Chapter 10
I am at least half in the dream-world, my mother lingering just off-frame, the summer sun palpable on my skin, and I swear I feel warmed stone against the backs of my thighs. The perfume of those pale petals drifts across my senses—damp earth and honey, a sensual skin musk lurking beneath, all petrichor and spice.
My heart skips in my chest as I realize it is the Lupa Nox’s scent I am inhaling into my lungs, drowning in, like a fly caught in amber. The candlelight is low, the dark iron chandelier above our heads extinguished for the sake of not channeling more Mysterium that the knight before me might corrupt.
I step away from her, tongue thick in my mouth, bees buzzing in my skull. “Guard,” I say, wondering if I’m slurring my words, “is it possible to light the chandelier?”
“The Mysterium, Miss,” one replies with a shrug, gaze drifting to the Lupa Nox.
“How is she supposed to treat my wounds if she can’t see them?” she demands, her breath ghosting the side of my face as the words unfurl from her mouth.
Both guards flinch and then look at each other before one leans against the golden gate, conferring with someone on the other side—a Knight of the Host, I suspect. Then the simple metal chandelier hums, a clean, bright white light appearing a few moments later.
I set my jaw and turn back toward the Lupa Nox, legs shaking. The asphodels are still there, inked clear as anything. The long, powerful stalk begins in the middle of her rib cage, where her muscles are sharply defined. From there, the plant shoots upward, its petaled crown adorning her sternum and chest. For a long moment, I wonder how far beneath her breast band the tattooing continues. Shame slams into me like an ocean, and I burn.
“Would you like me to remove more?” the knight asks, the tips of two long fingers hooking into the bottom of the slim cloth band that binds her chest.
I hesitate, the blood vessels in my face pounding. “No,” I manage to get out, rummaging through the healer’s kit. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”
Keeping my gaze on the labeled bottles and tins feels like a fight for my very soul with the knight’s lean, long torso exposed. I find the draught I’m seeking and extract it, pleading with Saintess Lucia that the Lupa Nox might not see how my fingers tremble.
“For now, take this,” I say, pulling the cork out of the glass bottle’s tiny mouth. I hand it to the knight before remembering her bound wrists. Under no circumstance will I bring the bottle to her lips and tip the contents onto her tongue. Under no circumstance will I put myself in a position that reeks of sin.
Thank the Saints, her bindings just allow her to grasp the bottle and bring it to her mouth, though the Lupa Nox stops there, her gaze pinning me in place. “May I ask what this remedy contains?” she murmurs, one of those ink-dark eyebrows arched again.
I explain the herbal properties and the distillation process, as well as how I believe it will help her. She watches me, utterly silent, just as unmoving as the High Ecclesia—it must be a Fatum trait, I think, tucking the tidbit away into the back of my mind. At no point does she interrupt my words or grow bored, or even attempt to make me speak faster. She simply listens.
“Goldenrod for internal bleeding,” she says only when I am done, sniffing the bottle’s mouth. “Interesting.” And then, without hesitation, she tilts the opening toward her lips and downs the entire draught.
“I am surprised you trust me.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“I don’t,” the Lupa Nox returns with a grin, leaning back in the chair that imprisons her, though she looks more like she’s at the head of a feast table. She makes no attempt to pull her blouse all the way back down. “But I am terribly susceptible to beautiful women.”
I freeze, and blood roars through my body, thundering so loudly in my ears that for a moment, I cannot hear anything else at all. That old, desperate yearning I thought I had cut out of my chest rattles inside me like it was not dead at all but merely sleeping. Shame and despair send my stomach plummeting into the ground.
“You speak of blasphemous sin to a betrothed woman,” I inform the knight without looking at her, tripping over the words. From the healer’s kit, I pull more gauze for her head wound, trying to focus all my attention on the feeling of the fiber moving across my hands, on the tight restriction of my corseted bodice, of the pain blooming in my hip. On anything but that hunger—the one that’s stalked me all these anni.
“Do you love him?” the Lupa Nox queries, her voice dropping into a low, husky murmur.
“Of course I do,” I reply too quickly.
Her mouth curves into something I cannot name. “Well, I wish you many happy days, then,” she replies.
I refuse to meet her gaze as I pull away the dressing. The wound has improved tremendously in only a day. The gauze is soaked in dark, dried blood, but the gash on her skin looks two weeks healed. It doesn’t even need redressing, just a gentle cleaning.
