All's Well That Ends Well

Inside the convent, the sisters also celebrated with candles and autumn garlands, linking arms in a round through the garden as they sang joyful hymns. The merriment was still in full swing, but Sister Agatha left all the singing behind; the lanterns that were still glowing in the orchard faded behind her as she walked toward the small abandoned chapel with a single candle.

Little Sister Agnes had long abandoned this place and had returned to sleeping in the cloister with the other sisters. Yet, something drew her toward the little chapel, perhaps only from the habit of checking doors. As she approached, she saw a thin line of greenish light glow beneath the threshold.

With a cautious stance, Agatha slowly opened the door. She received quite a fright upon entering.

The walls inside the lonely chapel were aglow with markings. Jade and gold strokes curled across the stone in slowly shifting vines. Old symbols and strange ancient drawings glowed faintly. The freshly drawn ones almost seared her sight.

Agatha walked slowly, exploring them from a distance taking care not to touch them.

Right in the center of the floor, a scorch of melted beeswax showed candles had been arranged meticulously, in contrast to the mess of scattered white petals that still marked the spot where prayers had been said just hours earlier.

She recalled this was the very spot where Agnes’s little bed had been placed while the frantic doctors had worked tirelessly merely three months ago. But the melted beeswax was evidence of a more recent ritual. Perhaps just hours ago.

As the young sister stood frozen, the candle shook in her hand.

“Witchcraft…” she gasped.

The light on the walls then pulsed once, as if responding to her remark with defiance.

Then steadied.

Then, they waited.

✨✨✨

Outside, the music and the celebration at the beer garden lasted deep into the night. Lanterns still hung low from ropes while torches still flickered. The doctors from the neighboring towns finally began to take their leave, clasping forearms and promising to meet again.

Edgar laughed loudly at something Agnes had said. Lorenzo watched the child quietly, as though she might vanish if he looked away. Ignatius remained at the edge of the company, still holding his untouched ale and saying very little.

Cedric rose first among their merry table.

“The old man has been bested. I am for home,” he said. “I shall leave the rest of the ale in the capable hands of the youth.”

He exchanged brief goodnights, clasped Lorenzo’s forearm, hugged little Agnes, and at length stepped out of the lantern light into the shadowy lane.

The night wind was cool, and the forest was still. He gazed out towards the trees and raised an empty cup.

”And long live the fairest of all the woodland fae,” he toasted the air.

He turned left as the voices and music of the beer garden faded. Ahead, the convent walls, arches and towers rose dark against the stars.

He stopped once more to look at the shimmering constellations, reminded of the ones that floated in the vial against the candlelight.

”Whoever thought stars were beautiful enough to drink?” he wondered with a soft laugh that ended in a little cough. He pulled his cloak a little tighter to his throat.

He was halfway along the track when the second cough took him.

It was also small, easily dismissed. He cleared his throat and kept walking.

The third cough came harder.

Cedric stopped, leaned forward, and felt the familiar rattle of dried herbs shift inside the beak of his mask. A few brittle leaves and crumbs of root tumbled onto the path as the cough deepened.

Unable to stop the spasm, he then pulled the mask aside and pressed his cloth to his mouth.

When the fit passed, he drew the cloth away.

Even in the poor light, there was no mistaking the dark wet stain that bloomed in it.

He stood very still in the lane. The bloody handkerchief crumpled in his hand, as all the shadows of fall settled over him.

Along with the call of one solitary crow upon the convent wall.