Chapter 9
M y sleep is fitful, saturated not with the warm sunlight of dream-memories, but with open jaws and the constant sensation of falling. When the sun peeks over the horizon only a few bells after I return from Physica Hall, I rise dutifully. I perform my stretches and then dress, moving carefully, my back raw and smarting from last night’s penance. Despite the pain, I brush out my hair, the long locks concealing my shoulders and chest. I choose a dove-gray day gown Renault gifted me earlier this annum. It is difficult to dress myself in garments like this one, given all the tiny buttons and the tightly corseted waist, but I know I must—it was sinful and foolish of me to think otherwise.
And then I go to the cliffs. I should be in the chapel instead, praying for the strength to accomplish this task—this saving of a most tainted soul. But I do not know how to speak to God. I was never taught. And I cannot bear to gaze upon the statues of the Saints in their alcoves. The truth still rattles in my body like a thunderstorm, lightning-hot fingers reaching out to burn me in all my weakest places. There are so many from which to choose.
The wind plucks a tune along the tall stalks of the wildflowers as I gaze out at the sea. Diamond-bright waves crash far below my feet at the base of the sheer cliffs. With Lumendei, the Sundered Lands, and the horrors that lie beyond it at my back, the ocean seems to stretch in all directions, vast and endless. Something about it has always felt holy to me—the same as the cathedrals of moss-gowned trees at the edge of the gardens, the way the light filters through the tomato vines onto the ground below. A tiny blasphemy, I know. But I cannot find peace within the Cloisters. The wound of the truth is still too fresh. It hurts every time I breathe.
I took the long way to the cliffs, ensuring I wouldn’t walk by Saintess Lucia’s statue. I feel betrayed by her kind eyes and embroidered robes, though I know it’s not her fault. Because she’s not real. She never was. Just a metaphor. One I was too stupid, too simple, to understand.
Wrapping my arms around myself as the wind comes roaring up the cliffs, showering me with sea spray, I glance toward the sky. It’s time, I know, for the Vincula. For the Lupa Nox. I swallow hard, taking one last look at the sea. Then I gather up my cane and make my way back down the crushed seashell path, the Spine rising up in the distance.
I approach the porte cochere carefully, my eyes searching the darkness for a glint of gold, an unnatural stillness. If a member of the High Ecclesia must escort me down into the Vincula’s depths each day, I will manage, I tell myself fiercely. But every limb shakes as I draw closer. I feel like a winter-worn tree; one strong gust will uproot me entirely. Saintess Lucia’s medallion sits cold and unfeeling against my breastbone, all the warmth and power gone out of it. I am not even sure why I still wear it. And yet I cannot bear to take it off, either.
My thoughts swarm, thick as locusts, as I approach the stone arches leading into the Spine. But there is no one, nothing, the downy shadows free of billowing gray vestments and pearl chains. With a shuddering exhale, I move through the heavy wooden doors into the Spine, gaze sweeping the wide marble corridor.
A member of the Holy Guard breaks away from the formation at the Vincula’s archway. I waver, my mind going blank with a panic only Sergio can induce, but I don’t see him anywhere. And, I tell myself, I have little choice in the matter. All I can do is continue toward him.
It is early still, and only the kitchen staff and healers move about, too concerned with their own tasks to glance my way. I prefer invisibility, but as I meet the guardsman in the middle of the Spine, his eyes drag across my hair and then my bust, dripping down to my waist, made to look smaller by the dress’s design. More to report back to Sergio, no doubt. That nameless feeling boils in me again.
But then he meets my gaze and introduces himself politely. So it was only a brief look, an acknowledgment—a compliment, then, unlike the physician’s crude commentary. I warm a bit with pride; it is good for Renault’s standing if others find his bride beautiful, as long as it does not encourage ungodly behavior. A delicate line, like all things in Lumendei—one I regularly trample over, though I never intend to. I remind myself to express my gratitude to my betrothed for his guidance as the guardsman leads me toward the attollo. I see why he’s been chosen—he has just enough Mysterium to convince the platform to descend.
The journey is far quicker than I remember, leaving me with barely enough time to gather myself. I walked in from the cliffs dazed, and I still feel strange, foggy around the edges, like I’m not truly in my body. Like all of this is happening to someone else. Like I’m only half-alive. I swallow, brushing out my skirts. I hardly even feel the fine, heavily embroidered cotton batiste beneath my palms.
The Vincula’s vestibule is a pool of shadow, barely breached by the glow of beeswax candles lining the alcoves. The power coursing out of the Mysterium-wrought gates makes me tremble, their ornate gold shapes shimmering like a torch in the dark. I pass through, a shadow myself, until I’m standing at the entrance to the Lupa Nox’s chambers. The gate is open and beckoning, the light of her chambers a bright door in the gloom of the Vincula’s lowest depths.
