The Secret Dead by S. J. Parris Page B

before the bell chimed for Matins at two o’clock. If they
knew of the nightly exodus through the side gate in the garden wall, they were
practiced at looking the other way. But for a friar like me, with no family
influence to consider and a growing reputation for disobedience, it would be a
mistake to be caught. I could easily find myself a scapegoat for those they did
not dare to discipline too harshly.
    The air hung close, heavy with the scent of night blooms and
a faint aroma of roasting meat from beyond the walls. Through the silence, I
caught the soft murmur of conversation drifting from the dormitory behind me,
the occasional burst of laughter, the chink of Murano goblets. Fra Donato
entertaining his fellow aristocrats, I supposed. The wealthier friars — those
for whom the Church was a political career built on contacts and greased palms
like any other — often held private suppers at night in their richly furnished
rooms. As with the nocturnal excursions, the watch brothers remained tactfully
deaf and blind to this.
    Footsteps echoed behind me on the flagstones across the
cloisters, over the low whisper of voices. There was no time to determine
whether they were friend or foe; I slipped quickly along the corridor and
through the archway where I had seen Fra Gennaro disappear. Here, behind the
convent’s grand courtyards, the grounds were laid out to gardens with an
extensive grove of lemon trees. A path followed the line of the boundary wall,
toward the side gate. If you continued past the gate to the far side of the
trees, you reached a scattering of low buildings: grain houses, storerooms, the
saddlery and stables. Beyond these lay a whitewashed dormitory of two stories,
where the convent servants slept.
    Without a moon, there was no hope of seeing which direction
Fra Gennaro had taken, though if I strained my ears hard, I thought I could
make out a distant rustling ahead among the lemon trees. The obvious
explanation was that he must be attending to one of the servants who had fallen
sick — but my curiosity was still piqued by his furtive manner and his pretense
of not having heard my call.
    Like every other novice, I had learned to navigate the path
from the outer cloister to the gate in pitch darkness, feeling my way and
calculating distance from the scents of the garden and the recognition of
familiar landmarks under my feet and fingers: the twisted stalk of the vine
that grew up the wall at the point where the lemon grove began; the slight
downward incline as the path neared the gate. The footsteps persisted at my
back, crunching on the hard earth. I moved off the path and into the shelter of
the trees as two figures approached, fearing I had been discovered by the
watch. But they paused a short distance away, and I retreated further into the
dark as I caught the wavering light of a taper hovering between them. Urgent
whispers followed the scraping of metal against metal; I heard the creak of the
gate and a gentle click as it closed again behind them. Novices or young friars
heading out to the Cerriglio, the tavern two streets away, for a brief gulp of
the city air before the Matins bell called them back to piety. I craned my neck
and looked up through the leaves, wishing I could see the moon; I had no idea
how late it was.
    The gardens were unfamiliar to me beyond the side gate, and
I stumbled my way through the lemon trees, unsure if I was even moving in the
right direction, my arms held up to protect my eyes from the scratching
branches. After some while I emerged into open ground and could just make out
the bulk of a row of buildings ahead. A horse whinnied softly out of the dark
and I tensed; grooms slept above the stables and would be awakened by any
disturbance. Holding my breath, I edged my way toward the storehouses and stood
stupidly, looking around. Had Fra Gennaro come this way? Most likely he was
already in the servants’ dormitory, tending to some ordinary sprain or burn.
How foolish I