“Let me know if this hurts,” I say, soaking the gauze in watered-down chamomile oil. I have no choice but to pull the knight’s hair away from her face with my own hands due to her shackles. The strands slide like silk through my fingers, releasing more of that sweet, spicy scent.
“You are incredibly gentle with me,” the knight murmurs after a few moments. I’m so focused on cleaning the blood from her skin and hair that I almost don’t hear her. “Surely I’ve killed people you cared for, haven’t I?”
It all comes rushing in then—the way I admired her hands, the lean column of her body, the powerful line of her shoulders. How looking at the Sepulchyre’s best weapon made my blood pound, pulled that dead yearning right out of its grave. How depraved I am, swooning like a girl over the blade that has torn through the bodies of my friends. Of my congregation. All the air goes out of my lungs, and I feel the Lupa Nox go still beneath me, a predator in the shadows just waiting for the right moment.
“Yes,” I reply, the word a croak from my hoarse throat. “And yet you still deserve gentleness, I think. That is what my Lord teaches.” I pull away, reaching for a clean, dry pad of gauze.
The knight looks at me with more animation in her features than she’s shown thus far: velvet-dark eyes narrowed, head tilted to one side, mouth pulled tight. “What else,” she begins, “does your Lord teach you?”
I nearly drop the gauze pad out of shock. I am not always the best judge, but the knight’s interest seems genuine, like there is something she truly cannot understand and wishes to know more about. Purpose flares up my throat like a lit candle.
Perhaps Renault’s plan is not so far-fetched. I swallow down fluttering excitement, trying not to look too eager; that is not a desirable trait in young women, as I well know. My heart pounds against my chest. I chew on my lip, folding the gauze into a thick square before pressing the fabric to the knight’s head wound.
“We are a people of peace, Lady Knight,” I tell her, thankful that I need not look into her eyes, lest the tide of them sweep me away. “Even to our enemy, we turn the other cheek.” Satisfied that the healing wound is clean and dry, I pull away and discard the used gauze into a side pocket of the kit.
Something flashes across her expression—furious and shadowed, like a wolf baring its teeth—but then her features smooth over, leaving only those large blue-black eyes and sculpted mouth. I find myself standing utterly still, my heart racing, my entire future poised upon the next words that leave the mouth of the Lupa Nox.
“For a talented healer,” she says, tilting her chin up in a haughty movement, the light dancing along her knife-sharp jaw, “you are an absolute fool.”
I freeze, all the hope dashed out of me, and something rears inside me. “D-do not...” I manage, scrambling for a shred of dignity, something that has been taken from me over and over again of late. My chin trembles as I meet her gaze. “Please do not speak to me like that.”
To my surprise, the knight’s expression softens. “Yes,” she says on an exhale. “I’m sorry. You’ve done nothing but help me. It is your God, your leaders, that I’m angry at. I imagine you know nothing of the truth.”
Her words dangle in the air between us. The attention of the guardsmen suddenly burns across my back. My skin itches.
“It is you , I fear, Lady Knight,” I reply, pulling out matches and a short candle, then lighting the wick, “that knows little of the truth.”
She is silent then, her shoulders hunched, though I can see the fury burning in her expression. I do my best to ignore it, asking her to follow the flame of the candle as I move it from side to side, and then up and down. I check how her pupils react to the light.
“Your concussion is much improved,” I tell her, anchoring myself deeply in the task of healing. It doesn’t matter who my patient is. Her body is just a body, and I have seen so many of them in my work.
She says nothing to me, her jaw working back and forth. I begin to pack up the healer’s kit and turn toward the guardsmen. “Is it possible for her to bathe? She has some minor wounds that could become infected otherwise.”
For a moment, an expression moves across the shorter guardsman’s face that I’ve seen before—on Sergio, on the physician just last night. My stomach spoils with queasiness. In some sort of unknown reflex, my gaze slides back to the knight. Her breathing, slow and even before, has hitched, fingers curling tight into a fist.
“I’ll need to be present,” I add quickly. “The bandaging on her hand can’t get wet, and more wounds may be discovered. And, of course, for her modesty.”
The guardsmen look at each other, exchanging something in that silent language of men I’ve never been able to decipher.
“We’ll need to consult with the knights,” one says, crossing his arms. “Sir Renault will inform you of the outcome.”
