Chapter 3 — The Hidden Seam

Anna

The scriptorium was a tapestry of low murmurs, the scratch of quills on parchment, and the warm scent of beeswax. Anna sat at one of the long wooden desks, her posture rigid as she mimicked the quiet industry of the monks around her. The novices had been instructed to carefully sort and clean the manuscripts stacked before them, the fragile pages requiring delicate hands and endless patience. Anna’s fingers skimmed over the brittle edges of a Latin psalter, her pulse steadying as she immersed herself in the familiar rhythm of text and translation.

For the first time since her arrival, she felt a fragile sense of control. The scriptorium’s subdued austerity reminded her of her father’s study, though his study had been a haven of warm disarray—piles of books teetering precariously, loose pages scattered amidst the scent of ink and candle wax. Here, the order was rigid, the silence heavy with expectation. The faint rustle of turning pages was a balm to her frayed nerves, but the calm was deceptive, like a blade concealed beneath cloth.

Her father’s face—proud yet weary, framed by the smoke of the execution pyre—rose unbidden in her mind. Seek the truth. Protect it.

Anna’s hands stilled on the page, and she drew a slow breath, willing the memories back into the recesses of her mind. She could not afford to linger in grief. The abbot’s words echoed in her ears: "Our way of life is strict." Any slip, any moment of distraction, could unravel her disguise.

She adjusted her veil, ensuring it concealed every stray strand of her hair, and stole a glance at the monks seated nearby. Most were engrossed in their work, their faces obscured by the hoods of their robes, though Brother Thomas’s watchful gaze occasionally swept over the novices. His sharp eyes lingered on Anna more than once, and she could feel the weight of his scrutiny pressing down on her.

Brother Thomas approached her desk, and Anna’s pulse quickened. His eyes—keen and assessing—lingered on the psalter in her hands. “You read well,” he said, his voice neutral but deliberate, as though testing her.

Anna bowed her head, feigning humility. “I was instructed thoroughly at my convent, Brother.”

He nodded slowly, his expression remaining inscrutable. “Careful with the handling. The parchment is old.”

“Yes, Brother,” she murmured, her voice steady despite the tension tightening her chest.

His gaze lingered for a fraction longer before he moved on, and Anna exhaled quietly. She turned back to her work, her focus narrowing to the intricate lettering and faded illuminations on the pages before her. The hours passed in a blur of careful movements and muted sounds, the tension in her shoulders easing only slightly as the scriptorium settled into its quiet rhythm.

As the afternoon light slanted through the high windows, casting golden patterns on the stone floor, Brother Thomas instructed the novices to clean the shelves lining the far wall. Anna’s chest tightened as she rose from her seat, sensing that proximity to the monks’ precious texts carried its own risks. The shelves were a fortress of knowledge, their rows of manuscripts and scrolls neatly arranged by category and age. She longed to examine them more closely, to lose herself in the secrets they might hold, but she forced her hands to remain steady as she worked.

A soft brush was provided to sweep away the layers of dust that had settled on the shelves. Anna began at the lowest row, her movements slow and methodical. Her eyes skimmed the spines of the volumes she cleaned, the Latin titles invoking a mix of reverence and curiosity. Some spoke of theology, others of philosophy, and a few bore titles that hinted at subjects veiled in mystery. She dared not linger too long on any one text, lest her fascination draw unwanted attention.

As she worked her way upward, her fingers brushed against a smooth section of stone nestled between two shelves. The texture was different from the rest of the wall—less rough, more deliberate. Anna’s brow furrowed as she ran her hand along the seam, the faint outline of a rectangle forming beneath her touch. Her pulse quickened.

Her fingertip caught on what felt like a faint indentation, almost imperceptible—a mark etched into the stone. It was a simple symbol, barely visible: a circle enclosing a triangle. Something about it tugged at her memory, though she couldn’t place it.

The hidden door was almost imperceptible, its edges perfectly aligned with the surrounding stone. Yet something about it called to her, a whisper at the edge of her awareness. She glanced over her shoulder to ensure no one was watching, then pressed her fingers more firmly against the seam. The stone did not budge, but the faintest vibration tickled her palm, as though the wall itself was alive with secrets.

“Careful.”

The low voice startled her, and she jerked her hand away, turning swiftly toward its source. Brother René stood a few feet away, his lean frame and austere robes blending easily with the shadows of the shelves. His expression was calm, but his brown eyes carried an intensity that made Anna’s skin prickle.

“I—” she began, her voice faltering. “I was cleaning the dust. The stone felt... unusual.”

René’s gaze flicked to the hidden seam, a fleeting glance that she almost missed. His face betrayed nothing. “It is best not to linger on what is unusual,” he said evenly, his tone carrying the weight of a warning. “Curiosity has its place, but here, it can be dangerous.”

Anna bristled at his tone, though she struggled to mask her reaction. “I meant no harm.”

“I believe you,” René said, his voice softening. “But others may not.”

There was a pause as they regarded each other, the faint hum of the scriptorium filling the silence. Anna searched his expression, noting the faint burn scars on his hands and the measured calm in his demeanor. He seemed less rigid than the other monks, though no less cautious.

“You’re new here,” he said finally, his tone shifting from admonishment to curiosity.

Anna nodded, her fingers tightening on the brush she held. “I arrived last night.”

His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he nodded as if to himself. “The scriptorium demands discipline. Brother Thomas is always watching.”

“I understand,” Anna replied, though her fingers itched to return to the hidden seam.

René hesitated, then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “Whatever you think you’ve found, leave it be. For now.”

The words sent a shiver down her spine, though she could not tell whether it was fear or intrigue that unsettled her. René straightened, his expression resuming its guarded neutrality. Without another word, he turned and walked away, his footsteps soft against the stone floor.

Anna’s heart raced as she returned to her task, the weight of René’s warning pressing against her thoughts. What did he know? Why had he spoken to her at all? And, more importantly, what lay beyond the hidden seam in the wall?

Her eyes flicked to the other novices and monks scattered throughout the scriptorium, their heads bowed in concentration. René was right—this was not the time to indulge her curiosity. But the seed had been planted, and Anna knew it would take root.

The remainder of the day passed with excruciating slowness, each moment stretching as Anna forced herself to focus on her assigned tasks. Yet, her thoughts remained tethered to the hidden seam and the enigmatic Brother René.

When the evening bell tolled and the novices were dismissed to their quarters, Anna lingered for a moment in the scriptorium, her gaze drifting to the wall where the seam lay concealed. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows across the shelves, and for a brief moment, she allowed herself to wonder what truths might be hidden within the monastery’s stone walls.

As she turned to leave, her fingers brushed against the edge of her father’s journal, tucked securely beneath her robes. His final words echoed in her mind, a quiet promise that fueled her resolve.

Seek the truth. Protect it.

Anna’s lips pressed into a thin line, determination hardening in her chest. Whatever lay behind that wall, she would find it. No matter the danger, she owed her father that much.

For now, she would wait. But the hidden seam had revealed more than stone—it had revealed a path, and Anna would not turn away.