Page 20

Light of the World

The sharp sting of mint landed on her tongue and in her nostrils, forcing her eyes open.

Her gaze drifted to the unfamiliar surroundings.

Rollant’s voice drifted to her from beyond the tent flap, steady and low, a tether she didn’t yet know she was holding on to.

Faded light seeped through the white fabric walls, casting soft, golden hues over the patients as if angels were overlooking them.

The tent was filled with the murmur of women and a child’s cough.

The faint scent of dried herbs clung to the cool air, and gentle footsteps rustled like whispers against the cobbled street beneath.

A nun placed her hand on élise’s brow. The nun’s hand was soft and cool, a stark contrast to the rough treatment élise was accustomed to. Her low and loving voice soothed more than her fever.

“Steady, child,” she whispered. “Allow us to care for your fever and your bruises.” The nun’s eyes darkened from sorrow as she glanced down at élise’s body.

The nun’s careful eyes traced the bruises marking her arms, a look élise had seen before in the eyes of strangers who looked upon her with pity.

But the nun didn’t turn away. Instead, she lifted élise’s hand, pressing it gently against her robes, and whispered, “You are safe here.”

The mint’s heat gave way to a dull ache that seemed to pulse through her limbs. Its reprieve filled her nostrils and soothed the throb in her head.

Her mind flashed back to the bakery—the suffocating heat of the oven, Gabin’s sharp voice, the weight of flour-dusted loaves in her hands.

But the world here was softer, more peaceful, with no need to move.

Her throat tightened, unfamiliar emotions welling up at the nun’s gentle words.

Pity, she understood, but this place was something she’d never experienced before, as if the warmth of kindness reached deep into her soul.

“I can’t pay you.” The words weakly fell over her lips.

“There is no cost, my child,” the nun whispered.

“You may call me élise,” she said.

The nun smiled. “My name is Sister Francine. I will watch your fever and tend to your illness.” She cupped her hand behind élise’s head and lifted water to élise’s lips.

“Not too much,” Francine said in soft tones before taking the cup away. “Try to sleep, my child. Your body needs much rest.” She laid a thin blanket atop élise’s shoulders, swept élise’s hair from her face, and began to hum; it was enchanting.

“What is that song?” élise asked, the words barely audible. “It reminds me of my mother.”

“It is the Song of Mary,” she said. “Magnificat. I am singing it for praise and thanksgiving to our Lord that your friend brought you, carried you even, from Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and more so, that we can help you.”

élise relaxed into the cot with her eyes lingering closed.

Her fingers brushed Rollant’s coat, still draped over her body beneath the blanket.

He had carried her and taken her from Gabin to a place like this.

It was more kindness than she could remember receiving in her lifetime.

The weight of his coat around her shoulders and his old wood candle smoke musk had kept her from falling asleep in his arms. She had tried to walk a few times, but he caught her when her legs failed.

She heard his labored breath in her memory, a reminder of his silent, steady presence.

The corners of her lips turned up. Gabin would never have brought her so far to be cared for.

“Can you thank Rollant for all his kindness if I shall not see the morning?”

Francine’s gaze warmed. “You will see the morning, but I shall tell him when Sister Ingrid requested he return for a report this evening.” She put both hands on the edge of the cot. “Now, sleep.” She pushed off, causing the cot to rock slightly. Then Sister Francine was gone.

élise turned to her left and then her right.

Sleeping women and children were all around, and the tent blocked the sun’s warmth, though the stale air reigned supreme within the fabric walls.

The nuns moved quietly between the cots, dipping with water and cool rags for their patients.

The remnant drops of water still beaded on her forehead.

Such a different place than the bakery , she mused. Her body felt weak and vulnerable, but she relaxed into the cot, letting the tension of the hardships she’d faced melt into the linen beneath her bare shoulders.

She had no idea where she was except that she was in a safe place, as Sister Francine had said.

Rollant had brought her there, and she’d be forever thankful to him.

Yet as ease settled over her, uncertainty flickered at the edges—safety was as foreign as it was fleeting as she knew Gabin would reclaim her in a few days’ time and Rollant would have to leave again.

As she drifted into sleep, élise clung to her resolve, reminding herself that survival was her own burden to carry. This place, these people—kind though they were—were only temporary. The bakery’s hold would tighten again, and she would once more find herself navigating its harsh confines alone.

