Chapter 7: Ashes and Honey
The rain did not stop for three days after Matthew left. It came not as a storm, but as a steady, relentless mist that blurred the sea and made the monastery appear half-sunken in cloud. The world turned monochrome—grey stone, silver waves, white sky. Even the garden bowed beneath the weight of it, the rosemary drooping and the thyme washed pale. It was the kind of rain that slowed the blood and quieted the soul. Elias found Genevieve on the third morning, kneeling in the kitchen, building a fire that would not catch. Her hands trembled only slightly, but her movements were methodical, almost mechanical, as though she were reciting a prayer she no longer believed. He crouched beside her in silence. They did not speak. Only when the fire caught, blooming orange in the damp hearth, did she exhale. I thought he would never come, she said softly. But you knew he might. He always liked unfinished things. He was never good with endings. She stood slowly, brushing ash from her palms onto her skirt. He liked to believe everything could be fixed if you threw enough money at it. Including people. She walked to the window and leaned on the stone sill. The rain softened her reflection in the glass. I used to think he loved me, Elias. But it was never love. It was hunger. A need to possess something delicate and call it devotion. Elias stood behind her, close but not touching. You are not delicate. She smiled faintly, eyes still on the rain. No. Not anymore. They spent that day in separate corners of the monastery. Elias went to the east wing, where the salt wind had left trails of lichen on the windows. He read from an old poetry collection left behind by the monks—verses about sea gods and dying stars, beauty found in the bones of things. Genevieve remained in the chapel, scrubbing the stone floors with a brush and vinegar, the scent biting the air. When Elias checked on her later, her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, hair tied in a knot, eyes raw but focused. She did not look up as he entered. Some wounds, she had once told him, were not meant to be healed. Only aired out. He let her work. That night, she joined him in the cloister courtyard. The rain had slowed to a mist, and moonlight slipped through the clouds like thin silk. They sat on the cold stone bench beneath the oldest olive tree. Elias held a bottle of honey wine, two chipped clay cups beside him. He poured slowly, careful not to spill. To the broken, he said. To the brave, she replied. They drank.
After a while, she spoke. I was seventeen when I met him. He was thirty-three. My father adored him. Thought I was lucky. Thought he was wise. Sophisticated. I thought so too, at first. Until I wasn't allowed to wear red anymore. Until I wasn't allowed to laugh too loudly. Until my thoughts became dangerous. What made you leave?A mirror, she said. A mirror? Yes. One day I passed by a mirror in our London home and didn't recognize the woman in it. She was beautiful, yes, in the way expensive dolls are. But she looked tired. Caged. And she was looking back at me like she was trying to escape. So you ran? No. First I stood very still for a very long time. Then I packed a bag. And then I burned the dress I wore the night I met him. They sat in silence again. The wind had picked up. Somewhere, an owl called once, then fell quiet. Elias spoke. I've run before, too. Not from a person. From myself. He paused. I was supposed to be a doctor. My father was one. His father too. But I never wanted to be like them. They loved answers. I love questions. And when I finally told my father I was leaving medical school, he said, 'Then what are you good for?' And what did you say? Nothing. I walked out. I haven't spoken to him since. He poured them more wine. I came here looking for something. I didn't know it would be you. She looked at him now, truly looked. You still think I'm something to be found? I think you're someone worth staying for. She didn't respond. But her hand reached out and found his. They didn't kiss. Not yet. But the distance between them was gone. The next day brought sun. It returned slowly, like a friend testing the door after a long absence. Light spilled across the wet flagstones, glittered on the leaves, warmed the stone benches. Genevieve opened every shutter in the monastery. She threw back curtains, rolled up rugs, swept the entire cloister. Dust danced in the sunbeams. She was smiling again. Not the careful, quiet smile Elias had seen when they first met, but something freer. Like light breaking through cracked stained glass. They spent the morning harvesting herbs—lavender, sage, mint. She taught him how to braid rosemary into drying bundles and hang them from the ceiling beams. He showed her how to strip bark from branches to use in fire-starting kits. Later, they walked the eastern path, past the bellmaker's cottage and down to the sea cave hidden behind a tumble of boulders. The cave was dry despite the rain, and the air inside was warm with a mineral scent. This place always calms me, she said. I think the earth remembers peace better than people do. She sat on a ledge, legs dangling, watching the water shimmer where sunlight reached it. Elias sat beside her. Do you ever miss the life you left behind? he asked. No, she said. I miss the person I might have been if I'd never had to survive it. That was the first time he saw her cry. The tears didn't fall all at once. They came slowly, as though they'd been waiting for permission. She didn't sob or tremble. She simply let them fall, silent and steady, like rain returning to the sea. Elias didn't speak. He took her hand, held it gently. And when the tears stopped, she looked at him. Thank you, she said. For what? For not trying to fix it. That night, they sat by the fire. Genevieve pulled a journal from the shelf and began to read aloud—pages filled with old names, half-forgotten prayers, fragments of letters never sent. Elias listened, fascinated by the ghosts of the monastery. Who wrote these? The last sister to live here, Genevieve said. Her name was Agatha. She stayed long after the others left. Alone for nearly twenty years. She wrote to people who never replied. Prayers for strangers. Dreams she had. She pointed to a page. Here's one. I dreamed of bees building hives inside my chest. Not stinging. Not harming. Just building. Sweetness in the hollow. That sounds like something you'd write, Elias said. Genevieve smiled. Maybe she left a bit of herself behind. She closed the journal and looked into the fire. What if we're all just echoes of those who came before? Then I hope I echo you, he said. And this time, she kissed him. Not out of urgency. But out of recognition. A moment long in the making. A promise spoken in silence. The next morning, the world shimmered. Everything was brighter, sharper. The sea glittered. The sky opened like a wound made of light. Even the birds seemed louder. They spent the day in the vineyard below the hill, pruning wild vines and untangling forgotten trellises. Genevieve showed him the old wine cellar, hidden beneath a fallen arch. They tasted a bottle marked only with the symbol of a sun. It's sweet, Elias said. She nodded. It was made the year the monastery closed its gates. A vintage of farewell. As they walked back up the hill, she turned suddenly. I'm not afraid anymore, she said. Of what? Of being seen. He didn't answer with words. He simply took her hand. And together, they walked toward the violet hour.