. As they made their way, Lydia wondered if this was the way Susanna had gone. She wondered if tomorrow her own name would ceased to be spoken in the Abbey as if she never existed at all.

The afternoon was bitterly cold. By eventide, snow was falling. Hungry, thirsty, tired and frightened Lydia continued to put one foot in front of the other. They came out of the woods on South Road near the Swan Inn. A wooden sign with a swan on it rattled in the wind. At the door of the inn Cobb said, "This is where we part girl. When ye go inside ask for Vivian. When you see her say, 'I have come to apply for the char girl position.' She will take care of ye from there." He patted her shoulder and turned away from her. She watched him until he slipped back in the woods. Would she ever see him again?