The Book of Shadows Read Online Free PDF Page B

Marie-Edith refer to the powerful tides along our coastline; it was said they returned at a gallop. Each summer a traveler or two would drown: caught too far from the true shore, sunbathing or gathering shells, they’d be outrun, overtaken by the inrushing tide.
    That afternoon, as we lounged on the rock, Peronette spoke of her family. Her father was Breton; Madame Gaudillon, sister to Mother Marie-des-Anges—whose real name I would never learn—was of wealthy Norman stock. “We are rich,” said Peronette. “Fabulously so…. But it has not helped at all.” I did not ask what she meant; indeed, I said nothing. I listened. I did, however, see things differently all of a sudden: the gold-leafed prie-dieu, carved with scenes from the lives of the saints, which sat in the Mother Superior’s rooms; her night robe of silk, embroidered with crosses, sacred hearts, and nails-of-the-cross; and, of course, there were those books that arrived from London and Paris, and the cigarettes sent up from Madrid.
    â€œWe are religious refugees, my aunt and I,” said Peronette at one point. When I questioned her, she asked, “Do you think your Mother Superior was born to that role? No, indeed.” And she proceeded to explain to me things of which I’d no idea, though they’d happened while I was at C——. Yes, I vaguely recollected some hullabaloo surrounding the arrival of the new Mother Superior, several years back, but…“My aunt,” said Peronette, “was set to be allied to the finest family of Ireland. Specifically, its eldest son, a Kerry man whose name I cannot recall. There was a vast estate in the mountains near Cahirciveen, which is beautiful land. Have you been?”
    I said I had not.
    Peronette shrugged. “There was the estate, and there were plans made and invitations passed about and…and suddenly there were developments that all strove to keep from my young ears. With success, unfortunately. But I do know this: the engagement was canceled, the Kerry man sailed for London, and my aunt was sent here. The same relation who’s arranged my captivity bought this House for her.”
    â€œBought?” I asked.
    â€œEssentially, yes,” said Peronette. “That is, with the bishop’s intervention, my aunt—or the Second Coming of that person, this new Mother Marie-des-Anges—was given the rule of this House…. You didn’t know as much?” asked Peronette, incredulously. “You don’t see the story carved like scrimshaw into the hard eyes of that dreadful Sister Claire? It was she who was cast aside, for coin and favors.” Indeed, though I knew nothing of its genesis, there was something between Mother Marie and the Head, something cold and sharp, blade-like; rarely had I seen them together; neither could I recall overhearing any conversations of theirs.
    Peronette spoke too of her brother, who had died two summers prior. Deaf, he’d been gored from behind by a bull as he’d gathered flowers in a field. His neck had been broken; he lay suffocating beneath a blazing sun for hours. Jean-Pierre, the brother, nearly dead from the loss of blood, was found by Peronette. He held still to the flowers he’d gathered, a withering red gift in his fist, expiring in time with his heart. He’d somehow managed to give the bouquet to Peronette. A dying gesture. Or so she said.
    As for Papa, he kept a mistress in Rouen and was hardly ever at home. He made a fortune as a merchant—textiles, if I recall—but spent twice what he earned; he’d been saved from his creditors more than once by his unloved wife’s considerable inheritance. That he worked at all was to his credit, said Peronette. And who could blame him for taking a mistress? “ Ma mère,…elle est folle .” Peronette, with a forefinger, made a winding gesture beside her head; she whistled too, whistled in imitation of