CHAPTER 4
CRUCIFIED
"And when they were come to the place, which is called Calvary, there they crucified him, and the malefactors, one on the right hand, and the other on the left. Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do." — Luke 23:33-34
The rain had returned. The patter of drops against the refectory’s curved wooden ceiling made that clear.
It was the first place you’d gone after leaving the library, and you had stayed right there. Just sitting. That was all. Sitting there, feeling downcast, with no desire to go anywhere else. All you’d done for the past hour and a half was pace back and forth, circling the tables like a child in a doctor’s waiting room.
Of course, since it was nearly dinnertime, your solitude didn’t last much longer.
Gabriella entered the refectory like a ghost, moving silently with her gaze cast down.
She didn’t deign to look at you, let alone speak to you, but as she passed by you noticed her eyes were red and swollen.
Shit... what the hell have I done?
The woman set about cooking, her back perpetually turned toward you.
A new presence joined the two of you; you saw her enter out of the corner of your eye.
"Good evening, Signor Nicolo," Raffaella greeted you cordially, noticing Gabriella’s presence.
A pang of pain shot through your chest. Guilt and shame.
"Good evening, Sister," you replied, your gaze fixed on your fingers as you fidgeted with your nails.
You noticed Raffaella pause to look at you, but since you didn’t meet her eyes, she simply moved on to help Gabriella.
"What happened to your eyes?" you heard Raffaella ask Gabriella. "Were you crying?"
"It’s just an allergy," Gabriella replied, her voice slightly hoarse. "It must have been the plants in the courtyard; I accidentally rubbed my face after weeding."
"Hm... was it really that?"
"I have no reason to lie to you."
Oh, but she did. She had plenty of reasons.
"Help me chop the onion and the mushrooms, please," Gabriella said before Raffaella could ask anything further.
Dinner that night was Risotto alla Parmigiana. Creamy, steeped in vegetable broth, and rich with Parmesan cheese. It should have been wonderful, a delight for the palate. But instead the meal tasted bland to you. Your mind wasn't in the right place to enjoy such a meal.
"Are you alright, Mr. Nicolo?" Raffaella asked halfway through the meal, knowing full well that Gabriella hated it. But Gabriella couldn't have cared less; she kept eating as if she hadn't heard her. "You seem troubled."
"I'm fine," you replied, picking at your food.
Raffaella kept her gaze fixed on you.
You took a breath and turned your head. You met Raffaella's kind, worried eyes. There was a sense of persistence behind them; she knew something was wrong.
"Really, I'm fine," you said, lowering your voice.
"It's just... you have a peculiar way of eating," Raffaella said, matching your tone. "You make little sounds of approval and... and you hold the food in your mouth a bit longer, with your brow slightly furrowed. You are not doing anything of the sort right now."
You chuckled through your nose. Did you really do all that?
Gabriella cleared her throat. Right, she was still there.
"Sorry."
Raffaella, like you, went back to her meal.
For some reason, you were able to enjoy it a little more. Raffaella had managed to let a small ray of light into your world.
As had become the norm.
When dinner ended, Gabriella quickly stood up, gathered all the plates, and headed to the kitchen.
Raffaella took advantage of the fact that Gabriella had her back turned to lean close to your ear.
"I'll visit you tonight," she whispered. "Don't be startled when someone opens the door."
Before you could react, she stood up and went over to help Gabriella with the dishes.
You cursed under your breath. You weren't ready for the interrogation she was bound to subject you to, and it wasn't as if you had, or had been given, the option to refuse.
Normally you would say goodnight before retiring to your quarters, but this time you left in silence; one of them didn't want to hear your goodnights.
The other, however, would have them all to herself, whispered in her ear, wrapped in the comforting warmth of your arms. It was perhaps the only thing that could lift your spirits.
In fact, if she didn't do it, you feared nothing else would.
That night, washed up and dressed in simple pajamas, you waited for her arrival as if she were Santa Claus himself.
Raffaella arrived promptly at 10:30 PM.
The door opened just a crack, and she slipped through the gap like a shadow, closing it again with a silent click.
She hadn't bothered to wear her veil that night. Instead, her black hair was pulled up into an attractive, hastily styled high bun, with small strands falling loose around her temples.
"Hello," she smiled, hands on her belly, walking.
“Hi,” you smiled back, watching her sit on the edge of the bed, right next to you.
The first thing Raffaella did was put her hand on your forehead.
"Huh? What are you doing?"