In This House of Brede

by Rumer Godden

‘I wish I knew when I was going to die,’ ninety-six-year-old Dame Frances Anne often said, ‘I wish I knew.’ ‘Why, Dame?’ ‘Then I should know what to read next.’

Bowls of flowers surrounded the high altar; the candles made points of flame above them and, in the centre, the disc of the white Host was enthroned in the glittering monstrance. Was it fancy because she was so tired, thought Philippa, a mere illusion, or was the Host penetrated by a light of its own? A kind of window through which, had she the eyes, she could have looked straight into heaven; but it’s only the dying, or the very holy, who have the eyes like that, she thought.