His coat was midnight black and blood red. He wore both a sword and a gun in holsters at his left hip. To Clarissa's eyes, the man leading the pair looked every bit a pirate and a scoundrel. A man and a woman, both dressed strangely, almost as if they had come out of the storybooks of her childhood. Two people were crossing that plank, walking towards Clarissa and the others. A wide metal gangplank rested on the dock, its edges digging into the wood and drawing out splinters. The still cloak clashed with the fingers tapping on the edge of her pockets, and the boots fidgeting impatiently on the uneven wooden planks of the dock.Ĭlarissa turned her gaze to the ship. The Abbess' cloak - the uniform grey cotton flannel that every member of the monastery wore - barely twitched in the breeze as they waited. But as Clarissa looked up, she wondered which of them the hard old woman was talking to. She realized her hands were shaking and squeezed the pockets at her sides.
"Yes, Abbess," Clarissa said, as she smoothed her dress down. Torn between fears, the girl hung on for just a moment longer, before she looked at her hands and forced them open. But even before the hard woman finished speaking, her gaze returned to the ship at the end of the pier. I will not let him see us like this," the woman said, her jaw clenched and a warning finger extended. Grey eyes - soft as granite and less yielding - glared down at a young woman, who hung onto the hem of a grey skirt as if it were all that kept her on the ground. Small hands clung to a cotton flotsam, and bare knees shook in the cold wind.
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