The cooking pot bubbled loudly now, releasing a whistling steam rich with the smell of caramelized onion and cream. The smell of supper.

Wilbur spoke, suddenly finding his voice. “You have a lovely place, my lady.” It really was. Even the shadows here were warm and inviting.

She chuckled softly. “Joan is fine, monk. Though I dare not ask for your names.”

Asking the name of anyone who had taken religious vows was frowned upon. I wasn’t sure quite why this was. Perhaps it was the belief that one sheds his past life to be reborn as a new person of the faith, washed clean of the stain upon skin and name once they were dunked into their so-called “blessed waters” as part of their purification ritual.

To ask this devoted person his name was like grounding him back to their past. It was an extreme way of looking at the practice, but the religious sectors had a growing reputation for being so difficult. Except the monks; we were much easier to deal with.

“Thank you for saying so,” Joan continued. It took me a while to realize that she was responding to Wilbur’s pleasant observation of her cottage. “I taught all my children to never behave like they were raised in a pigsty. They are tidy, that is the truth, but I must say that it is much nicer to clean the house without bumping into any of the boys every time I turn around.” She looked at us, then at the tapestry. “Off with their new families. I expect my first grandchild, soon.”

From her expression, I guessed that she might be thinking if her children had hung their own tapestries over their dinner tables.

I could not face Joan as she beamed, her face bright with the picture of a babe, freshly bundled, squirming in the arms of its father, the mother resting after the challenges of childbirth. For Joan and her family, babies were the ultimate symbol of new beginnings and hope. I was confident in thinking about that, just as I was confident in imagining Claude being the type of uncle to carve out many gifts for his many nephews and nieces.

I tried not to, but I looked at Woodrow. The mystery of the baby resurfaced in his mind. “What a precious miracle, childbirth,” he said.

Joan nodded. “They reside in a far-off village but assured me it was one of the few remaining good ones out there. The landowners are good people enough, so they say. Owned by merchants, instead of these aristocrats.” She stared at the fire and shrugged. “My son and his wife, or should I say, my new daughter, offered one of their rooms to me, but I cannot leave Claude and—” she pursed her lips. Claude looked away. “...and I must wait for my husband, of course.” Joan smoothed her apron. She chuckled softly. “I haven’t even met the maiden. Not with my own eyes. I can only see her through the letters my darling son sends. How he describes her, I mean. And I am quite pleased on how she managed to make a poet out of him.” All of us chuckled with her this time. “Ah, but even when I want to go to them, just to see the baby and the mother, our good Lord Bahram would not give us permission.”

Claude scoffed. “Our ‘good Lord Bahram’ she says,” he said ruefully. He slumped against the chair.

“If Claude was safe, and if I knew for certain how my husband is faring, well, I want to say that there was no stopping me from seeing my first grandchild. No ruffians, no thieves, no brigands, no outlaws. Not even Lord Bahram himself,” Joan sighed. “But he will take it out on Claude, that’s for certain, and Claude needs land to work on.”

“I can take care of myself,” Claude said. He looked hurt, but his face also looked uncertain.

“Not during these times, son. Your father hasn’t returned.” Joan arranged Claude’s thick hair and combed it back. Under her fingers, she had tamed those wild curls. Silence seized mother and son. Her last words were meant to imply that even for someone capable or reliable, the world was too harsh for any man, so what more for a young boy tending fields and herding sheep?

The anger I felt towards some lords pushed the words out of my mouth before I can stop them. “If only we have land ourselves, lady Joan. We could take Claude in if ever your lord decides to push him out. If only we had hospitable land.” If only we can do so much for this world.

Woodrow and Wilbur didn’t seem to mind my mild outburst. I had a feeling they thought and felt the same. Mother and son blinked. Then they smiled wide.

“Ah, we appreciate that brother,” she said. “Then we could really stick it to Lord Bahram’s face.” Joan laughed first and her joy summoned ours. Then, she looked at me from under my hood. Both Woodrow and I did not reveal our faces to our hosts, rude as it may look. Monks and nuns were known to conceal themselves, but still. Only Wilbur was free of his cowl so that we did not look completely disrespectful.

The laughter quietly died from my lips. I felt the uncomfortable squeeze of apprehension. I looked at Claude, who was looking at me from the corner of his eyes. We both were waiting for each other to act. He responded with a reassuring smile: Go on, tell her. It’s quite all right.

I sucked in a breath. “My name is Erin, ma’am.” I stammered a little. “Please, allow me to wear my cowl inside your house.” I bowed low again. I figured that giving my real name in exchange for my other secret was fair.