I step inside, two Holy Guard soldiers following me, though they stick to the gate as tightly as they can, the whites of their eyes showing behind their helms. Within the chamber, I spy a fresh healer’s kit sitting on a large stool with a linen apron folded beneath it. I exhale; Renault must have had a word with the Vincula’s keeper. I hazard a few more strides, my steps silent on the dirt floor.
The examination table from yesterday is gone. Instead, a straw pallet has been laid out in one corner. The space smells slightly of mildew. A hardwood chair is pushed against the wall, the only light coming from sconces far above my head. Upon the pallet is, I suppose, the Lupa Nox.
She looks smaller, somehow. Her back is to me, her body curled in around itself, her dark hair barely distinguishable from the gray linen blouse she’s wearing. It doesn’t appear to have been laundered; blood mars the fabric in more than one place.
I clear my throat but do not know how to address her. The knight is not under any sedation Blessings today—not until I check the condition of her concussion. But, as the guardsman explained on the attollo, she is firmly contained by Mysterium-charged bindings—her wrists and ankles shackled, a length of Blessed chain running down the middle, effectively hobbling her. From this angle, I can see a thick gold cuff encasing her powerful forearm, her tendons standing out in the light.
“Lady Knight,” I try, though my voice trembles like a field mouse caught in the open. “I’m your healer. I’m here to evaluate your progression toward health.”
A low noise escapes the curled form on the pallet, and for a moment, I think it’s a groan. But as the knight rolls over, I see from the devilish expression on her face that it’s a laugh, slow and slinking.
“It is adorable,” the Lupa Nox says, drawing the words out with amusement, “how you lot pretend to care about me.”
“We do,” I say with a frown, my hands shaking as I tie the apron around my waist, patting the pocket to check for gloves. “You’ll discover the Church of the Host is very different from the Sepulchyre.”
She laughs again, this time tossing her head back to expose an elegant, swan-like neck. The sound is more melodic than it has any right to be. “Oh, I’m well aware of our differences,” she replies, her tone biting. Then, not without effort, the knight gets to her feet, slightly favoring her right side.
I frown. “What’s wrong?” I ask, taking another tentative step closer. “I didn’t find anything on your right leg yesterday.”
She examines me with those dark eyes glimmering like pearls. “Just an old injury,” she replies, her expression empty, though her gaze is still sharp as she sizes me up. “I’m surprised you noticed.”
“It’s my duty to notice. Might you please sit in that chair,” I begin, gesturing, “so I can examine you?”
The Lupa Nox looks at me. No, she looks into me—like she can see right through me, straight to the wickedness embedded in my marrow. My heart races, and something warm tingles low in my belly just before she averts her gaze, taking in the guardsmen behind me at the gate.
“Fine,” she agrees, moving slowly toward the chair, which is just barely within reach. When she sits, the Blessed chain moves across her chest like a gilded snake, flattening her blouse in a way that draws my attention to her elegant collarbones.
I clench my jaw. So much power , all bound up, gold glinting against her fawn skin. My gaze drops to her wrist bindings, her long fingers curled like poisonous petals. I can feel the Mysterium thrumming in the protective Blessings. Something else thrums in me—nameless, molasses-thick.
I grip the lip of the stool and begin to pull it over, its legs dragging across the dirt floor. Shame licks at my skin like an open flame. It must be so obvious to everyone else in the room how much I struggle to do a simple thing, how little regard our God has for me.
“For fuck’s sake.” The words startle me, and it takes a long second to realize they’ve left the Lupa Nox’s mouth. “Are either of you lovely gentlemen going to help the lady?”
I look at her, finding the knight sitting up straight, her chin tilted haughtily, full mouth twisted into something sly. My heart does a strange little flutter in my chest. The Lupa Nox manages to make her dungeon chair look like a throne.
I am spellbound by her witchery—the long lines of her legs, the broad width of her shoulders, the gleam of her black hair in the candlelight. Hands lift the stool and healer’s kit away from me, and I barely even register the guardsman as he places it in front of the knight’s chair. Doubt skitters through me, teeth bared. It’s just as I feared—the sin embedded so deeply in me is reaching out with both hands for this creature of darkness.
“How did you draw the short straw?” the knight inquires, her eyes inquisitive as they meet mine.
“What do you mean?” I ask, because my mind is still so addled and reeling, because everything is too much and I am not nearly enough.
