She leaned forward, brushing the dirt from her hands.
‘That terrible catastrophe … It was divine justice … Heaven restoring order …’
‘There had been several quakes in the area during that week. It happened because it happened. That’s all there is to it.’
Two nuns appeared at the far end of the path. In the august convent that had stood here for three hundred years, it was almost surprising not to see sisters coiffed with the old-fashioned white cornettes, seeming to float in their ample black habits, with rosary beads hanging from their waists. The nuns greeted the two women with a smile; their faces were gentle, ageless, spared the ravages of time by a life of prayer and service. They disappeared around the corner.
Julia got up from the bench and slung her bag over her shoulder.
‘What I’ve come to say is that the only twist of fate in this story is the one I owe to you. I ended up in hospital, and that was what saved my mother’s life and mine.’
Julia had not changed: she still had that great mane of raven hair, the sparkling eyes; still noticed everything, yet rarely said a word; and this new stiffness about her body merely masked its counterpart, a fieriness that had inhabited Julia since childhood and which Sister Anne could still sense, just beneath the skin.
‘What about your asthma, Julia?’
Julia had almost forgotten that she had ever had asthma. The last attack was the one she had just mentioned. After that, she had discovered freedom, movement, breathing; she had gone back to live in the city, untroubled by the pollution, indifferent to nights spent surrounded by cigarette smoke. As she had grown up, she had thought less and less about that other life; sometimes she almost doubted she had experienced it at all.
‘No doctor has ever been able to explain it.’
The light shifted, the clouds parted, and a burst of sunlight illuminated the cloister. And with it came a memory: fourteen years ago on a sunny winter’s day, walking the hills and dales of the island, her parents happy and smiling as they showed the nun the sights. Julia remembered. The dazzling brightness of the shore. The winding paths along the coast. Everywhere you looked, an immensity of blue that made you dizzy with happiness. And Sister Anne, sitting with her back to the sun, shrouded in a halo, telling her about the miracles of the Blessed Virgin. The former nun was older now as she sat there on the bench, perhaps a little sadder, though her eyes had a gentleness that remained unchanged.
Julia awkwardly adjusted the shoulder strap of her bag.
‘It was luck. That’s all there is to it.’
She turned on her heel, fleeing the memory that had found her out. Sister Anne listened to the footsteps on the gravel. Slowly, she ran a finger under her collar and touched the Miraculous Medal, which was still warm. She held it as she sat on the bench.
Above the rooftops, the cackle of gulls announced to Paris that twilight was approaching. A soft wind moved through the convent gardens, warm, tinged with salt and the pungent smell of seaweed. Sister Anne held the medal tightly and looked around at the gardens. Perhaps, finally, she had found somewhere there would always be a place for her.
If you enjoyed The Island of Mists and Miracles, why not try …
THE MAD WOMEN’S BALL
The Salpêtrière asylum, 1885. All of Paris is in thrall to Doctor Charcot and his displays of hypnotism on women who have been deemed mad or hysterical, outcasts from society. But the truth is much more complicated – for these women are often simply inconvenient, unwanted wives or strong-willed daughters. Once a year a grand ball is held at the hospital. For the Parisian elite, the Mad Women’s Ball is the highlight of the social season; for the women themselves, it is a rare moment of hope.
Geneviève is a senior nurse. After the childhood death of her sister, she has shunned religion and placed her faith in Doctor Charcot and his new science. But everything begins to change when she meets Eugénie, the 19-year-old daughter of a bourgeois family. Because Eugénie has a secret, and she needs Geneviève’s help. Their fates will collide on the night of the Mad Women’s Ball …
Read on for an extract …
1
3 March 1885
‘Louise. It is time.’
With one hand, Geneviève pulls back the blanket that hides the sleeping figure of the girl. Curled up in a foetal position on the narrow mattress, her mass of thick, dark hair covers the pillow and part of her face. Lips parted, Louise is snoring softly. She cannot hear the other women, who are already awake and bustling about the dormitory. Between the rows of iron bedsteads, the women stretch, pin their hair up into chignons, button their ebony gowns over their translucent nightshifts, then trudge wearily towards the refectory under the watchful eye of the nurses. Timorous rays of sunshine steal through the misted windows.
Louise is the last to get up. Every morning, an intern or one of the other patients has to rouse her from sleep. The adolescent greets the twilight with relief, and allows the night to plummet her into a sleep so deep she does not dream. Sleep makes it possible not to fret over what is past, not to worry about what is to come. Sleep has been her only respite since the events of three years ago that led her to be in this place.
‘Up we get, Louise. Everyone is waiting.’
Geneviève takes the girl’s arm and shakes it until, finally, she opens one eye. For a moment, she is startled to see the woman the inmates call the Old Lady standing at the foot of her bed, then she cries out:
‘I have a lecture!’
‘Then get yourself ready, you’ve had enough sleep.’
‘Yes.’
The girl leaps out of bed and grabs her black woollen robe from the chair. Geneviève steps aside and watches. Her eye lingers on the panicked gestures, the vague jerks of the head, the rapid breathing. Louise had a fit last night; there can be no question of her having another before today’s lecture.
The girl quickly buttons the collar of her gown and turns to the matron. She feels intimidated by Geneviève, who stands ramrod straight in her white uniform, blonde hair pinned into a chignon. Over the years, Louise has had to learn to adapt to the woman’s stern demeanour. Not that Geneviève could be accused of being unfair or spiteful; she simply does not inspire affection.
‘Like this, Madame Geneviève?’
‘Leave your hair down. The doctor prefers it that way.’
Louise raises her plump hands to her hastily made chignon and unpins it. She is a young woman in spite of herself – even at sixteen, she retains a childlike enthusiasm. Her body matured too quickly, and by the age of twelve her bosom and her hips had developed without warning her of the consequences of this sudden voluptuousness. Her eyes have lost some of their innocence, but not all; this is why it is still possible to hope for the best.
‘I’m nervous.’
‘Just let it happen and everything will be fine.’
‘Yes.’
The two women head down the hospital corridor. The light of this March morning streams through the windows and shimmers against the tiles – a soft light that heralds spring and the costumed ball held in the middle of Lent, a light that prompts a smile, and the hope that soon it might be possible to leave this place.
