Anne had heard these chants from the monasteries and found them comforting, but this one thin voice stripped the piece of its charm. Anne was cold. Liber scriptus proferetur,In quo totum continetur,Unde mundus judicetur.Recordare, Jesu pie,Quod sum causa tuae viae:Ne me perdas illa die. The nun turned. The black wimple draped over her head, the black sleeves that spread as she raised her arms in greeting, unnerved Anne. She saw something in her mind—a black bird in a place of desolation—and shifted in fear, attempting to dislodge the vision. The nun smiled. “’Tis the skullcap. I have already spread it around thy bed.” Anne looked and saw that the floor was strewn with green leaves and purple buds, plus something else with a strong odour of old meat. “It reeks,” Anne said. “Not many survive the sweats,” the nun said as she worked.
