Chapter 6- Souls
When Brother Morton returns to the cells, he finds Thomas sipping coffee on the cot, his blanket draped over his shoulders, "Good evening, Brother. Are you staying warm?"
"Yes, but not without a few extra layers of socks. You appear a bit chilly."
"Lizzie brought around extra socks for us this morning, but the wind is cutting and creeps through the door on the other end. I feel it when it gusts. Mr York's boilers cannot keep up."
"It's bitter out there today."
"I hope you did not have to come far in this weather."
"Mr York provided a room. His house is warm."
"I should not complain. Allerdale Hall was far worse in the winter. The Yorks do well, all things considered, keeping it warm and dry here. At least this place has a roof."
"Your house had no roof?"
"The central tower rotted away long ago."
"Oh. I have heard that it was once a grand place."
"Once. But inside it has always been harsh."
"That has also been conveyed. It seems most of the town knows of your father's temper."
"And probably his lust."
"Oh?"
"He hated women, but conquering them was something he relished. I overheard some of his fights with Mother- before he beat her silent. He would taunt her so cruelly with stories of his time in other beds."
"And did this unnerve you?"
"I was a child. Hearing my parents fight unnerved me. Terrified me, actually. Sex was...complicated. Something our parents did, but our mother not always willingly. Something our father took whenever he demanded it. Something horrible naughty children sneaked into the library to discover in books. Something young girls were never to think about lest they be beaten. And something young boys were to learn to make into a game. Looking back...everything in my childhood is unnerving at its most mild."
"And in your adulthood?"
"Unnerving is far too light a word. Disturbing. Horrifying. Disgusting. And despicable. There were moments of light, but so few..."
"You speak in the past."
"Because I believe that it will end shortly and I am in a neutral time. A state where life is no longer being lived."
"And what do you believe will happen to you after?"
"After what?"
"After death."
"Nothing. I will cease to be."
"Does this frighten you?"
Thomas shakes his head, "No. Being has been far too difficult. Ending will be simple. A relief."
"Some believe in an afterlife."
"And what of me in it? Heaven would not open its doors to me, no matter how much I repented. Hell would be far too cruel after a life of torment. So I choose neither. And I do not want to wander this world, a haunting. I would rather end."
"Why do you deny the possibility of forgiveness?"
Thomas sips his coffee and thinks before choosing his words, "Because I cannot forgive myself and do not deserve to, nor do I think any benevolent god would allow what I have done. Therefore I am either a creature rejected by god and not under his watch, which is somewhat less than appealing, or I am merely a man who has lived a horrible life and my actions are my own."
"Would you consider asking god for forgiveness, just in case?"
He shrugs, "If there is nothing after, it cannot hurt. But at the same time, it seems useless to ask something I do not believe in for something I do not believe would be granted."
Brother Morton extends his hands, "If you wish, I will pray, one way or another. Being a man of the cloth, I can ask on your behalf, and then you do not need to believe anything. And if you ever choose to, consider it a letter of introduction."
Thomas sets aside his coffee and takes the monk's hands, wincing as he moves his shoulder, "My apologies, Brother. My sister stabbed me before our arrest."
"If you don't mind my saying, that wasn't a very sisterly thing to do."
"I told her I love Edith. She was not happy."
"Ah. You do realize most sisters don't stab their brothers over such things?"
"Of course. But the Sharpes were never 'most people' in any sense of the word. And I did tell you of our...well..."
There is a lull in the conversation and Brother Morton closes his eyes, "Then let us pray. Father in heaven, hear your monk's prayer. Thomas has done dark things, and they weigh heavily on his heart. May it be your will that he find peace before his death, one way or another. And if he does not, have mercy on his soul and grant him rest when he meets you. If any man deserves such grace, he does. Amen."
Thomas lets his hands fall, "Thank you, Brother. It is a kindness, if nothing else."
"My next stop will be your sister's cell. How do you think she will take such a thing?"
"Be careful. Lucille is volatile when caged."
"Malachi will be in the hall. He has agreed to allow this moment of spiritual care to be more private, but with her, he is wary."
"He is wise to be. I would advise he stay closer."
"And what of you?"
"I am relieved. I am safe. I am away from her. And henceforth, my fate is my own, even if it ends in death."
Brother Morton cannot argue with his reasoning, "I understand. May peace be with you, Mr Sharpe."
