[La Divina]: 115.Coriander.The Mass

The Mass, Coriander’s Ugliness

When both girls had five years, they began to accompany their mother more frequently to the church. Often Rose was reminded that she had been born and baptized there, but if this knowledge did anything to interest the girl, she did not show it, though once inside the hushed walls she seemed to hold her head a little higher. Cori, for her part, enjoyed the stained glass windows, the candles, and the paintings of saints that adorned the place.
The Enchantress had few friends in the town, most of them women who praised her skills with herbs and simple remedies. There were some who called her a witch, but the mark was kept hidden and no one dared speak aloud for fear of damaging the calm happiness of their community. At mass they were polite to her, often saying how beautiful Cori was, trying to coax Rose to speak.
“Look at this,” Rose would say, holding up the little prayer book her godmothers had given her.
“No!” Cori would shriek if one of them tried to hold her, rushing to cling to her mother’s hand.
It was known, of course, that Coriander was not her child. She reminded them of that young wife who died some years ago. So beautiful with her blue eyes and dark gold hair.
“She will fetch a good husband,” the women would remark. Nothing was said of Rose but the occasional, “What a curious child.” The Enchantress knew full well that no one expected Rose to make a successful marriage. And apart from her healing, which would doubtless mark her as a witch, there was really nothing Rose could do to prove herself worthy of a husband. She was useless with the plants, cared little about her personal appearance, and was clumsy with housework, as much as she tried to be useful.
Cori, though, was beginning to show signs of gardening skill, for all the flowers she watered bloomed full and even though they disgusted her, she would stick her little hands out to pluck parasites off the leaves and stems. And she would be even more beautiful if she could manage to control her temper. She could fling herself into dramatic passions if she felt she was being ignored or if she did not get her way.
At mass the girls sat on either side of their mother, Cori looking around at all the beautiful alter things, Rose with her little nose buried between the pages of her prayer book, dark messy hair making a sort of curtain over her face. The scar on her forehead made her look wretched, and her eyes, clear hazel darting from word to word, made her look like an owl. On her sixth birthday her godmothers brought her to the front of church during the blessing rite and asked the holy man to give her a special blessing. Cori watched, interested, as the holy man put a heavy hand on her sister’s forehead, mumbling words in Latin. When the blessing was done, her godmothers placed in her hand a little string of prayer beads, their bright glass hues dancing in the light and casting freckles of color on Rose’s pale cheeks.
“Look at this,” she said to anyone in the vicinity as they left the church, waving up the gift.
Cori snatched at it, enchanted by the bright colors. Rose reluctantly handed it over, smiling a little at her sister.
“Cori is pretty,” she said, pointing at the way the younger girl’s blue eyes seemed to be another shiny crystal bead on that string. “Is she, Mother?”
It was the first time the Enchantress remembered being addressed by her daughter. “Yes, Rose. She is.”
“Am I pretty, Mother?”
“Yes, my Rose. You are.”
The expression in her witch hazel eyes seemed to assure her mother that she knew the truth.
“Cori, give me back my beads.”
“No!” Cori protested, hiding them behind her back and tossing her dark golden hair. Rose frowned, a little wrinkle darting from her scar to the bridge of her nose. She pushed her hair behind her ears and murmured, “You can have them, then.” Cori gave a shout of glee and went on with her game, dancing lightly in the garden and watching the light dance in the glass beads. In the following weeks she sat in her pew playing with them during the mass while Rose studied the little prayer book until its pages were familiar with her hands.
When Cori learned to read, the Enchantress began teaching them the hymns, singing them in the garden while Rose sat quietly in the tangled roots of the apple tree and Cori watered her flowers.
They walked to mass on the Lord’s Day, Rose humming under her breath as she walked. They wore new clothes for the occasion, Cori in a pale blue dress sewn by a woman who bought medicines from the Enchantress, Rose in a dark blue made by her godmothers. Coriander walked gracefully, holding the pretty prayer beads. Rose trailed behind them, tugging at the skirt of her dress and running her fingers over the embroidered roses on the bodice. Her hair had been brushed out fiercely, but refused to be tame even without its usual accent of tangled curls. Cori’s hair flowed down her back like a waterfall, almost long enough to sit on. The women that usually sat with them for mass remarked that she looked like an angel, and Cori basked in their praise.
She had been told from the time when she was very little that she was beautiful. By old women, by the holy man, by farmers and merchants passing through town, by her sister, and by her mother. She believed that she was, and for a child of six exuded a peculiar pride in her personal appearance. She was beginning to see that being beautiful made her different from Rose, who was never praised and admired as much as she was.
But at mass Rose sang softly and sweetly so that those gathered around were shocked to hear such a heavenly hymn from the stranger, plainer of the two sisters. Cori raised her voice a little, only to be disappointed. She sang the same words, with the same tune, but the music didn’t come out as beautifully as she wanted.
“That Rose has such a lovely voice,” the women said as the mass was ending.

I didn’t know what good it would do Rose to have a beautiful singing voice, but it seemed to please her, this new discovery about herself. She began to sing more and more frequently, so that I never had trouble finding her afterward, needing only to follow the sound of her voice. She was still shy and awkward with other people, but if she was persuaded to sing, she seemed a little more beautiful.