My eyes were fixed on their hardwood floorboards, and I saw their shadows turning to each other. I saw Claude’s shoulders shrug away perhaps Joan’s questioning gaze. “He’s shy. I was shy, too, before,” he said.

Joan burst into laughter. Upon hearing that, I relaxed. “Shy? Goodness, you? Shy?” I raised my head to see her shaking hers in mock disbelief. “You had never been shy, boy. Never in your life.”

Claude shrugged again, smiled, and winked at me. A boy that had never known shyness. Yes, I believed that.

Joan stood and looked from me to the fire. “Keep your cowl, brother Erin. Now, how about we all sit down and see if our supper is ready, hm?”

Woodrow was there waiting for her with a ladle already in his hand. He looked like he was about to conduct with it. Wilbur raised his brows at him, suspicious if he knew how to use one. Woodrow was rarely seen in the monastery kitchens, and even if he was there, he entertained, not cooked.

Woodrow dipped the ladle into the soup, swirled it around, and poured the thick liquid into a wooden bowl. “Allow me, Joan. You both have done enough. Let us be useful and serve you this night. That is the least we can do for your household.”

Joan stirred, already protesting. It is not proper, I guessed she would say. Then to their surprise and our horror, Woodrow unfastened his cowl and revealed his face, red hair and freckles and green eyes.

“Oh, my…” Joan pressed her hand to her chest as if she tried to squeeze shut her beating heart. She blinked at him. “But you are far too beautiful to be a monk.”

Woodrow chuckled. I had known him long enough to know which sounds and which gestures and which expression was a performance. This present chuckle, however, was part act and part truth. But his hair was of a normal shade of red, so commonplace that it did not dare seek attention. His eyes did not glitter; the emerald kept its shine hidden. He was concealing himself a little, like how a magician hides his tricks behind thin curtains.

“That is kind,” Woodrow said easily.

“That is the truth. My, I imagine you have disappointed plenty of maidens with those looks.” Oh, quite the opposite, lady Joan, I thought. Woodrow chuckled again, this time tingling with a bit more truth. “How breathtaking you are!” And then she came up to him and pinched both his angular cheeks. No act now, his face cracked into a pleasant grin, like a cat praised for its sleek fur. I swore I could hear him purr with satisfaction. “If I wasn’t so in love with my husband…” this time a boisterous laugh from Woodrow. He raised his head high so that it was directed up to the ceiling. A sound shifted on the second floor; no one but me seemed to have heard it.

I looked at Claude and how he was reacting to the situation; he could not have cared less and was actually chuckling himself, instead of being scandalized by his mother’s actions. Good humor and honesty was abundant in this house. Perhaps that was why Woodrow was so comfortable. He had felt it since we entered. Even Claude joined in the compliments. He said, “he has that kind of face sculptors model after. Quite tall, too. Not lanky, like Jeremy.” We guessed Jeremy was one of his many older brothers.

“It is good that you all look trim,” Joan observed. “Pardon me for what I will say, but the monks I’ve seen keep getting rounder around the waist. Have you been asked to pose for a portrait of any kind, young monk?”

It was Wilbur who answered. “Many times,” Wilbur said gravely. “Many, many times.”

Woodrow’s smile was easy again as he stoked the fire. He looked truly like one of us as he tended the flames. “I think the soup is about done,” he announced. Joan agreed with his statement after tasting it. “Not long now.”

As I mentioned, Woodrow was rarely assigned for kitchen duty. That was Wilbur’s station. He sometimes lingered, though, and whenever he was around, the kitchens would be packed full of people to watch him juggle, or to talk to him. He would grab fruits from a nearby barrel and make them blur in mid-air. The colors and shapes would mingle as he juggled with increasing speed that children will laugh, and parents will clap.

Wilbur proceeded to cook. He would sip on the ladle and weigh the flavor in his mouth. He would add herbs and cheese to the meat if we had any, but with most suppers, we had plenty. Sometimes, when Wilbur was too busy underground with his experiments, I took over. Or if we both were preoccupied with the bodies, the women and men helped. Knox chastised Woodrow for adding ingredients than were necessary. “They won’t mind the bland meals, Wilbur,” he would say. “They should be grateful we have meals to give them in the first place.” In the end, Knox relented, because it was Wilbur’s station and we had spices and herbs and cheese to add to any meals if we wished, and we did. Now that I know now of what happens to them after, I’m just glad that we fed them properly. It did nothing to lessen the magnitude of guilt and grief, but I was oddly glad, nonetheless. It was still something.