"And with you, Brother."
Once again, Thomas is alone. He sips his coffee. He loves the solitude of sipping something hot without worrying about Lucille having slipped something in it. And the conversation with the monk was strangely comforting. Even the prayer, which he is fairly certain was just words, was soothing to hear. Someone is concerned about him enough to pray with him. It is an odd feeling, this care. But he welcomes it. Care has, for so long, been something that came with risk, a price, or with loss.
Brother Morton enters Lucille's cell and finds her sitting in the cold, the blanket on the floor, "Good evening, Miss Sharpe."
"Good evening."
"While yesterday was confession day, today is a confession of a different sort. I'm here to talk about-"
"The state of my soul. You are wasting your time."
"Come now, there has to be some burden on your heart I can help relieve."
"No."
"You feel no guilt?"
"I did what I had to."
"That is not the same sentiment shared by your brother."
"My brother is a soft-hearted fool and always has been!" She lunges forward, something in her hand, and a moment later, Brother Morton is staggering sideways, clutching his ribs. She stabs him a second time in the chest.
From his cell, Thomas hears the sharp crack of a gunshot. He leaps to his feet and rushes to the bars, slamming his hand against them, shouting her name. He grabs the door and shakes it, calling for her again and again. Lizzie and Mr York run by, Lizzie's arms full of towels.
When they arrive in the cell, they find Malachi pressing the blanket over Brother Morton's wounds, Lucille's body slumped against the wall, a bleeding wound in her temple.
Mr York turns to Lizzie, "Run for the doctor."
She drops the towels and bolts out into the cold.
She pounds on the door when she arrives at the Doyle house; Thaddeus opens the door, "Why, Lizzie- you aren't dressed for this weather. What's the matter?"
She pulls her notepad from her apron and writes, "Doctor. NOW."
"Doctor McMichael!" Thaddeus calls, "Trouble's afoot!" Then he turns back to Lizzie, "What happened?"
She indicates long hair, raking her fingers from her scalp down to her waist, then a stabbing motion, before crossing herself.
Alan joins him at the door, "What happened?"
"The woman stabbed the monk. You've got work to do."
"You know, while I studied surgery, I'm an eye doctor by trade."
"Then you'd best hope she stabbed him in the eyes."
"No...actually not." He turns to Lizzie, "Is he alive?"
She nods.
"Where are his injuries?"
She points to her side and chest.
"We must move quickly. Either place could be fatal." He runs for his bag.
Rebecca comes to see what the hubbub is about, "Lizzie, you'll catch your death out there without a coat. Here, use this." She drapes a cloak around the girl's shoulders and Lizzie smiles in appreciation, "Now, why is the doctor running off so close to supper?"
"Because Miss Sharpe has stabbed Brother Morton."
"And what has happened to Miss Sharpe as a result?"
Thaddeus looks to Lizzie. She mimes firing a rifle and then points to her head.
"She's dead?"
Lizzie nods.
Thaddeus sighs, "Perhaps it is for the best...I can't imagine both Sharpes on trial at once would have been anything but a circus."
Rebecca shakes her head and crosses herself, "God rest her." Alan returns with his coat and his bag, "And godspeed to both of you."
They disappear into the snowy evening.
Thaddeus turns to his wife, "How do you think her brother's going to take this?"
"I don't know, but I'd best go send him something." She heads to her workroom. Thaddeus knows what she is going to do- there will be incantations and herbs, a cauldron, and something burned in the fire, its fragrant smoke drifting up their chimney. Her ways are old, different, and strange, but in this village, they are also valued. Thaddeus is proud of her, but he knows this will take time and there is food to prepare for supper and a young woman to be tended to. He finds his apron and gets to work.
When Alan arrives at the jail, Mr York and Malachi have Brother Morton on his side and are trying to keep pressure on the wounds. He quickly opens his bag and begins his examination. The woman is clearly dead. There is no question there.
Thomas bangs on the bars and calls her name, desperate for news, "Mr York, has anyone told him what has happened?"
"We haven't had the chance."
"Perhaps now would be a good time. I only need one assistant."
Lizzie tugs on her father's sleeve and points to herself, then out of the cell.
"Take Mal with you. I'll stay."