“To end up taking care of me?” she asks, one eyebrow arching. “How’d you end up with that shit job?”
Her use of profanity unsettles me further; improper language is frowned upon by the Church, particularly when spoken by women. In fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a woman speak like her.
I swallow hard, unfolding the healer’s kit across the wide surface of the stool. “I’m a foundling, and my mother was likely a heretic,” I offer up, though I have no idea why; it’s a truth I barely even allow myself to entertain. And yet here I am, extending it to our enemy like a bouquet. I lean onto my useless leg until my hip screams in pain. The abject misery razes my mind like locusts in an orchard, until no more sinfully ripe fruit hangs tantalizingly from the boughs.
When I dare to look back up, the knight’s eyebrow has arched even higher, something like amusement tugging at the edges of her mouth. “A heretic’s daughter,” she murmurs, something I can’t identify in her tone.
“May I begin the examination?” I ask, barely pushing the words out of my mouth. “It won’t hurt. I just want to check your wounds and bruising.”
The knight’s gaze dips down my frame, the feeling of it like amber honey—thick and rich and sweet. All at once, I am suddenly in my body, my soul slamming back into my bones so hard it leaves me breathless. My stomach somersaults and heat rises to my face, a bonfire throbbing low in my belly.
Her dark eyes return to mine, and the bonfire spreads up into my chest. “Who could refuse you?” the knight wonders aloud, head tilting to one side. The candlelight catches the black tattooing that spirals up the side of her neck in elegant loops like a labyrinth—disorientating and beautiful.
For some reason, I can suddenly feel every place my dress presses against me, all the places it tucks and restrains, the weight of my hair across my shoulders, every mark left by the flail yesterday and the cool, damp air on my skin. It is as though the world has magnified every sensation it might offer.
I clear my throat, not trusting my words, and approach. Touching her—even through gloves—feels so different now that she’s awake and speaking, now that she can look at me with those eyes. I do not know where to begin—her powerful hands, the expanse of her collarbone, the bruising on her muscular abdomen, the wound at the crown of her head? All options feel impossibly dangerous.
The knight looks at me, her mouth twisting into something unkind—like she knows precisely the reason for my hesitation and is enjoying the chance to watch me flounder. I straighten my spine and set my jaw.
“Your hand, please,” I ask, reaching my own forward. “I didn’t have a chance to bind and set your broken finger yesterday.”
For a long moment, she just watches me, those eyes glittering, and then she uncurls her hand—as much as she can, anyway, given her restraints. I force myself not to hesitate as I take it. Her palm is much larger than mine, fingers long and capable with calluses from anni of swordsmanship. Her fawn-brown skin is warm to the touch. I set to work, praying fiercely in my head all the while, addressing Saintess Lucia out of habit.
When I set the bone, I expect a gasp of pain, or perhaps a cry just barely bitten back; even the greatest Host warriors react in such a way. But the Lupa Nox only offers a sharp, deep inhale. Despite such a mild reaction, a strange kind of guilt consumes me. Some forbidden reflex demands that I comfort her . The Lupa Nox. The murderer of my people.
I drop her hand like it’s burning me. With an exhale, I look up at her, heat racing through my insides as I realize exactly how close we are. Just as I feared, the knight’s attention hasn’t strayed from me. Most of my patients avert their gazes by choice. Not this one. Not the Lupa Nox.
“I’m worried about internal bleeding,” I tell her, taking a step back, nearly tripping over my cane. “Would you be able to lift your blouse?”
By the Saints, she grins at me, exposing straight white teeth. My heart thuds against my breastbone. “Anything for you,” the knight murmurs in a low, husky tone that does something to me I cannot explain.
I stand there, suspended, every single vein in my body pounding, as the Lupa Nox’s hands—despite being bound together—move deftly toward the hem of her shirt. All at once, I remember that moment peering into the mirror yesterday and heat gallops across my face. She must notice, because her grin broadens just as she exposes her ribs and then her sternum, pulling the fabric up without a stitch of self-consciousness until nearly her entire chest is bare, minus a slim breast band that conceals little.
With the help of my cane and the stool, I lean closer, trying to ignore the way the blood pulses in my throat. My head feels like it is stuffed with cotton, and for a long moment, I can’t decipher between the tattoos covering her skin like an illuminated manuscript and the shades of bruising I was worried about yesterday.
As I begin to make sense of the designs inked onto the knight, my heart ceases its pounding for so long I fear I might faint. And then it all comes roaring back in at once—the candlelight and the knight’s rich skin and her glittering eyes and the flower tattooed across her chest. A tall, proud plant, its stem more like a sword, with a crown of star-shaped buds.
Asphodels .