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.

Heavy fog ushered by the Atlantic had begun to move inland from the north, reaching the newly built Pitigliamo Port in short time, spreading its reach to the stretch of rolling hills and pines. A changing of the season was upon them, and everything would soon be covered in a thick blanket of icy fog, once again, winter had always been good at moving undercover in the night like that. Somehow, it's reach always seemed to falter climbing atop the cliffs, where the orphanage existed, at the tallest of its towers, where an open window emitted a small but bright light—that cut through the gray sky, a beacon that beckoned the restless creatures of the night.

In a room, suffused with the legacy of playwrights, the likes of Carlo Collodi, Alighieri, and the works of Machiavelli, where also the words of Manzoni who had been forgotten by centuries of abandonment, like the condition left of the orphanage in which it called home, still candlelight flickered there, offering some warmth and comfort. The flame bathed and filtered out the open window, through the wafer-thin curtains billowing in the wind. All the while, hands in the room moved as the mechanism of the grandfather clock continued inexorably forward, its ticking taking time, an echo heard through the silence not unlike the heartbeat of the children sleeping upstairs, reclaiming her time, holding dominion over them, until, the absolute came swiftly to an abrupt end, morbidly wounded by the interruption of an unexpected and unassuming nun.

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

The Reverent Father, who had inherited the position upon the untimely death of Father Mckonell, had for the better year and a half maintained the convent in good order. His demeanor, determined and unyielding, only flickered briefly with a queer blend of curiosity and concern, upon the sudden unannounced interruption. He somehow moved with the ease of someone half his age, as he stood watching her movements from behind his desk, he adjusted the glasses perched on the tip of his nose with a flick of his index finger. His eyes, ever keen, focused in on the prepubescent nun, currently standing at his doorway—her fat lips pressed into a tight line, her hair glossed with the faint sheen of sweat, and them eyes locked firmly on the floor, struggling to maintain her composure under the weight of his silent scrutiny.

"Speak child, what has happened?"

Sister Olivia clasped her hands tightly around the wooden cross hanging from her neck. "A maiden hath appeared," she hesitated, catching her breath, "And, she has refused to leave till she has spoken a word with thee, Father."

"This maiden, hath she divulged her name to you, Sister?" He asked, his tone tinged with urgency.

Unease crept across her face, swallowing her whole, as she shifted her weight underneath her crinkled linen nightgown now desperately clinging to her armpit. She recalled having ushered the maiden into the sanctuary of the drawing-room, her senses having been ensnared by the labyrinth of propriety and 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, what possible excuse hath she to offer for her stupidity?

She shook her head, a sigh escaping her. "Alas, Father," she confessed, her voice masking her fatigue. "No name hath passed her lips."

"But Sister, surely at the very least, the maiden has stated her business here?"