Chapter 5
I tilt my head, stepping back from the mirror. Renault sent me a new dress for our supper tonight—because that’s what a devoted fiancé would do, and we are trying very hard to play the part. Fussing with the ties at the bodice, I peer into the looking glass’s dappled silver surface.
I try to make myself see the friend that Renault cherishes, the kindred spirit Carina loves, the woman people call beautiful. But all I see is a sinner in a too-fine dress. All my anni in Lumendei, I’ve thought it must be some kind of joke, the way people extol my looks. How could it not be, with my crippled leg and middling social status? With my unknown lineage, my lack of Mysteries?
Perhaps the Twelve only approved my and Renault’s betrothal to mock me. Maybe on the day of our ceremony, I’ll put on the finest gown I’ve ever worn and limp down the aisle, only for the Twelve to sneer at me from their pews and finally admit I’ve only ever been kept around for amusement. Look at the crippled Foundling girl! She thinks that just because she was Spared, she’s one of us, deserving of the Mysteries, and, most humorous of all—she thinks she’s beautiful, too!
I let out a long breath, desperately trying to slow the hammering of my heart. Black splotches careen across my vision. I force myself to catalog what I see in front of me, like Carina suggested when these panic spells first began to overtake my mind.
In the mirror, I find a low bodice, as low as the newer fashions dare, offering a generous view of my pale bust. I see sapphire cloth embroidered with tiny celestial patterns. A tight corset that attempts to cinch in my soft abdomen. A loose skirt that flows over my too-wide hips, the hem trimmed in intricate gold lace, my twisted stump of a leg hidden from view. Blonde hair falls in thick, unruly waves—nothing like the straight, shimmering locks I’ve always envied.
I adjust the long gauntlet sleeves, flattening the points over the back of my hands with trembling fingers. My breath evens out, my mind releasing its vicious hold on my cruelest conjurations. At least Renault has no disillusions. He knows everything, and he agreed to marry me despite my flaws, my sins. Even if everything else my mind whispers to me with that twisted, malevolent tongue is true, I can rely on Renault. He will protect me. He always has.
And I know I can trust him to treat me with respect and care regarding our marital duties, too. Like most women, I have so little knowledge of what awaits me—even at three-and-thirty anni. Sometimes on Feast Days after too many goblets of fine wine, I hear men extolling the wonders of marital bliss. The prospect does not particularly excite me, though I’m told it should.
Something about offering my body up completely to my husband as the Catechisma calls for unsettles me. Perhaps it’s because, with my leg and my pain, I already feel so out of control of my own flesh. Surely, though, with Renault—someone I trust and admire—it might be enjoyable.
Still, I find it hard to picture his hands roaming my body. Exhaling, I run my own fingertips across the expanse of skin displayed by the dress, trying to imagine they are Renault’s. For a moment, in my mind’s eye, I do manage to picture someone else’s hands sliding up my neck.
The Lupa Nox’s. Her large, powerful palms and slender yet capable fingers trail across my skin, muscles flexing as if she might bring me pleasure just as easily as pain.
I release a choked gasp and turn away from the mirror. Disgusted with myself, I pace to my nightstand, supporting myself on the edge of the bed as I go, and snatch up a half-empty cup of water. It’s gone in a heartbeat, but I am still fire-hot, consumed by thirst. I grasp my Saintess Lucia medallion between damp palms until the curved edge cuts into my skin.
For a moment, I stare at my nightstand’s drawer, the tide of purification just as strong as any current along Lumendei’s shores. I reach for the drawer pull. At the last moment, I snatch my hand away, fingers trembling. Not tonight—not with the dip in my dress’s back. I don’t want Renault to see the fresh marks and make any connections to what may have stirred such impure desires. Instead, I rest my forehead against the cool stone wall. Surely this unwanted thought is a result of being near the Lupa Nox’s twisted magic. I will steel myself better in the future.
But for now, I’m late to dine with my betrothed. I wrap a pretty cream-and-gold shawl around my shoulders, grab my cane, and step out of my room, sure that my cheeks are still bright with guilt, a clear marker of the wickedness inside me. With a sigh of relief, I find the halls beyond my door empty.
Unless they marry or move elsewhere in Lumendei, the foundlings are all housed in small, neat chambers within the Cloisters so we can be close to the Church we serve—the God to whom we owe our lives. I love my chambers with the little window looking into the gardens, the cheery corner fireplace, the proximity to all the places I need and love to be.
Renault’s home in the Gilded Quarter is across Cathedral Hill from the Cloisters. He’s promised that once we are married and I move to reside with him, a carriage will ferry me to my work in the Cloisters. I can manage the walk on a good day, but the uneven cobblestones on the hill are not easy. It seems that, no matter the endless exercises assigned by the healers, my hips and left knee are always in pain from bearing the dead weight of the useless limb.
