Until dusk, Yvette wandered around the island. From what she observed, the hermits here truly upheld their ascetic vows, sustaining themselves through their own labor, practicing genuine reclusive life on this isolated isle.

  Compared to the clergymen in the three Albion islands who had completely become landowners, these hermits appeared far more devout. Even the mentally ill here were peaceful and friendly, often greeting her proactively. If not for their slightly foolish expressions, it could almost resemble a quaint medieval village.

  As the sun slanted westward, the bell tolled for Vespers.

  "They observe Lauds and Prime at sunrise, Terce at nine in the morning, Sext at noon, None at three in the afternoon, this is Vespers, and lastly Matins at midnight—seven prayers in total."

  Yvette and Geoffrey returned to the shore. The captain inquired again about her plans and, receiving the same answer of staying, made no objection: "I've spoken with the hermits here. They consent to your lodging to experience truly holy life. After Vespers, you may await a hermit in the parlor. Though from sunset until midnight is rest time, they will only speak in designated areas."

  "I shall take my leave then, Mr. Fisher. I look forward to serving you on your return." With an exaggerated bow reminiscent of a comic actor's curtain call, Geoffrey sauntered back to the ship, grinning.

  A cheerful scoundrel—greedy for money but otherwise harmless.

  Yvette had misjudged his intentions; her assumptions proved mistaken.

  As Geoffrey walked away, the sea breeze pressed his shirt against his back, revealing an odd protrusion near his waist—a spiral shape that reminded her of a silver bracelet twisted in a fountain. But this object was longer and flatter.

  When the wind suddenly gusted, his shirt billowed, flashing a glimpse of gold. Though he quickly tugged his shirt down, Yvette had already glimpsed it: a gold dagger, wrenchtwisted into a spiral, its hilt tucked into his belt.

  She said nothing. The dagger's value easily exceeded 40 shillings—stealing such relics, even from ancient dead, was punishable by death.

  To tolerate minor sin or condemn a thief to draconian punishment? She chose the former. At least she could rationalize that no living soul was harmed. She'd keep this secret.

  "Welcome to St. Quentin Monastery, dear secular brother." A hermit named Reigns received her in the parlor.

  "Apologies for intruding. A female friend came here last year for treatment. May I see her?"

  "Her name?"

  "Solay Gosling."

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The hermit crossed himself. "This sister has found eternal rest in the Holy Spirit's embrace—God's grace and blessing. She has left this world's toil, sorrow, sickness, and hardship. Thus her death surpassed her life. I share your grief, yet not for her fate, but from longing for her presence."

  "What caused her passing?"

  "Typhoid, as diagnosed by our physician."

  A common fatal illness—Yvette had no reason to doubt.

  "So young, gone from me and her supporters," she lamented for this stranger. "Incidentally, a French admirer of hers may have arrived earlier—did you receive him?"

  Though rumors spoke of his drowning, she verified.

  "You are the only French visitor during my tenure here."

  Likely dead, then.

  Bound by vows of silence, Reigns spoke sparingly, outlining monastery rules:

  "Daffield Isle is a place of mystery. Even visitors must observe silence—the language of the hereafter. In silence, we become vessels for angelic wisdom. Closed lips, lowered eyes, and stopped ears are virtue's shortcuts. If you must speak, some areas allow conversation after dusk. Use simple gestures to direct a brother to the nearest such space."

  Yvette nodded understanding.

  "Do you read Latin? Fluency unnecessary."

  "Somewhat."

  Latin pervaded ancient texts. While her organization didn't mandate proficiency, half its members (mostly clerical staff) mastered it, as clergy and physicians were primary Latin users. Ulysses, a doctor, had tutored her. Initially illiterate in it, she now grasped basic passages.

  Moreover, her dream dwelling housed Latin-fluent spirits, enabling native-level comprehension when translated.

  "Excellent. Might you translate scripture? All here perform labor, but spreading God's word is noblest work."

  "Honored." Unskilled at farming, she gladly chose translation. Just then, faint bell-chimes echoed through the monastery—rhythmic jingling from many small bells.

  "Your chamber is the sixth left on the second floor. After supper, I'll guide you. For now, let us dine. The refectory permits no speech; ask remaining questions here."

  Post-brief exchange, Reigns led her into a silent procession of hooded figures, all softly ringing handbells as they moved—no sound but swaying fabric and tinkling metal.

  The communal meal followed monastic austerity: fish (per Trinity dietary rules), plus bread, wild fruits, and dairy—all produced through labor. Unlike other ascetics who grew grain, St. Quentin's traded beer/crafts for it, merely milling their flour. As Geoffrey noted, the isle's rampant weeds stifled crops but nourished livestock.

  Meals required silence, broken only by a lector's recitation. Yet today, chaos erupted as several patients suddenly shrieked: "Snakes! A huge snake!" refusing to enter. The lector paused while monks gestured plans, then escorted the disturbed away.

  Mass hallucination? Why identical visions?

  Order restored, the lector resumed:

  "And the Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul. (Genesis)"

  "The new self is created to be like God in righteousness and holiness. (Ephesians)"

  "The new self is renewed in knowledge after the image of its Creator. (Colossians)"

  Perhaps silence truly nurtured contemplation. Amid this stillness, Yvette felt nature itself whispering truths, illuminating scripture's hidden layers.

  If God created Adam in His image, breathing His own spirit into clay, then Adam was God's replica—original sin's source lay in divinity itself. Were God in Eden, He too would eat the forbidden apple.

  This thought struck her like divine inspiration, rising unbidden as the lector intoned:

  "Behold, the man is become as one of us, to know good and evil: and now, lest he put forth his hand, and take also of the tree of life, and eat, and live for ever—(Genesis)"

  Pursuit of knowledge was humanity's divine birthright. With wisdom and immortality, man would ascend to godhood.

  So she perceived—or perhaps the silent island itself whispered these lessons to receptive visitors through wordless grace.