Chapter 8
I look up at my mother. We are both seated on stone stairs. Dust clings to her faded blue skirts. I am only a small thing, no more than three or four summers. Despite the corn-husk dolly clasped against my chest, it is my mother who has my attention. Her hands are moving, fingers deft, as she plucks pale petals from the tall, heavy stem of an asphodel. The petals fall like snow into a wide, shallow wooden bowl between her feet.
My hearing fades in, as though my dream-body has just recalled it has ears. And then my mother’s voice glimmers into being—soft, silk-spun. She is telling me a story about two women. They love each other, she explains, her fingertips tinted green by the plant’s stalks. I understand love; I know the way my mother looks at me, the way my tiny heart yearns every time she must depart to tend to a sick villager.
But this is a different kind of love, she says, her sea-blue gaze darting toward mine for a moment, the skin around her eyes crinkling. A kind of love I might understand as I get older, if I’d like to. I bring the dolly to my face and mime kissing, like I’ve seen grown-ups do sometimes on the quarter days. My mother laughs, the flat of her forearm pushing wind-tangled blonde hair away from her face.
“Like that,” she agrees, turning her gaze back to the white petals. The flower’s scent dances into my senses—damp vegetation with a honey-like sweetness, a slight spiciness at the edges. “But more, too.”
My mother explains that these two women have tiny pieces of the Creatrixes hidden inside them, like the way Sylva makes gemstones in the dirt. She says that when these two women meet, the gemstones will be unearthed from the soil and polished to a shine so bright that it will change the entire world.
I am enraptured, even though this story is too complicated for my age, lacking the clarity and straightness of a proper children’s tale. Instead, the story veers off the path the moment it steps into the woods, prowling through hemlock groves and bramble-choked cottages. Hesitantly, I reach out, my tiny fingers brushing the plant’s petals. The smell of damp earth and honey intensifies.
“Life and Death, Ophelia,” my mother says, the empty, stripped stalk between her hands looking like a dagger or maybe even a sword, “were never meant to be torn asunder. They exist in tandem, in balance, in marriage, with one another.”
I do not understand this, but I am happy to sit in the sun with my mother, to smell the petals, to twirl my dolly in my hands. I am happy to hear her voice, look into her eyes, feel her hand skimming my back.
And then my mother is gone—as is the sun and the petals’ soft scent. Instead, there is darkness and weight, my ears thundering. Groggy, I roll over and reach desperately for the dream, hungry to fall back into its crystalline depths. But a shout rings out, and then another, followed by pounding footsteps. My throat constricts. There will be no more of my mother, no more gentle sunlight and white petals. I dream so rarely of her, of those early anni in that tiny village before it was devoured by the Sepulchyre, before the Host rescued me.
I push off my soft mattress and feel for my dressing robe, which hangs on a bedpost. I pull it on just as a knock shakes my entire doorframe.
“I’m up,” I call, feeling my way around the edge of my bed. I reach for the latch and then the handle, yanking my door open. Low, warm light spills into my room—though it’s nothing like the golden sun of my dream. I blink against it, bleary eyes struggling to adjust.
“Another attack,” says the foundling—his name escapes me—at my door, his gaze darting back down the hallway. “They want you in the infirmary.”
My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach, though I knew what was happening the moment I heard the first shout. I’ve done this a thousand times before. A cycle of endless, meaningless violence—one I had hoped might slow, at the very least, with the Lupa Nox imprisoned six floors beneath my feet.
“I’ll head there now,” I tell him, leaning against the wall to pull boots onto my stockinged feet. “How bad is it?”
He finally looks at me then, his gaze holding mine. “Not the worst you’ve seen by any stretch, I’d imagine.”
“Oh,” I reply, some of the tension in my chest easing. “Thank the Saints,” I add before I remember there are no Saints at all. As I grab my cane, he steps away, giving me space to leave my room.
“Thank the Saints indeed,” he murmurs before turning on his heel and pacing back toward the end of the corridor.
I don’t waste time watching him go; instead, I pull my door closed and lock it before making my way through Foundling Hall and to the infirmary, located at the other end of the Spine. The long corridor is buzzing with uneasy energy—the kitchen staff is transporting large vats of steaming water while a priest performs a rushed Blessing over a group of legionnaires gathered off to the side.
I keep my head down until I get to the infirmary, though I’m well aware my cane always gives me away. Pain bites into my hip and my knee; there was no time for my morning stretches. When I finally reach Physica Hall, Headmistress Magdalena stands in the center of the wide space, directing incoming stretchers to empty beds.