Wilbur coughed to get Joan’s attention. He seemed uncomfortable with something. “I fear that I may disrespect you yet again with our odd ways, Joan, but I must decline to sup with you. My brother over there and I…” Wilbur locked eyes with Woodrow. “We have started too fast, you see. As is our practice. We believe that our prayers can better reach the First Saint when he too was famished in the desert. We believe that when we deprive ourselves of fish and fowl and any kind of sustenance, the connection to him strengthens.” He placed his hand on the back of my neck gently. “But Erin will eat for us. He’s too young to fast.”

Joan paused, feeling discomfort as well with Wilbur’s proclamation. It was as if he put her in a delicate spot. Others would be relieved that their unannounced guests would decline the food offered to them, but Joan bit her lip.

I was uncomfortable now as well. It felt strange that we were the ones in need. I felt silly and shy to be presented with such warm hospitality. I was not used to the roles being reversed. I was ashamed, too; ashamed, that we had nothing to offer in return. It seemed unfair, and Claude and his mother were fair with us from the beginning. I would have thought that declining the food was Wilbur’s way of balancing the scales. But the deeper reason was that they have gone so long without meat and grain that their bodies might not take to it.

I tried to guess the thoughts behind her worried eyes. Did she think how foolish we were of holding onto our beliefs of prayer and fasting at a time when people roamed the land with growling, aching, empty bellies? A desperate time where peasants would slaughter even their neighbors for food?

Did she think that perhaps we had our own food after all, that we had storages of beef and pheasant waiting for us somewhere? I’ve a feeling that she much preferred we kept food from her than her keeping food from us.

In the end, Joan narrowed her eyes at Wilbur, playfully. “A bite of bread and a sip of my soup. I won’t let you out of my house unfed.” Her tone was light but firm. “I am certain that the First Saint would like you to keep your strength to commune with him, especially during such uncertain times. No, I won’t hear another word of not supping. Not in my house.” Joan’s steel-like eyes held us in place. “Besides, I think the Saints themselves blessed us with more cream and onions this night for your arrival!”

“If only they can do more than that,” Claude muttered. He spoke so low that I was certain it was only for my ears.

Wilbur bowed solemnly to Joan. It was a deal.

“Soup’s ready!” Woodrow announced, and Wilbur and I helped him serve the hot, thick soup to our two hosts.

We sat down, Wilbur leading the prayer. He repeated the Latin words the other pot-bellied average monks used. I noticed Claude didn’t close his eyes nor incline his head.

My hands caressed the seat I chose and I felt its dents and many marks. I felt the rough area where some of the wood had chipped off. His brothers have sat here on many dinners and suppers and feasts. They probably sat here even when there was no food on the table. It wasn’t hard to imagine that they sat as a family, united in their pain. I’d like to think that they kept each other from turning into wicked beasts like so many of their peers.

A thought hit me just then, almost smacking me off my chair. It was two ideas colliding, intertwining, and it took me just now to braid them together.

We were hungry.

Knox would call me stupid for even thinking this, but Wilbur may entertain the idea. At least until we unearthed all the contents in his journals.

We were famished, ourselves, but not for animal meat.

The images swirled in my mind; hungry townspeople eating the flesh of their lords, famine spreading across the land, drying up the earth so it did not yield crops. My description of the darkness licking its tongue, feasting on sorrow and pain. I remembered how hungry Blake looked when he killed those men.

And Woodrow, how he drank my blood and quickly regained his beauty. How his face twisted like a famished animal himself, with bared fangs and veins showing. I touched my arms. The veins there would forever show. Whatever we are, perhaps I was a fluke, a failed mutation. A dark awakening gone wrong; the Latin chants that woke my other brothers garbled when Blake or some other force woke me. I shook my head. I thought that we had been gifted by the heavens to be above human needs so that we may better serve them. My brothers were without hunger or thirst—thirst for water, that is–to devote themselves entirely to what I thought was our noble cause. That was why I felt so imperfect and lacking, too. Powerless, weak, and subject to the same human drive for sustenance. Now, I was beginning to think that it must have been a curse. Blake didn’t send gifts; he was like the other lords that demanded payment, one way or another.

At that table, I felt myself disappearing into myself. In my mind, I was being vacuumed away into a tunnel. Wilbur, Woodrow, Joan, and Claude shrunk in the distance, their faces a mixture of polite smiles and laughter.