I don’t encounter anyone until I pass through the Foundling Arch and into the Spine. There, a group of squires moves through the corridors, laughing and joking amongst themselves. A pair of young, wide-eyed pages ask an ancient-looking scribe for directions. Giggling novices move in a pack, likely heading for the dining hall.
The approach of evening has turned the light golden-bronze. The stained-glass ceiling shadows the floor with depictions of the First Son and His victories. Large pillars hold up the walls of the Spine, their surfaces bursting with beauty. Perfectly rendered bones—to remind us we are all part of the Body of the Church—carved into the base give way to blooming flowers to symbolize rebirth and growth. The First Son crowns the top of each pillar, depicted in all His different triumphs. Along the towering stone walls, elegantly arched grottos hold statues of our Saints with lit candles and offerings at their feet.
I take a deep breath, drawing in the scent of the Evening Devotion’s incense—myrrh and labdanum. This is the Spine and Cloisters I love so dearly, humming with life and all the proud souls serving their God, their city, and their people. This is the Host—golden light and strings of pearls and divine joy, ceaseless even in the face of the Sepulchyre’s hatred. It is a helpful reminder after events of late.
My peace is abruptly shattered by a regiment of Holy Guard moving through the Spine. At the lead, wearing a mantle of bronze chainmail, prowls Sergio. His light eyes rove the corridor, like he’s looking for something. People step out of his way and the novices fall utterly silent when he walks by. I bite down on the panic that burrows up my throat, ducking into Saint Adrian’s grotto. Ice slides into my veins as I turn my back to the Spine and hope with every fiber of my being that I remain unnoticed. I clutch the handle of my cane with one hand, the fine embroidered skirt of my dress with the other.
It’s like the comfort of the Spine has been torn out from beneath me, and instead I’m lost in the Sundered Lands, completely at the mercy of the bloodthirsty monsters created by the Sepulchyre’s Curse. There is little difference, I imagine, between facing down Sergio or a Hexen. Both would rip out my throat in an instant.
I watch the flames of Saint Adrian’s candles dance across the sculpted marble, holding my breath. For a few moments, I think perhaps I’ve escaped, a rabbit reaching the warren just in time. But then a voice tears my foolish hope down the middle.
“Imperator! Here.”
I turn, breathless, to find a member of the Holy Guard right at the edge of the grotto—and, even worse, Sergio making his way over to me. Despair crumples my throat, my lungs going weak, and I desperately look around for someone , anyone. Oh, the words I would speak to this man myself were I not a woman of the Host, were I not good and kind and proper as my God dictates.
“What are you scheming now?” Sergio Quintus demands in a low snarl as he approaches. I’m not a short woman, but I’m yet again reminded how tall he is, the candlelight glinting off his crown of short-cropped, pale blond hair. “My guards tell me you were in the Vincula with a High Ecclesian.”
I bite back tears, and my hands tremble. Again I look desperately over his shoulders even as he crowds me, pushing me back into the grotto, but I find no faces to help me. Familiar ones, yes—the chambermaids and gardeners, the cooks and healers, but they have no more authority than I do.
“I am serving the Church as I was asked by the High Ecclesia,” I breathe, the words barely audible. “Regardless, Imperator, you are not my husband. I am not your ward.”
He lunges for me. I hold my ground only because there is nowhere to go—just the cold marble plinth of Saint Adrian. His enormous hands land on my shoulders, caging me in. Even through my shawl and dress, I feel the blazing heat of him, all rage and desire.
“I am not,” he spits, leaning close to me. A dangerous smile moves across his expression. “You will live to regret that choice, foundling. How desperately I wanted you, the beautiful Spared girl the common people of the Host spin so many tales about. Your devoutness, your beauty, your brush with divinity . . . you would’ve done wonders for my reputation. You might have even learned to love me, learned to temper my anger with your soft mouth, your lush body. And yet you made an utter mockery of me in front of the entire congregation.”
The safety of the Spine, I remind myself, is only a few steps away. Fiercely, I block thoughts of that Twelve Days’ Feast from entering my mind—the abandoned corridor, his hands pulling at my corset, drunken words spilling from his mouth, the heat of his damp lips pressed against my neck as I struggled. A group of Host Knights, late for the feast, saved me. But they also condemned me, for Sergio’s actions are strictly prohibited outside of matrimony. Rumors had already been flying that the Noble Houses were displeased with a commoner being named Imperator. When they tried to wield the situation against them, he—of course—found a way to blame the woman.
Why, I wonder, that sadness blooming beneath my breastbone, is this always the way of things?
“Renault Amadeus is my betrothed,” I reply, almost choking on the images that my mind conjures. I curl my hand into a fist, nails biting into my palm. “Find someone else. I am not yours.”
He pulls back with a harsh bark of laughter, as if we’ve shared a joke. “Oh, you beautiful little fool,” Sergio murmurs with an unexpected trace of sincerity, “you have no idea what the Noble Houses are like behind closed doors. Nor did I, I admit, before becoming Imperator. Whatever you imagined being my bride might be like, marriage to a son of Amadeus will be so much worse.”