Monsieur Anouilh and his son bring the injured man to us a little after vespers. He is laid out on a makeshift stretcher, senseless and badly beaten.
       "Bandits!" Monsieur Anouilh says. "We found him like this on the path, half-dead. Can you do anything for him, Sisters?"
       Sister Beatrice runs immediately to fetch the Mother Superior, who on examining the man, gestures to Sister Adalinde and I to take the man to an empty cell.
       After Sister Marguerite arrives with her case of medicinals, cleans and binds his wounds, and makes an initial examination of his condition, I am tasked with accompanying him until dawn, to pray silently but diligently that God may show his soul mercy. I pray through the call for matins deep into the night, until sleep, like a cunning devil, overcomes me.

       There was once a widow who had two daughters--the elder, a disagreeable, proud girl; the younger, virtuous and sweet of temper. Their widow, doting on the elder for she resembled her in both looks and manners, often made life difficult for the younger girl, setting to her all kinds of laborious tasks, one of which was to walk the several miles to the nearest fountain and collect water for the house.
       One day, as she was gathering water, a poor old woman approached the girl and begged her for a drink.
       "With pleasure, Madame," the courteous girl replied, and filling her pitcher, gave it to the old woman to drink, supporting it so that she might take the water more effortlessly.
       When the old woman had slaked her thirst, she said to the girl: "Such courtesy and kindness must be rewarded. I shall bestow on you a gift. From this day forth, for every word you speak, there shall come from your mouth a precious jewel." And because the old woman was in fact a Fairy in disguise, her words were true.

       "Water, I beg you."
       The man's whispers wake me. I pour him a cup and place it gently to his lips, holding it steady for him.
       "Where am I?" he asks, when he has slaked his thirst.
       I gesture to him that I cannot speak. He looks confused for a moment, but opens his eyes wide enough to take in my habit in the moonlight.
       "A vow of silence," he says. "I understand. God reward you for your kindness, Sister." And soon enough he lies back and closes his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I stay with him until the darkness of the night turns to the cold grey of morning. Shortly before lauds, I am relieved by Sister Adalinde and walk to the choir to attend prayers.

       During his convalescence, I spend many hours at the man's bedside. I learn that his name is Jacques, and that he is a teller of tales, travelling from place to place, recounting stories he has heard for a small price and picking up new ones from the villages and hamlets he passes through. One day after nones, he regales me with the tale of a cat who wore boots and cavorted like a man, and another about a young girl who narrowly avoided being eaten by a wolf wearing her grandmother's clothing.
       "Amusing, are they not?" he says when he is finished.
       I am so caught up in the wonders of his stories that I almost forget my vows and blurt out: "Yes, yes, truly!" But with the Lord's mercy, I catch myself before I make a sound.
       I must be more careful around the man. As charming as I find him, the Devil comes in many guises.

       When the girl returned to the house, she told all to her mother, dropping many precious jewels in the process.
       Eager that they might have twice the riches, she turned to the elder sister, saying, "Go to the fountain, my daughter, and if you see a poor, old woman, speak kindly to her so that you, too, might be rewarded with an incredible boon."
       Cantankerous and unwilling, the elder daughter went to the fountain, grumbling the whole way. But when she arrived, she found not an old lady but a noblewoman dressed in fine clothes.
       "Child," the noble woman said, "I am thirsty. Draw me a drink from the fountain."
       "I am not your servant," griped the elder. "Draw the water yourself if you would like to drink."
       The noblewoman, who was in fact the Fairy in a different disguise, replied, "How rude you are! From now on, for every word you speak, a viper will fall from your mouth!" And being a Fairy, her words were true.

       After a week, the man is well enough to rise and take some air among the cloisters and the gardens. He hobbles around watching us work, eager to observe every one of us in our various duties. A few days later, he joins us for our meals in the refectory, eyeing each of us carefully as we spoon the simple pottage that makes up most of our daily meals into our mouths.
       Although we cannot share our unease, we all feel it, visibly bristle at his gaze. I begin to think of him not as a convalescent, but as a hunter, a wolf in a sick man's clothing. It is as if he is searching for something, a sign that will reveal one of us as his hidden prey.
       I thank God that he will soon be well enough to leave us, that he will no longer have an excuse to stay.

       The next day, Monsieur Anouilh and his son arrive after prime to deliver their weekly donation of grain and vegetables for our holy sustenance. As they leave, the man Jacques calls after them, crying, "Monsieur Anouilh, a moment please. I have a favour to ask you."
       Strange, I think to myself. How does he know Monsieur Anouilh's name, if he was already beaten senseless when they came upon him? He grins at me as he re-enters the priory gates, and his teeth look to me for a moment like fangs.

       Shortly before our midday meal, Monsieur Anouilh returns to our gates carrying a heavy sack, bulbous with some hidden surprise. When we gather in the refectory, Jacques stands before us, ready to make a speech.
       "Sisters," he says, "by your grace and God's, I am almost mended. For your care and kindness, I humbly offer you this gift." He tears open the sack; crimson apples tumble onto the table.
       Although my sisters are silent, I can see the joy in their eyes at the prospect of fresh fruit. They nod and bow and show their appreciation to the man, Jacques, as he distributes the bright red offerings among us.
       After the cacophony of crunches has subsided, only one apple--mine--remains untouched.
       Jewels, after all, are not kind to one's teeth.

       When the elder sister returned home and recounted what had befallen her, the widow fell into a rage. "This is your sister's fault!" she cried and ran to beat the younger girl, who, knowing she was destined for a life of misery, ran away into the forest, where--as happenstance would have it, she met a prince out hunting. They fell in love and lived happily ever after.
       The elder sister, on the other hand, ran off into the forest, cast out by her mother, and died, for she could find no one to love her, not even God.

       As dusk turns to night, I wait for the man Jacques in my cell.
       I hear the soft padding of his bare feet on the cold stone, the cell door creaking open; I see his silhouette appear and disappear again as he closes the door behind him.
       "Good evening, Sister," he whispers. "It has taken me a long time to find you, but here you are--the girl who spits jewels." With a swift movement, he grabs my face and forces it to the candle. He pries open my mouth. The flickering light dances over my broken teeth.
       "As I thought," he says. "Now, let's see if I can convince you to break that vow of yours. All I need is a few words from you, Sister . . ."
       I feel the touch of cold metal on my neck, a sharp sting and a trickle of blood as he twists the blade. But I stare back defiant; my tongue does not stir.
       He grunts. "Then I'll gut your sisters one by one--" He goes to leave the cell.
       "Wait!" I hiss, and there is the clink of a ruby as it hits the floor.
       He rushes back to my side, "That's it, Sister. Don't be shy, now. Speak your mind."
       I brace myself for the pain and force myself through the sentence:
       "Seldom is life"--a diamond and two pearls--"as simple as it appears"--I gag as the vipers, thrashing in anger, eager to strike, slither from my gullet and drop one by one onto the floor near his bare feet . . .
       --"in fairy tales."