I pause at the large stone basin built into the wall, opening the valve for fresh water to scrub my hands. It looks like the novices haven’t been roused from their beds, which is good—it means we’re not desperate for extra hands. I only see the physicians, more healers like myself, and a few familiar older nuns. My heart pulls a little, as it always does, at the sight of the physician’s robes. How I would have loved to attend the scholae, to have drowned myself in knowledge of all the ways we can heal and mend. But the First Son, in all His divine wisdom, was quite clear that women are to serve a different purpose in the Host.
I sigh and glance up at the enormous candelabras hanging from the ceiling. They are lit with Blessings, offering brighter illumination than candles by which to work. The hall is, like much of the Cloisters, cavern-shaped with a barreled ceiling. Unlike the rest of the Church’s buildings, Physica Hall offers no gleam and glimmer, no loops of dripping pearls or gilt-drenched finery or shimmery velvet. The stone walls are bare, the marble floors swept clean, the shelving tidy with meticulously organized supplies.
I take a deep breath and approach Headmistress Magdalena, the sharp sting of thyme and chamomile oil tickling my nose, followed by the iron scent of blood.
The cots are less than half-full, and the plain stone slabs at the far end are not heaped with bodies, the way I’ve seen too many times before. It’s not quite ease that slips under my skin as I make my way through the aisles of beds, but a stitch in my chest releases itself. If the Lupa Nox had participated in this attack, the hall would be filled with the sounds of screams, my hands busy with rent limbs and slashed arteries.
“Pray tell, why do you seek our aid after an attack on our city?” comes a voice from my left. I startle, turning my head to find a young physician. His features are unfamiliar, his pale vestments unstained. I open my mouth, but no words come out, so he fills the silence. “Back to your bed, invalid. We can deal with your silly complaints in the morning.”
Heat races across my face. “Sir,” I begin, lowering my eyes, “I am not here for treatment. I’m a healer. My presence was requested by the headmistress moments ago.”
With my peripheral vision, I see surprise bloom in his features, and then a mocking frown. “Didn’t know we seek the employ of cripples here in Physica Hall.”
My cheeks burn and, though it mortifies me, tears prick my eyes. All that sorrow I felt earlier returns, simmering in my chest. I try to turn and make my way toward Headmistress Magdalena, but the physician blocks my path—an easy thing to maneuver quicker than someone like me, and cruel, too.
“Do understand,” he says, too close to me now, his breath ruffling my hair, “I don’t begrudge your presence. You’re a feast for sore eyes. Besides the cane, of course. Though you’d hardly need it where I’d want you, anyways.”
The blood pounds in my ears, and the rest of the sound in the hall goes tinny, as if it is just me and this strange physician, everyone else leagues and leagues away. My heart plunges into a breakneck speed, thumping against my chest like a caged animal. I am back at the Twelve Days’ Feast in that abandoned corridor with Sergio, his hands reaching for me, the frail nature of my own sinful body keeping me from running, running, running. Heat barrels up my throat, and my hands clench into fists.
“Sister Ophelia!” Headmistress Magdalena’s firm, strong voice breaks through my cloud of fear.
My head snaps up, and over the physician’s shoulder, I see her stout, sturdy frame, perfectly pressed apron, and head of tightly curled black hair, halo-like in the light of the Blessed chandeliers.
“Yes, Headmistress,” I call, taking the opportunity to duck around the physician while he’s distracted.
“Thank the Saints you’re here,” she says, her gaze darting to the young physician, her mouth downturned for a heartbeat. Lines crease the dark skin of her forehead. “I have a broken leg to reset. Goddamn Hexen. Harder to do on my own these days. Suppose I’m getting old. Come with me.”
I have never been so happy to obey, gladly following Magdalena at least thirty paces away to examine a legionnaire’s leg. It’s broken quite badly, apparently due to the Sepulchyre’s attack drawing the attention of the Hexen. Strangely enough, it’s when I’m facing down a terrible injury and thinking of the poisoned, twisted creatures in the Sundered Lands which lie just beyond our rampart walls that my heart finally returns to its usual beat.
“Are you quite all right, Ophelia?” Magdalena asks, peering at me with those sharp brown eyes over the soldier’s bed. He’s mostly asleep, thanks to the poppy milk, his head lolling to one side, gaze unfocused.
“Fine,” I say, though I can hear the high-pitched strain in my voice.
