England, Glastonbury Abbey, 1536

"It has begun. More than two hundred religious houses disbanded.” Abbot Whiting paces near the small window of his study. He is not a man given to pacing. The movement, even more than the grimness of his tone, makes me nervous.

The meager light of fading day filters through the window, emphasizing the lines etched on his face.

“Buildings destroyed. Faithful observers of the religious life turned from their homes, forced to act as beggars until another house can take them in."

"There are reasons..." his companion offers. A prior. An important one, by the look of him. The stream of religious men coming to seek advice at Glastonbury has increased to a near flood of late.

I shrink backward, trying to blend in with the wall. I should not be here—but it is too late now, for the men have forgotten my presence. To leave now would only draw attention. But this is not a conversation meant for a serving girl’s ears. Not even a serving girl favored by the abbot himself.

"Reasons? Insufficient annual income? Improprieties in the order? Pfft. Excuses. You know this as well as I.”

The prior inclines his head in silent acknowledgment.

“Do not be fooled. You think they will stop with destroying the lesser monasteries? No. This is merely the beginning. The small houses serve only to whet the insatiable appetite of the crown."

"'Tis treasonous to speak so."

I feel dizzy. Things are bad in the world outside the abbey’s walls. I’d known that already. But treason?

"Indeed. I do not deny the gravity of the matter.” The abbot enunciates his words carefully, which only makes the situation sound worse. “Neither do I believe a held tongue will save us. I fear Henry will not stop now until each and every monastic house in England is dissolved." The prior puts a hand to his heart, and in the movement I see the flash of a cross—a square cross—embroidered at the hem of his undersleeve. Hardly noticeable, but working for such a meticulous man as Abbot Whiting has trained me to be observant. Still, it makes no sense. My eyes must be playing tricks. No one has used the square cross in decades—not since the most notorious group to use it was disbanded, hunted down and persecuted.

“We must be prepared," the prior agrees. "You know of what I speak. Do you have a plan?”

“I do,” the abbot answers.

There is a pause. I shift positions, and the rustle of my skirt against the wall catches Abbot Whiting’s attention. Is it my imagination, or do his eyes rest on me just the tiniest bit longer than necessary? I wonder what he is thinking—though in truth, it is best I do not know. I wish I was anywhere but here. Normally my duties are limited to the outer rooms. But Sam was ill today, so Mother stayed home with him, sending me in her stead. The prior nods, slowly. “And until then? What will you do?”

Abbot Whiting bows his head. "What I have always done. Pray."