They leave . Malachi checks his rifle, "I hope to hell I don't have to use this a second time, Liz. You be careful, now. Man's just lost his sister, he's bound to be...different." She nods, "Do you want to tell him or do you want me to?"
She pats her chest.
"I'm not going to give you much space. Not with what I just saw."
When the get to Thomas' cell, he is leaning against the door, "What news? Please, tell me something."
She steps close and reaches through the bars to rest a hand on his uninjured shoulder; she speaks slowly, deliberately, every word uncomfortable, her voice a croaking whisper, "She stabbed Brother Morton. She is dead. I am so sorry."
He slams his fist into the bars but she does not flinch. Malachi steps forward, rifle ready. She reaches up and takes Thomas' hand. His anger quickly gives way to grief and he sinks to the floor. She keeps his hand and sits beside him, her shoulder pressed between the bars. He hunches over, slips his hand from hers, and hugs his stomach as though he might retch. She waits while he rocks, gasping for breath. It is only when he is sobbing hard enough that it forces him to stop moving that she reaches back through and rests one hand on his back. He reaches for her other and she gives it, allowing him to hold her hand close to his chest.
Malachi watches, looking for any trick, any harm that could come to Lizzie, and sees none.
Mr York approaches, "Doctor McMichael wants to move Mort to the Doyle house. I'm going to get the carriage."
"Best not to carry him in this weather."
"Aye. Too cold. And we'd jostle him too much."
"And this?" Malachi gestures to Lizzie and Thomas.
Mr York's voice softens, "Let them be. He's not going to hurt her."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Lizzie's a smart one. Has to be. You've seen the likes of who's tried to woo her since she went silent."
"Aye, I have. Had to bring one of them here to you because of it- I almost put him six feet under."
"She's got her head about her. She'll be able to tell if she's in danger. But I don't think she will be. He's never been completely without his sister. Now he is."
Malachi takes one last look at Lizzie before he follows Mr York away, "I hope you're right, Reg."
They load Brother Morton into the carriage and deliver him to the Doyles. Rebecca has a room ready and the house smells of charred herbs. When they return, they bundle Lucille's body into a clean sheet.
"So...what do we do about her?"
Mr York shrugs, "Bury her in the churchyard, I'd think. But first we talk to her brother."
"Are you sure that's wise?"
"He's her only living relative. Wise or no, it's what's right."
Mr York walks to Thomas' cell while Malachi stays with her. Thaddeus is their undertaker and he will be bringing a pine box as soon as Brother Morton is settled.
Lizzie is still sitting as close as she can beside Thomas, but he is quiet, his eyes red, his face wet with tears. His hair sticks to his cheeks. Lizzie traces patterns on his hand along the creases, a gentle form of magic she learned from Rebecca- a way to calm, a way to read fates. But she has said nothing else since she brought him the news.
Mr York crouches beside them, "Mr Sharpe...I'm sorry for your loss. But there is one more matter I have to bother you with. We need to bury her. The ground hasn't yet frozen in the churchyard. Is there anything we should say or do? Any family traditions we need to honour?"
Thomas shakes his head.
"I can chain you and allow you up to see her laid to rest."
"Would you?"
"Yes."
"Thank you. Will the monk live?"
"The doctor doesn't know. He thinks if he makes it through the night, he has a chance. But beyond that, we can't say."
"Oh."
"Son, this is going to be a rough next few weeks. You've got this to deal with, and a trial coming in Carlisle. Lizzie and I, we can only do so much for you. But we'll do our best."
"Why?"
"Because if any man deserves kindness, it's the one whose landed himself in such a state that he's in our jail."
"But I am no one to you."
"That's true, I don't know you from Adam. But you're practically still a boy...I know, you're really not. But I was grown when you were born, so that makes you one of the village kids. Just because my own girl's ten years younger doesn't mean I don't think of you as one of them."
"Father so rarely brought us here."
"He did more in your first few years. He was proud of his son, then, or of the idea of his son."
"Only the idea. He did not know me yet."
Mr York sighs, "Lizzie- take care of Mr Sharpe. I've got to find my preacher's hat so I can say a few words at the grave if Rebecca doesn't beat me to it. Thad's set the boys digging. We'll be heading out in the cold soon."
As soon as he has left, Thomas squeezes her hand, "Thank you, Lizzie."
She smiles and nods in reply. There will be time for words, written or signed, later. Now, though, he just needs a someone.