Magdalena tuts, shaking her head, and then tells me where to hold the man’s leg. I look down at his face, my heart hurting for him.
His leg had been set poorly last winter by a physician—who aren’t meant to do such grunt work; their great minds are of better use elsewhere—which is why it fractured today during the attack. Magdalena explains we’ll need to re-break the fibula to set the fracture and prevent further injury. She calls over a pontifex who has been assisting with final rites, and between the three of us—me on a tall stool at the end of the bed, Magdalena and the pontifex standing—we manage the task. The snap of bone, even all these anni later, still makes me wince.
I wipe away the sheen breaking out across the legionnaire’s face with a damp cloth, and then there are wounds and stitches and a badly punctured lung that only a physician with Saints-granted Mysterium has any hope of doing a thing about. Not only do the Sepulchyre endlessly attack us, but the Hexen are their fault, too—all the horrible Curses leaked into the land when they hung the First Son from the cross and destroyed His wings.
I sigh and make my way to one of the stone basins, pulling off my linen gloves and then scrubbing them down with a bar of tallow soap. I’m doing the same to my hands when Magdalena appears at my side.
“The new physician,” she says, turning on another spigot. “What did he say?”
Sorrow unfolds in me like a bonfire catching. “Nothing new,” I murmur, shame wrapping burning fingers around my throat.
“His Mysterium barely qualifies him to even be a physician,” Magdalena scoffs, soaping up her forearms. “Wouldn’t be here at all if not for his father.”
I finish rinsing and shift my weight, my hip meeting the cool stone of the basin. Her words embolden me as I reach for a clean square of muslin from the pile beside the sink. “He made a comment about my leg and then said I wouldn’t need my cane, anyway, where he wanted me.” My veins pound as I await Magdalena’s response, too much hinged on her support.
“Beyond the pale,” she mutters, turning off the spigot and shaking water from her hands and arms. Then she turns to me, leaning against the basin. “But Ophelia, do bear in mind you are out among men in your dressing gown, your hair in the kind of braid only your husband should see you wear. I understand you came as quickly as you could, and I don’t fault you for putting our soldiers first. I’m just saying that, to a young man, you might look . . . entirely too uninhibited, you see? And it is our job as women to ensure we do not tempt.”
My fingers dig into the muslin cloth as I fold, unfold, and then re-fold it, only to drop it into the launderers’ bin. “Yes, Headmistress,” I say, barely holding back a flood of tears and something else lurking behind them—something fire-like instead of water. I turn away from Magdalena to conceal my face, just in case the torrent breaks free.
But her strong fingers grip my shoulder for the barest of moments. “Sometimes we must comply to survive,” Magdalena murmurs, close to my ear, her words fierce, filled with equal parts sorrow and conviction. “Save your energy.”
Before I can process her precise meaning, Magdalena leans away and adds, louder now, “Try to get some sleep. I’ll send someone if I need you, but I think the worst is over. Tonight wasn’t too terrible, excluding the Hexen attacks. At least as far as nights in Physica Hall go.”
I look at the headmistress, clinging to her tiny concession, but the gaze I meet is cold, stoic, lacking any of the fiery conviction I swear I just heard. So a nod is all I hazard, leaning hard on my cane as I turn, traveling down the far side of the hall to avoid the throng of physicians gathered in the center. I don’t want to see his face again, hear that voice, feel his eyes crawling across my body.
My vision blurs as I reach the doors to the Spine. Saints, how can someone like me —clearly consumed by sin, riddled with wickedness—be the one to convert the Lupa Nox? What if the darkness in her seeks out the shadows in me and we tumble into the void together, lost forevermore?
Something like a sob barrels up my throat. My eyes are thick with the haze of unshed tears. In the urgency to return to my room, I barely recognize my betrothed in a Saint’s alcove, speaking in hushed tones with someone. I do not want to spy or pry, but curiosity gets the best of me. I slip down the Spine, trying to stick to the evening shadows, peering beneath the arch of the grotto as I approach. Just as I draw even, confirming that it’s Renault’s broad shoulders and auburn hair I see, whomever he’s speaking with shifts their weight.
A swathe of storm-gray vestments slips across the marble. For the barest second, silver gauntlets wink in the candlelight.
A High Ecclesian, conversing with Renault in the early bells of the morning, Their voice hushed, tucked away in a grotto. None of this, I know, can be good. My body urges me to run, and exhausted as I am, I cannot fight the impulse. I comply, picking up my pace.
