3.
Ding-. Ding-.
The bell from the spire awakened the convent, still steeped in the lingering darkness of pre-dawn.
Though the sun was beginning to climb, the gloom was so thick one could hardly tell the front of their chemise from the back without a lamp. Harriet stirred and rose from her narrow bed.
“Ugh, I’m so stiff.”
As she stretched, her bones and joints—too long pressed against the unforgiving mattress—let out a dull, crackling protest.
She craved a few more hours of sleep, but she knew that if she dallied, she would miss breakfast and earn nothing but icy glares. Harriet washed her face briefly with the water saved from the previous evening and patted it dry with the toner provided by the convent.
‘Ah, it smells divine.’
She inhaled deeply, pressing her palms into her cheeks. The faint, clean scent of lavender always calmed her nerves.
The convent’s herb farm produced more than just this toner; they crafted potpourri, salves, and oils. Initially, she had assumed the quality would be inferior to the luxury goods she had used in her past life, but the formulas suited her skin surprisingly well. Setting aside her pride, Harriet had asked for extra oil and toner.
‘They provide them to residents for free—what a windfall!’
She even mused that when she eventually returned home, she might actually miss the convent life simply because of these modest luxuries.
After pulling her habit over her chemise, she tightened the waistband and brushed her hair, pinning it back into a single, functional tail.
‘It’s so convenient not to worry about intricate updos or maintaining a flawless appearance. I don’t think I’ll know how to adjust when I go back.’
It took only five minutes to prepare for the dining hall.
The other noble ladies staying at the convent were a different story. They eschewed habits, and every morning, they sat before mirrors to apply light makeup. Their rooms were spacious and refined; some had even brought their own maids.
At first, Harriet had found the discrepancy unfair, but she had grown to prefer the simplicity of her own life and kept her complaints to herself.
‘Besides, I’m here for the long haul.’
The other ladies usually stayed for a fortnight, or three or four months at most. They were guests of the church, but Harriet, serving a full-year exile, was treated more like a novice.
‘At least they don’t force me to live like a real nun. I have more freedom than the others.’
After cleaning her few pieces of furniture and the window frames with a rag dampened in her leftover wash water, Harriet stowed her basin and headed to the dining hall.
She offered a short, practiced prayer to the icon hanging above the door before stepping inside. The nuns standing in line near the serving area nodded in greeting.
Today’s breakfast: rye bread, a slice of sharp cheese, a few olives, a glass of milk, and half an apple.
At first, the portion had seemed daunting before sunrise, but now, Harriet polished off every crumb and even the last bitter olive. A hearty meal was the only way to survive the morning routine.
As soon as she finished, her shift began. Harriet had been assigned to the soap workshop.
“Sister Harriet! You didn’t have to arrive so early.”
Sister Sophia, the head of soap production, waved her hands, her face bright with a warm, genuine welcome.
In her early forties, Sophia possessed a gentle nature that had done more to soothe Harriet’s anxiety than any prayer.
“I didn’t have anything else to do. What’s on the schedule for today?” Harriet asked, helping Sophia retrieve the tools.
“Hmm… how about you try participating directly in the soap-making process?”
“Pardon? Truly?”
Having only performed menial labor until now, Harriet felt a sudden surge of pride, as if she were finally being recognized as a true member of the workshop.
Sophia hesitated, her expression tightening with concern.
“To be honest, it is back-breaking work for someone who lived as a lady of the nobility. If you find it too strenuous, please tell me at once.”
“I will do my best.”
As Harriet answered with bubbling enthusiasm, Sophia tilted her head, watching her with newfound curiosity.
“Sister…”
“Yes? Did I make a mistake?”
“Oh, no. It’s just… you are quite different from what I imagined.”
At those words, Harriet’s shoulders slumped. She knew what people likely thought when they heard her background: a lady who had sparked a scandal in high society, exiled to a convent for her sins. They surely imagined someone arrogant and selfish.
Yet, unlike the other workshop heads who had bristled at her arrival, Sophia had been the first to offer her a place.
“Our workshop is the least demanding. I will pace the work to suit you, so please, pace yourself, too.”
When they first met, Sophia had spoken to her as one might coddle a difficult child.
‘Have I really changed that much since then?’
Harriet suppressed her racing heart and offered a modest smile. Soap-making was dangerous and demanding, but to her, it was a world of fascinating new textures and scents.
Soon, a veteran nun—following Sophia’s instructions—began to explain the process with a stern, no-nonsense air.
“We boil the olive oil, water, and soda in this cauldron. It must be stirred constantly. Be alert; a moment of carelessness will result in a nasty burn.”
“It’s truly fascinating,” Harriet murmured. “Even after seeing it several times, the transformation is like magic.”
“When high-quality olive oil is stripped of its impurities and allowed to harden, it becomes a treasure that cannot be exchanged for anything else.”
The nun held up a smooth, milky-white bar. It was the same soap Harriet used every day.
“I don’t mind saying it now, but this… it’s remarkably good.”
The nun’s expression bloomed, and she seized Harriet’s hands. She leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“I’ve recommended this to the other ‘guests,’ but the response was… disappointing.”
“Really? Did it not suit their skin?”
“If only they had tried it before judging! They claim they use ‘far superior’ soaps back home and have no need for something so plain.”
What a loss for them. Harriet, who had spent years battling mysterious hives and breakouts, had seen her skin transform after only a few uses of this humble bar.
“I guarantee you, it is better than any luxury soap I have ever used. It’s mild, cleanses deeply, and doesn’t leave my skin feeling tight.”
“Isn’t it marvelous?”
“And it was the only thing that finally cleared my acne.”
Harriet remembered the sting of the mocks she had endured over her skin. But since coming to the convent and using this plain white soap and the herbal toner, her complexion had steadily cleared. The red, inflamed patches were fading, replaced by a healthy, consistent glow.
“Hahaha! I feel ten years younger hearing you say that! With that spirit, let’s get back to the cauldron!”
“Yes! I’ll work hard.”
Harriet laughed, rolled up her sleeves, and stepped toward the heat. She felt, for the first time in a long while, that she belonged somewhere.
* * *
However, upon returning to her room that evening, Harriet collapsed onto her bed like a felled tree.
“Ah… I’m dying…”
She had maintained her composure until the very end, but standing over the cauldron for hours was back-breaking work. Every muscle—shoulders, arms, wrists, waist, legs—ached with a dull, throbbing intensity.
“How many more days do I have to keep this up…?”
The future felt bleak and exhausting.
The soap’s quality was a testament to the labor they put into it.
“It’s a traditional method passed down for over two hundred years,” Sophia had told her. “People in the cities use chemicals to speed it up, but I have faith that the old ways are better.”
The nuns worked with a pride that defied the soot and the smoke. In the eyes of the modern world, they were likely dismissed as relics, but the proof was on Harriet’s own clear skin.
‘If this were known in Genoa, it would be a sensation.’
Harriet paused, then shook her head.
‘No. The nobility would never touch a soap that lacked gaudy packaging, artificial perfumes, or a famous brand name.’
The brands popular among the elite all marketed themselves as the choice of celebrities. There was no way they would open their purses for a product made by a poor, disgraced convent. If anything, the low price would only give them a reason to look down on it.
It was a pity, but such was the nature of the world.
For Harriet, however, the convent life was unexpectedly bearable.
‘If anything, my life feels more grounded. The bed is still a torture device, but the meals are surprisingly wholesome… Hmm? Come to think of it, I haven’t had a single stomach ache since I arrived.’
At that realization, Harriet’s eyes went wide.