* * *

A familiar, steady voice broke through the haze of élise’s sleep. It was low and gentle, almost a murmur against the soft cries within the tent.

She blinked.

The edges of her vision still blurred, but her senses sharpened at the sound of her name.

“élise,” the voice spoke again, hushed and close, a quiet insistence in each syllable.

Her eyes darted to assess her surroundings in the dim glow of evening filtering through the tent. A small panic rose in her chest before she realized where she was: in a place of safety.

A sigh of relief rolled off her dry lips. Her gaze followed the sound to its source, and there Rollant stood, just beyond the open tent flap, speaking with Sister Ingrid. He watched her, and his expression softened when his eyes met hers.

“She is improving,” Sister Ingrid was saying. “The fever has lessened, and she took water and broth earlier. You were right to bring her. How are your legs and arms?”

Rollant nodded, his gaze never wavering from élise. The relief in his eyes was plain, and for a moment, she felt the strength of his attention, something solid and settled after days of feverish drifting. “I am fine,” he said. “I only worry about her.”

“Rollant—” élise’s voice came out weak, hoarse, but his eyes met hers immediately, and the rest of the call faded on her lips. She wanted to thank him, but her throat tightened.

Again, a hand, soft and cool, rested on élise’s forehead and coaxed her attention away from Rollant’s gaze.

The gentle evening shadows framed Sister Francine’s face as she whispered, “I gave him your message when he first arrived.”

From beyond the tent, Rollant’s voice rose again, low but insistent. “How long can you keep her?” he asked, the words tinged with concern. It drew élise’s gaze again.

“We will keep her until her fever is gone and she is strong enough to walk back to Faubourg Saint-Antoine.” Sister Ingrid’s voice carried. “But for now, rest is what she most needs—and perhaps you could do with some rest yourself. Return in the morning. She will be well cared for."

There was a pause before Rollant nodded and said low, “I will return in the morning. Thank you, Sister Ingrid.”

élise reached out in an urge to keep him from leaving. Rollant hesitated to go, but his body was already half-turned. His form lingered just beyond the tent flap for a few moments longer.

Sister Ingrid urged him on. “Get some rest, Monsieur de Montvieux.”

Sister Francine pressed gently against her arm, lowering it to the cot. “You are safe here, élise. He is leaving at our request. Men are not welcome in this hospital, which is meant for women and children. There is another up the street for men,” she whispered in reassurance as Rollant disappeared.

A pang of fear struck élise’s heart. He would leave her behind again, but she pushed the thought aside.

Sister Francine reassured her again as if she could feel the sudden tension of his departure. “He stayed at the cafe across the street nearly all day. There is an inn nearby, and I’m sure he will be there until his coin runs out.”

The cool evening wind exposed his absence, but knowing he was still close by gave her the calm Sister Francine asked of her.

The rustle of Sister Ingrid’s habit sounded in the otherwise quiet tent as she re-entered and secured the flap for the night.

“Sleep now,” Sister Francine’s voice echoed in her ears.

It was the last voice she heard until the stream of daylight found her eyes in a small slit of fabric in the tent wall.

Sister Francine knelt beside élise’s cot and rubbed a mint oil on élise’s chest. “Good afternoon, élise. Your fever finally broke, but I am still trying to cool your chest. You’ve been coughing in your sleep.”

Only one memory was fresh in her mind. “Rollant? Where is he?”

“He came every morning and night for the last three days.”

“Three days?” Her heart raced as she ran her hands up her face and into the base of her hair. Gabin would be irate. She tried to get up to go back.

But Sister Francine’s unexpected strength stayed her with a firm press of her hand against élise’s chest. “Yes, three days. You’ve had a rough go, poor dear.”

“I must get back to the bakery,” she said and strained against Sister Francine. Her eyes grew at either the nun’s strength or her own weakness.

“No, you must rest.” Sister Francine’s palm pressed flat against élise’s chest over top of élise’s rapidly beating heart.

“But Gabin,” élise began, but Rollant’s coat pressed against her leg as she fought to sit up. Its fabric balled between her fingers.

“Rollant would want you to stay,” Sister Francine whispered as élise emerged victorious in the fight to sit up.