Anselm used a cast iron pull to open the door to a room he called the buttery. Inside, shelves lined the walls. Sacks, buckets, and crates crammed the small space. She couldn’t even begin to guess at what filled them all, but she got the feeling this space was akin to a modern-day pantry. Anselm shuffled to a shelf that held folded fabrics, all darkly colored. He lifted a few items and thrust them into her arms. “Try these on.” At the top of the pile were a pair of thickly felted boots. They fell to the floor with a muted thud as she shook out the next item, a brown cloak with a hood. She wrapped it around her shoulders and fastened it then slipped her stocking feet into the boots. They were warm and heavy enough to protect her feet over rough terrain. “Night boots,” Anselm said. “We keep them on hand lest we freeze our toes off during the midnight prayers.” “Thank you,” she told Anselm, using the British accent she was beginning to feel at home with. “I wish I had something to offer in exchange.
