Infinite 01 - Infinite Sacrifice

and knees to help him scrub. He looks like he’s uncomfortable seeing me get down in the wetness in my velvet kirtle. I hadn’t planned far enough to answer him, so I awkwardly don’t say anything. He stares at my left hand on the scrub brush for a moment and seems nervous with me so close.
    “You bring such comfort to the dying,” I finally say as I keep scrubbing.
    “I wish I could do more,” he says as he reaches over to pull the veil from my headdress out of the bucket.
    I feel childish as I sweep it off my head, releasing my long, four-plaited braid, and wring the veil out swiftly. He puts his hands out to carry it to the table for me. Taking up the brush again, I try to scrub away my embarrassment. He takes his place on the floor again, and after a thick pause, I try to return to our conversation. “I wish I could bring such comfort.”
    He looks up, catches my eyes, and then fixes his gaze back on the floor. “Mother Superior told me you left your husband to care for orphans.”
    “They are over there.” I point to them right as Rowan jumps on Oliver’s back, sending Oliver careening into the ground over in the corner of the chapel. Both of them giggle hysterically.
    Simon smiles, and I notice a slight gap in his front teeth. “Looks like you have brought much comfort too.”
    That one sentence makes me feel more important than anything else in my whole life. I help him finish the entire room.
    ∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
    Every morning it’s a somber job to see which tired soul has expired in the night. Sometimes we’re prepared for it, seeing someone in particular distress. Other times we’re caught off guard. The occasional patient will look as though he’s improving and will be found cold unexpectedly. Malkyn, the Mother Superior, will say a prayer over their lost battle and cover them with a shroud.
    The unfortunate job of instructing the sexton is mine. It’s the same steel-eyed, vile sexton who buried the children’s mother, and they run whenever they see him coming. He shows up this grim morning with a completely loaded cart—shirtless, even though there’s an autumn chill in the air.
    “Oh, the sun is already shining!” he calls out upon seeing me. “My little burgundy hen waits for me.”
    With only one kirtle to wear, I’m in burgundy daily.
    “Sexton,” I holler up, “we have three this morning.”
    “You, sweet wench, can call me Ulric.” He wipes his hands on his hairy chest. “Little ones or fat ones?”
    Disgusted by his question, I spit, “What difference does it make?”
    “Easy there I simply might not have the room for them, is all. I’ve had a busy morning,” he says as he smiles and pats his full purse.
    “I am sure they will fit.”
    He climbs down from his cart, picking his teeth, then shifts some of the dead bodies to make room. I turn away as I see him unbutton a leather vest, off one of the dead.
    “He won’t be needing this where he’s going.” He chuckles.
    When I look back at him, he is wearing the vest. Putting both hands on the sides of the vest he says, unashamed, “Don’t I look like a nobleman now?”
    I guffaw.
    “I’m not keeping it. I sell the nicest pieces at a good price, you know.” He looks down at my kirtle. “I do have some fine kirtles and can give you one for free if you’re nice to me.” He leers as I stand, unamused. He shrugs and moves another body. “This plague’s making me a very prosperous man, young maiden.”
    “Matron,” I correct.
    “Matron? And living in a convent?” He sighs. “And all this time I was worried you were wasting your young maidenhead on God.”
    I decide I’m not going to talk to him anymore. I point to the shrouded bodies outside by the garden. He yanks off the shrouds, balls them up messily, and tosses the partially rigid bodies over his shoulder. Ulric throws the bodies down like sacks of flour and stashes the shrouds in the front of his cart.
    I break my promise. “Those shrouds are for their burial!”
    He chuckles as I snatch them back, climb the gruesome pile, and cover those I fed broth to only days before.
    “How about a little bas on the cheek for my kindnesses?” he says, pointing to his filthy cheek. “You do know I do this for the sisters out of the goodness of my heart?”
    “That and you find out who these people are and collect the death tax for the city for a fair price.”
    He smirks. “You are a feisty one, aren’t you?” he says as he leaps