《Love at Dawn》克拉克拉

29、Waif to Lady 流浪儿变身

　　The boarding school attached to the convent that Fiona entered following the Marquis had a long history. It had produced many well-regarded debutantes in high society, earning a reputation among noble families.

　　Most of the girl students here came from distinguished families, but there were also some from the aspiring bourgeoisie who eagerly sent their daughters in, hoping they would be imbued with the grace of ladies, and perhaps build relationships with the daughters of the aristocracy.

　　These girls were sent here to be raised and educated by nuns, following the religious discipline, in order to preserve their unblemished chastity. They were treated as precious treasures, not to be held tightly in one's grasp, but merely given away as gifts.

　　In the reception room, they were greeted by a reverend old nun with gray hair.

　　"What a cutie! I swear I have never seen such a beautiful child," the nun exclaimed with sincerity, taking Fiona's tiny hand and turning to the Marquis with a smile. "You can trust Saint-Matilda Convent, Monsieur the Marquis. We will return to you a perfect little lady."

　　Fiona timidly and expectantly looked around this strange new world. She had donned the same blue uniform as the other girls, with a white bonnet on her head. It's a pity that her banner-like fiery red hair had been scrupulously tucked into the brim of the bonnet with a hairnet, otherwise, this outfit could truly evoke some beauteous associations.

　　The girls were all of different ages, the oldest already sixteen or seventeen, while the youngest still speaking in an infant voice. Most of them gathered in small groups, chattering away, leaving Fiona alone, nervously fiddling with the silver Holy Spirit hanging from her chest, unsure of how to fit in with her classmates.

　　As they listened to the nuns' daily service in the chapel, the girls kneeling beside her clasped their hands together in prayer, exhibiting a posture of both heartfelt and deliberate piety. Quietly observing their mannerisms, Fiona mimicked their hand gestures and muttered some words under her breath.

　　The new girl noticed how their hands were all as creamy and soft as velvet, while her own still bore traces of calluses and frostbite that hadn't completely healed. After finishing her prayers, she tucked her fingers into her sleeves, feeling inferior and sad.

　　As the bell for recess rang out, the girls, tall and short alike, streamed out of the classroom. They ran around the yard, playing and laughing, their joyful voices like wind chimes flying over the lifeless high walls.

　　The matron nun, her face veiled in black, watched on ghostly from afar. Yet she could not in the slightest deter their exuberant joy - this solemn garden haunted by religious spirits, was in an instant flooded with sunlight.

　　Sarah and Claudia, girls of twelve or thirteen, were the centre of the children. Miss Sarah Hensfield's elder aunt was a prominent duchess in the area who had also been educated at this ancient convent school. She was now one of the important sponsors of the sanctuary.

　　The girls adored Sarah for this, especially the younger ones, who almost followed her every word as if it were a decree from her royal highness. But Claudia, who always understood Sarah's intentions immediately, was her "confidante".

　　Sitting on a stone step, Miss Sarah basked in the admiration of the girls, surrounded by the sparkling eyes of the little ones and compliments from the bigger. Claudia, taking cues from the monde, put on a dignified air and delivered a few witty remarks.

　　The wisecrack was not particularly humourous, but Sarah giggled anyway. She tossed her blonde hair and occasionally covered her mouth in a slightly affected manner, clearly imitating the deportment of noblewomen already.

　　Fiona crouched in an inconspicuous corner, staring blankly at the pebbles on the ground. She had learned a lot of English and had an excellent memory, but when she listened to Sarah and Claudia talking like adults about fashion, balls, and theatre, many words were beyond her comprehension.

　　However, a new topic being discussed over there attracted her attention.

　　"Yes, if you had such an affectionate little brother, who climbed high trees every day just to pick berries for you, even living in a small bamboo house with barbarians, you wouldn't feel lonely." Sarah let out a sigh, pretending to be melancholic.

　　Fiona was curious and gathered up the courage to walk up to them and ask, "What little brother are you talking about?"

　　"You don't even know Paul et Virginie?" Sarah sneered at Fiona, rolling her eyes.

　　Claudia immediately joined in, mocking her in a sharp, high-pitched voice, "You're a rube, ha ha ha! Listen, how terrible her accent is! You're not worthy to play with us."

　　Fiona went red as a beetroot, tears all at once welled up in her eyes. Even the other little girls crouched on the ground looking at her with pity became blurry and trembling.

　　The little girl held back her tears, refusing to blink until she turned her back to her classmates and squatted back against the wall. She fluttered her butterfly-like eyelashes, letting her tears fall on the ground.

　　"I'm so foolish, I thought I had already entered heaven! I've never belonged with them!" Fiona thought sadly, determined never to try to join the group again.

