Where There Is Nothing

I

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 Orphanage sat atop the San Giuseppe cliff overlooking the tiny port of Pitigliano, as a presence that loomed over the people, and up, upon the highest of its towers, an open window emitted a light—that cut straight through the impenetrable darkness, a bright beacon to beckon the restless creatures of the night.

In the room enveloped by books of varying text and playwrights, the works of Carlo Collodi to the greater works of Alighieri, Machiavellian, and Manzoni. All staged and nearly forgotten by centuries of abandonment, by a man on a long list of dead patrons to the institution. In the center of the room was an altar of warmth and comfort that bathe the room and seeped through the wafer-thin curtains billowing in the wind from an open window. Hands moving as the mechanism of the grandfather clock crept inexorably toward the hour of midnight, its ticking taking time and echoed through the room like the heartbeat of the children sleeping across the hall, reclaiming her time, holding dominion over the orphanage, until, that is, the absolute came to an abrupt end, as it was morbidly wounded by the interruption of an unassuming guest.

"Forgive my intrusion. Father, there's an urgent matter."

"Speak Sister, what is it?"

The nun clasped her hands tightly around her gilded cross hanging from her rosary. "A maiden hath appeared," she hesitated, catching her breath on the last syllable, "And, she has refused to leave till she has spoken a word with thee, Father."

The Reverent Arthur Dolling had inherited the residence from his superior Father Mckonell of Libel and for the last three years presided the orphanage with a stiffer hand than otherwise and as he stood from behind his weathered desk, with an ease unmarked by his age, and adjusted glasses atop the tip of his nose with a flick of his finger. His gaze, a mixture of concern and childish curiosity, fixed upon the nun of seventeen, still stationed at the door—with her big tender lips, her glossy charcoal hair, and blank stare, grappling to maintain her composure under his unwavering scrutiny. "This maiden, hath she divulged her name to you, Sister?" The Priest asked, his tone tinged with urgency.

Unease slowly crept across her round face, inflaming her, as she shifted her weight underneath her linen nightgown now wrinkled and clinging to her skin. She had ushered the maiden stranger into the sanctuary of the drawing-room, her senses ensnared by the labyrinth of propriety and hospitality, dictated by her position, in her diligent fervor, the simple act of soliciting a name had slipped her mind. What excuse hath she now for the error?

Sister Olivia shook her head, a sigh escaping her. "Alas, Father," she confessed, her voice no more than a whisper. "No name hath passed her lips."

"Sister, surely she has stated her business?"

"Nay, Father, she hath uttered not a word of her intent.

A moment of silence lingered between them as the Reverent Father pondered her words, sifting through a roster of partitioners, merchants, and patrons. Whose daughter, burdened with such despair, could now seek solace within the sanctuary of their monastery? And what dire circumstances could have driven her to their doorstep on this fateful night? He felt unease at the disruption of his well-ordered evening. And yet, his shrewd intellect recognized the gravity a woman driven by intent, particularly one of potential significance could have, and decided she was not to be taken lightly or left unattended. "You need not worry more, Sister. It seems that we are in for an eventful evening," he proclaimed, his voice a soothing reassurance. "Kindly inform our unexpected guest that I shall shortly join her company in the drawing-room."