After dinner, Yvette was led by the Hermit Raynes to her lodging room. However, after crossing the last step of the second floor, the hermit did not stop but continued to guide her upward.

  "Wait, isn't it the sixth room on the left of the second floor?" Yvette blurted out, then remembered the monastery's vow of silence and quickly sealed her lips.

  Hermit Raynes waved dismissively at her, climbing all the way to the top third floor before pulling out an ancient and cumbersome set of keys from his belt. He unlocked the third door on the right and entered.

  Private rooms were spaces where conversation was permitted, so the hermit explained, "You’ve graciously offered to translate our texts, so lodging on the third floor is more suitable. Apart from you, the other brothers below are devoted ascetics; I fear their midnight prayers might disturb your rest."

  The monastery housed only male hermits, and since the third floor would have her as the sole resident, the arrangement aligned perfectly with her preferences. Thus, Yvette accepted the offer without protest.

  The room appeared long uninhabited. Though the bedding was freshly changed, a faint mustiness lingered in the air.

  Seawind rattled the wooden window, producing a creaking sway. Yvette noticed marks on the window’s surface where nails had once been, seemingly removed not long ago.

  "The monastery rarely receives guests. These windows are usually sealed to prevent seabirds from nesting inside," Hermit Raynes observed her noticing this and promptly explained.

  By then, dusk had fallen. Peering outside, Yvette saw scattered lighthouses flickering to life across the sea, guiding vessels to avoid the reefs.

  Her room was on the right side of the staircase, the window directly facing Anglesey. Compared to the opposite side, this vista brimmed with liveliness and bustle.

  "If you're tired, rest here. Should you need anything, don’t hesitate to summon me." With these words, the hermit carefully closed the door behind him and departed.

  Accustomed to London’s social whirl, Yvette found evenings her most energetic hours. Far from weary, she resolved to explore the monastery. After airing the room, she shut the window to prevent the sea breeze from wreaking havoc in her absence.

  As she reached for the window handle, she discovered the metal latch had rusted away, replaced by a cord as thick as a chopstick—adorned with an odd, archaic knot, triangular in shape, reminiscent of a Chinese knotting style.

  Amid the monastery’s austerity, the knot exuded an inexplicably peculiar taste, almost... pagan?

  Brushing the thought aside, Yvette threaded a wooden stick through the loop of the knot to secure the window, then left her temporary abode for the week.

  A small chamber in the monastery served as the infirmary, its location duly noted by Hermit Raynes. However, according to him, minor ailments needn’t trouble a physician: "We must share in Christ’s sufferings" (1 Peter 4:13) and "It was good for me to be afflicted" (Psalms 119:71)—illness, he insisted, signified enduring the cross like Christ, thus ensuring His kiss upon the afflicted.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Though aware of ascetics’ eccentricities, this was Yvette’s first tangible encounter. Her visit to the infirmary wasn’t for herself but to query details surrounding Solay’s death.

  Somehow, Solay’s demise struck her as surreal—as though death’s shadow shouldn’t taint this vibrant emerald isle.

  The infirmary crouched in the monastery’s most secluded corner. Passing a dilapidated, long-collapsed building, Yvette found a wooden door, its lock green with corrosion, half-stripped of varnish by salty winds. Knocking yielded no response, but the door creaked ajar under her hand.

  Inside, lamplight flickered. A figure sat motionless at a table, turning slowly toward her at the sound.

  In the dim candlelight, Yvette’s gaze met his—with pupils unnaturally dilated, devoid of focus.

  Blind?

  "Good evening. I’m a secular believer here to experience monastic life. Is the physician present?"

  "I am he. What troubles you?" His tone was gentle.

  "You? But your eyes—?"

  "Indeed, I see nothing. Few sighted doctors would choose such a post, no?" He chuckled.

  Though the era still groped in obscurity, physicians belonged to the enlightened middle class; few would shackle themselves to this desolate outpost.

  "Do you recall a patient named Solay Gosling? I’m her kin. I’ve heard she succumbed to illness—were there any final words?"

  The island doctor fell silent before murmuring, as if waking from a dream: "Ah… Solay Gosling. How could I forget? A dying swan, thrashing in vain against the frozen lake’s grip… sinking… sinking…"

  His fevered ramblings would’ve driven most to flee, yet an inexplicable pull drew Yvette onward.

  "Was it truly typhoid? But she was covered in feathers—white seabird feathers, like a swan. Did she don them herself? Or did another wish it? Yet I swear, hers were white, stark against the rest—utterly! The day was All Souls’; beneath the western cliffs, upon a reef bared by the ebbing tide! Shattered bones, broken limbs, blood… No, sir, not typhoid! NOT!!"

  This self-styled physician spoke like a madman. By his crescendo, he’d risen to a roar, lunging with feral speed to seize Yvette’s collar, howling each syllable into her face.

  BANG! The infirmary door burst open as two hermits subdued the raving figure, pinning him to the table.

  "Grave apologies. This is no physician but a patient who fancies himself one—or a hermit, or worse. Our oversight endangered you. Thanks be to the Holy Spirit, you’re unharmed."

  "I confess—I merely stepped away, and the patient slipped in, nearly causing calamity," stammered a bespectacled, scholarly man rushing in—the actual doctor.

  "He is our physician. Let this remind you: Lock the door. Should patients pilfer medicines, death may follow," a hermit chided.

  "You arrived just in time—I was terrified," Yvette gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "Never have I faced such peril! A whisky might steady me… Ah, but spirits violate your Rule. I’ll retire to compose myself…"

  "May the Lord shield your repose from evil, dear worldly sister."

  Back in her room, Yvette’s shaken facade dissolved into icy focus. Reaching inside her collar, she retrieved a small brown vial stoppered with cork—no pills within, only a slip of paper.

  In Latin, it read: "To the Feathered One."

  Below, a crude sketch marked the island, with an X near an apple tree by the spring-fed marsh.

  The vial had been thrust into her dress during the scuffle. She’d nearly retaliated but caught his covert gesture in time.

  Patient or doctor? What game was this? Did he seek her investigation? His claim of Solay’s un-typhoid death—how credible? Feathers, reefs—literal or symbolic?

  Dusk had deepened, leaving only a dying ember of sunset over the sea. Yvette stood by her open window, staring into the gloom, her thoughts adrift.

  Suddenly, she stood in a dream-chamber before a cooling hearth, embers glowing crimson.

  A door creaked behind her.

  "Ah! The All-Mighty honors my humble abode! How may I serve?"

  The ghoul-doctor’s lair? Why here?

  Dissecting tables crusted with hemoglobin, walls lined with saws and scalpels—none of it answered her confusion.

  But since here, she asked: "If a man’s pupils are enlarged yet sightless—what pathology fits?"

  She’d seen blindness: cataracts clouding eyes white; optic atrophy skewing gaze; diseased bulbs shriveled or swollen.

  But such dilation without sight? A first.

  "Belladonna overdose, perhaps? The poison Nero favored slaying dissenters. It paralyzes ocular muscles. Noblewomen once used drops to beautify—dilating pupils for allure."