　　In music class, she stared blankly at the sheet music on the stand that she knew nothing about. Under the guidance of the Mother, the other girls in the classroom sang sweet and touching hymns, "Grant me life, O Lord Jesus divine, each day and night, my praise be thine; In your radiance, I humbly incline, and sing your name, in melodies fine..."

　　Fiona didn't even open her mouth.

　　"Are you feeling unwell, Miss Sèvremont?" the young nun asked with concern.

　　The girl stubbornly shook her head.

　　In the evening, when it was time to read the abridgment of the lives of the saints, little Fiona encountered yet another heavy calamity.

　　Illiterate and ignorant of doctrine, she refused to admit it and simply remained silent when questioned about it, which angered the Mother in charge of her.

　　This long-faced Mother Agatha was far from the gentle and kind-hearted nun who had greeted Fiona.

　　Fiona's beauty did not evoke pity in this nun's heart; instead, it aggravated her - the nuns knew that a girl with pretty appearance was unlikely to be willing to join the ranks of the bride of Christ, and therefore often viewed beauty as the opposite of devotion.

　　"I'll ask you one more time, Miss. Do you refuse to answer?" the long-faced Mother said sharply, her already wide eyes bulging even more from glaring.

　　The little girl stood silently like a warrior who would rather die than surrender.

　　"Very well! Let's see what kind of lady you'll grow up to be with that attitude!" Mother Agatha sneered scathingly, pointing to the platform in the centre of the classroom and ordering her, "Step up here and curtsy to everyone, let the whole class see your demeanor, little madame!"

　　Fiona, expressionless, lifted her skirt and gave a clumsy curtsey before the onlookers.

　　"Just stay in that position and don't move, my lady! That's the only way to teach you the etiquette a lady should have!" the Mother said with a cruel smile.

　　Seeing Fiona subjected to such a humiliating punishment by the dreaded Mother Agatha, some girls looked at her with sympathetic eyes, while others, like Claudia, covered their mouths and giggled with schadenfreude.

　　Fiona remained in the curtsy position for the entire class, motionless, until her legs went from sore to stinging, and finally, numb. Yet this time, she did not shed a single tear.

　　When the matron finally allowed her to get down, she nearly twisted her ankle, but immediately straightened her body.

　　It wasn't until the lengthy evening prayer at the bedside was over, and each girl climbed into her own bed, that this ten-year-old girl buried herself in the covers and silently sobbed.

　　She felt like the most unfortunate person in the world - having briefly tasted the warmth of home and loved ones, only to be ruthlessly abandoned once again.

　　----------------------

　　Edith tiptoed into Andre's bedroom, where the lights were still on. His head was tilted to one side of the pillow, his brow slightly furrowed, appearing to have fallen into a deep slumber.

　　As she walked closer, she followed his arm hanging over the bed, noticing the book lying on the floor. It seemed he had pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion before involuntarily succumbing to sleep.

　　The short candle on the bedside table was flickering weakly, barely hanging on to life. Its dim light cast an intoxicant, crimson glow on his virginal, pallid cheek.

　　She reached out to brush aside his messy golden locks, which partially obscured his face, and then bent down to gently blow out the candle for him.

　　Andre's sleep was always very light, but tonight he seemed undisturbed, perhaps too worn out to be stirred.

　　Edith, dressed in a white nightgown, stood silently by his bed like a ghost, her face expressionless. As her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, she could once again see the statuesque contours of his face in the shadows. Only the sound of his slightly short breaths echoed in her ears.

　　She began to question herself unconsciously: Could it be that her love for him was all along just for the halo around him, for everything that he symbolized?

　　Could there really be evil hidden behind this exterior of an archangel? Was he not as innocent as a lamb, as scorching as a blaze? Which side of him was the real him, and which side was truly a facade? These questions crept into her mind, sending shivers down her spine.

　　How strange it was, for at this moment she found herself recalling the shivers brought upon her by his fingers caressing her body in the past, and gradually she began to blur the line between these two sensations.

　　The imagery of blood and evil merged with the beauty of the person before her, enshrouding the girl in an inexplicable thrill that chilled her to the core, consumed by the waves of forbidden fantasies amidst the darkness of the night.

　　Thus, disgust transformed into pleasure, doubt into excitement, and fear into longing. Her fingertips, lost in a trance, repeatedly glided over his vermilion, slender lips, envisioning them stained with scarlet blood...

　　He still showed no signs of waking.

　　Quivering, she took a deep breath and, as if possessed, leaned down to capture his slightly parted lips, as if tasting the tang of blood, sending shivers down her entire being...