Where There Is Nothing

Chapter 1

The night was long and still, and when the ghastly moon awoke amidst the residence, down followed the beacons of the night, shining brightly a deep canary.

Unknown to what caused the stillness, only that it was as though not a human soul dare to stir the calmness. Out in the darkness, a willow branch stirred, as the cold winter blew in from the distant hill. While the fog that had crept out of its slumber, entangling the many fountains that populated the terrace, seemed to make the silence of the night more unbearable.

The ocean waves stirred. A rush of frigid wind pushed against the port and in the direction of rolling hills and cobbled homes built on Vienna. Short of reaching the heights atop the cliffs that overlooked the settlers. An orphanage existed there. The changing of the seasons was quite beautiful to see standing from that view and at the center of its erected towers, a light emitted from a window—that cut sharply through the clouds, like a lighthouse that beckoned home the ships lost at sea, so did all the restless creatures of the night.

The corridors breathed dust when the floorboards settled. Shelves bowed under the weight of unhandled books and trinkets. A candle guttered on a nearby desk, a singular flame leaning with each draft that pushed through the warped frame of the window. Filtering the light through the wafer-thin curtains billowing in the wind and a clock on the mantle of the fireplace ticked its brass hands ever more, and nothing answered between the sound. Time held dominion until it wasn't, and the absolute came swiftly to an abrupt end, morbidly wounded by a resolute knock—and followed by a creak of an opening door.

"Forgive my interruption, Father," a voice called out.

I squinted my eyes and felt the faintest crease forming between my brows. I no longer was the man I had once been—time had seen to that. My sight was proof of it. And yet, despite the interruption that had jarred me from the reminder of those recurring thoughts, my limbs moved by the grace of God like that of an able body half my years.

I rose then from behind my oak desk and the leather on the chair whispered a dying breath in response. "Speak child, what is it? I said with a practiced, ritualistic motion, as I nudged my glasses still perched on the bridge of my nose, so that I could study her response clearer.

The poor girl clasped her hands tightly around a small cross hanging from her neck. "A maiden hath appeared," she hesitated catching her breath, "and worse still, she has refused to leave till she has spoken a word with thee, Father."

The lamplight had stretched her shadow long across the stone floor. She, no longer a figment of my imagination but my Olivia, my Stuart of sorts, standing at my door— with her lips pressed into a tight line.

"What of Her name?" I urged her, seeing as she was waiting on my approval to continue.

Unease betrayed her continence the moment her big brown eyes locked firmly on the stone floor, avoiding the full weight of my attention but embarrassment crept across her face swallowing her whole, and she shifted her weight underneath the white linen clinging to her pits. She recalled having ushered the maiden into the sanctuary of the drawing-room, her senses having been ensnared by the labyrinth of hospitality, as dictated by her position, and in her diligent fervor, the simplest act of soliciting a name had slipped her mind altogether. And now, she stood in front of The Arthur Dolling, her gracious superior, and what possible excuse hath she to offer for her stupidity.

She shook her head and stepped into the light. "Alas, Father," she confessed, her voice masking her fatigue, "She did not offer one."

Her locks of hair lustered the faint sheen of sweat under the candle. "The purpose, then?" Surely she has spoken of that?

A faint sigh escaped her lips. "Nay, Father, she has said nothing else of her business."

I remained silent and leaned my body on the edge of the desk. The many faces of partitioners, merchants and shop keepers, women and children. Perhaps a daughter, burdened with troubles, that at this late of hour, has had no other choice but to arrive and seek blissful comfort within the sanctuary of the monastery? I wonder what dire circumstance could have possibly driven her to his abode on this most dreadful night? A storm was brewing and an unexplainable unease, the sudden appearance, a disruption to his well-ordered evening, now completely ruined. And still, I recognized the gravity of an uninvited stranger driven by intent, particularly one of importance could have on our reputation, so I have no other choice than to decide that she would not be turned away or left unattended for long. "You need not worry no more, my dear Sister Olivia. It seems that we are in for an eventful evening," I proclaimed, as to bestow a soothing reassurance to her. "Kindly inform our guest, that I shall see and join her company in the drawing-room shortly."