I’m maybe fifteen strides away when the sound of my name slinks out into the quiet of the Spine.
“Ophelia,” Renault calls.
My stomach does a strange flip—I’ve heard girls talk about this as a sign of infatuation—and I come to a halt, my cane nearly slipping on the marble floor. Hastily, I press my free hand into my eyes, dragging away evidence of my tears. I turn, trembling, terrified of finding the High Ecclesian at his side.
But there is just my betrothed. A long sigh heaves out of me. “Renault,” I greet, dipping into a small curtsy, the appropriate response as we are in view of the public.
“Are you all right?” he asks, stooping over me, fingertips brushing my chin. When I don’t look up, the pressure of his touch increases until I tilt my head back, meeting his eyes.
“Fine,” I squawk, but the word comes out raw, like it’s been scraped against the rough cliffs of Lumendei. I want to ask about the High Ecclesian, but I don’t know how, and I don’t know if Renault can even speak freely here in the Spine.
“Then why are you dressed like this while out of your room?” he asks.
My mind fumbles desperately to jump from what I’ve just seen to responding to Renault’s question. I examine his expression, looking for those clues I so often miss.
I want to tell myself that the way his brows draw together and his eyes search my face, then my body, is out of concern for me. I want to tell myself this so badly it makes my lungs hurt.
“The attack,” I say, barely a whisper, only just audible over the sounds of another platoon marching by. “I-I wanted to get to the infirmary as quickly as possible. I didn’t know the severity of the injuries.”
Renault frowns, his fingers tracing the loose strands of hair around the front of my face, their ends brushing my collarbones. “I love your commitment to our people,” he murmurs, one hand falling on my shoulder. How can the palm of a mortal man feel so heavy? “But you’re an Apostle bride now, Ophelia. You should be attired with more decorum in public. I know it’s a lot to adjust to. Sometime soon, I’ll send my mother over with some new dresses that are easy to pull on when you have to get up quickly.”
My chest tightens for a thousand reasons, some that I cannot even name, but then all my frustration turns inward, toward myself—where it belongs. How dare I bristle so much at Renault’s care? I am living the fantasy of so many women—foundling and noble alike. He only wishes for me to present myself well, like any good Church of the Host woman should. He doesn’t understand that dressing on my own can be difficult for me. He doesn’t know how the dream of my own mother shook me, how I have been . . . unmoored ever since I met the Lupa Nox.
“Yes,” I agree, nodding vigorously. “Thank you so much for your generosity, Renault. I promise I’ll put more care into my appearance moving forward.”
He sighs, cupping my chin. “It’s silly, isn’t it?” he murmurs, the side of his mouth curving in a way that makes him look more like my friend and less like a titled Apostle nobleman. “I know. I’m sorry. Such things come with the station, I fear.”
My heart warms, those shards of ice melting from my chest. I want to tell him that sometimes I cannot discern the difference between his playacting for the public’s eye and what he truly means; he is too good at appearances, too practiced thanks to his noble birth.
“Well worth it,” I assure him, smiling. “I’m going to retire to my room now, if that’s all right.”
“I would walk you, but I’m already late for an emergency gathering,” Renault says, gesturing up the hallway to the Militaire Annex, a vast series of connected halls, courtyards, and fields that branch off the far side of the Spine.
“No, I completely understand,” I reply, desperately trying to hold back the strange relief I feel. I think it has little to do with Renault; I only wish to be alone.
My betrothed nods and then, before I can ask about the High Ecclesian, strides down the gleaming floors of the Spine. I gather myself, hands trembling, and return to my room. No one speaks to me along the way, for which I am beyond grateful.
The moment my door closes, a sob rends my chest. My hands tremble too much for my cane, so I set it against the wall and limp toward my bedside drawers, my hips aching unbearably, my knee screaming with white-hot pain. I deserve it all, and yet—it’s not enough. Collapsing against the side of my mattress, I yank open the top drawer, shaking fingers searching for the worn leather handle. The weight of it in my palm immediately soothes me. Crumpling to my knees—a painful position given my leg, which is all the better—I pull down my dressing gown to expose my back.
With no fire in the hearth, the cool night air ghosts across my skin like a phantom. I take a deep breath, gripping the flail with one hand. The cords are waxed, the ends of each strand knotted, metal beads increasing its bite.
This, I think just before I strike myself, is the trouble with being an already-cracked vase placed upon a pedestal—it is so very far to fall.