The Pages They Kept

I left Mateo’s settlement at first light with a bedroll, a canvas bag, and a guide who had been told to take my direction on the road. Mateo had coffee waiting at the gate. He did not ask if I had changed my mind.

“Your horse is sound,” he said. “The left stirrup’s been mended. Don’t put your whole weight on it until you’re past the first rise.”

“I’ll remember.”

He looked at the bundle tied behind my saddle. “There’s dried meat in there.”

“I have bread.”

“Then you can have both.” He set a small paper sack on top of the bedroll. “It’s not a contract.”

“I know.”

He watched me tuck it away. He had arranged a guide, food, and a road I didn’t know. He had not tried to make any of them an argument for staying. That eased something in me, though I could not say I was glad to go.

The guide swung into his saddle. I turned once toward the cabins and the gate. Vincent had not come out. I knew he was keeping my brother’s account safe, as I had asked him to do. I had also hoped, foolishly perhaps, that he might be there at the last moment. Both things could be true.

“Ready?” the guide asked.

“Yes.”

The road climbed into dry country where the grass gave way to stones and low brush. We stopped at midday beside a stream narrow enough to step across. I ate Mateo’s meat with my bread and found he had packed salt, too. The guide watered the horses while I read the copied baptism entry again. My mother’s name. Isabel’s name beneath it. A line of ink that had been waiting longer than I had been alive.

The guide glanced over. “Still the same words?”

“I’m hoping they’ll improve.”

He gave a quiet laugh and went back to the horses.

We reached St. Brigid’s before the light began to fall. The mission stood low against the valley, its walls weathered and patched. A bell hung in a wooden frame beside the chapel. The guide took my bags to the door but stayed outside when I went in.

A woman in a dark dress was sorting papers on a table. She had silver threaded through her hair and a pair of spectacles low on her nose. When I gave my name, she studied me for a moment before setting the papers down.

“You are the Bell girl?” she asked.

“I am Evelyn Bell.”

“I am Sister Inés. Your mother’s name was Margaret?”

“Yes.”

“Then you are in the right place.” She stood and reached for a ring of keys. “I have been told to show the book to a member of her family. I was not told when you would come.”