In the quiet of the Grand-Moûtier at Abbaye Royale de Fontevraud, the wind carried on it the constant whisper of a thousand years. I sat, regretful in my exhale, as the Abbey slept. It is the silence when I am the most terrified and at peace. I lingered on the waxing moon, just three days short of full release, and shook. This place—this holy, sacred, venomous, cruel place—soothed me in the darkness, and I submit.

Midnight, at Fontevraud.