“Thank you,” I say, dipping my head. I turn to my charge to find she is examining me carefully, like she has found some new weakness to exploit. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Try to rest, if you can.”
“Yes, Lady Healer,” she replies, her eyes glittering.
My heart thuds in my throat. I grip my cane tightly, my palms slick, and make my way out of her chamber.
In the corridor, I pause, leaning against a wide stone pillar. A tangled knot of emotions sits heavily on my chest, making each breath a struggle. Absurdly and pathetically, I wish desperately for my mother. She’s been gone since I was barely five summers old, and I know so little about her. She died, like everyone else, when the Sepulchyre descended upon our village. I only stand here today because the Host came at the Sepulchyre’s heels, driving out their terrible army and saving me.
I remember enough of her to know she was a heretic, or perhaps something worse. I remember enough of her to know that I carry the line of healing in my blood. I remember enough of her to miss her, to wish fiercely for her like any orphaned mammal might, a small, defenseless thing in the vast sweep of night.
With my free hand, I shove roughly at the tears stinging my eyes. I am too old for this nonsense. I am to be a wife of the Twelve. My life is so much richer and more devout and wonderful than it would ever have been in a backwoods village with a heretical mother who consorted with false gods.
I let out a shuddering breath and head for the attollo. A guardsman escorts me back to the surface, to the now-bustling corridor of the Spine.
Weaving through the crowds, I silently thank the Morning Devotions incense for banishing the sweet, spicy scent of asphodels from my nose. The rich incense makes me feel calmer, softer, like I’m wrapped in my God’s devoted love. I drop off the healer’s kit at Physica Hall with a novice, instructing her to have one refilled and sent to the Vincula every morning. In the kitchens, I ask for a cup of tea to be delivered to the Libris Sanctum, where I’ll meet Renault and assist him with his research.
My heart lurches at the thought of seeing him, of him no doubt wishing to know what progress I’ve made with the Lupa Nox. Desperation sends my blood pounding. I feel like I’m clawing my way back from the edge of a precipice, like a single wrong move could send me plummeting. All I want is to please Renault, to earn my place among his esteemed family, to prove that Sergio’s accusations of goetia were simply a mistake. I want to bring children into the Church—as many as I can before my body grows too old. I want to be a good wife.
I try to settle myself before I walk beneath the large, gilded arch of the Libris Sanctum, drawing in a deep breath of leather and paper. The towering stained-glass windows running along the far wall send early morning sunlight piercing into the vaulted space of the Sanctum, dust motes dancing in the glittering spears of gold.
A young seminarian sits at the main desk, flipping through a manuscript of heavy vellum. I raise a hand in greeting and then head toward the antiquarian section, where I know Renault is awaiting me.
As I walk, I remind myself that I have everything I could possibly want—and much more than a sinner like me could possibly deserve.
“ O phelia, you brilliant thing,” Renault murmurs, his gaze sliding to my parchment and then back to the ancient manuscript. “You’re absolutely correct.”
Elation fizzes in me as I straighten, turning to look at him. “Truly, you think so?” I glance back at my parchment —at the rough translation code I’ve managed to put together from the crumbling, half-intact manuscript. The language of this manuscript is an oddity—not quite Ceremonia and not any of the lower common dialects either.
“Yes,” he breathes, his face lighting up with excitement as he begins transposing the letters onto his scrap parchment, feather quill bobbing rapidly.
“Do you think perhaps it’s just an older form of Ceremonia?” I ask, unable to bite my tongue even though I know I should let my betrothed concentrate. “The style of the illuminations looks older, and there’s no gold flake. That either means it’s been worn away, or perhaps hadn’t come into style yet, or maybe it was made before the material had been fashioned at all.”
Renault doesn’t answer me, but that’s all right—my musings are likely silly anyway, my success in the translation just a lucky break after watching him work all these anni. We met when Renault was a junior scribe, about five and ten anni ago. I’d still been prone to falls back then, before the physicians, unable to fix my leg, passed me off to Headmistress Magdalena. She’d instead focused on figuring out how I might live with it.
The Libris Sanctum seemed like the safest place for me to contribute to the Host, so I organized documents and took down dictated notes from assistant scribes. He’d been one of them, a promising young apprentice, son of the famed Amadeus family, one of the Twelve. I’d been so nervous to meet him when I received my day assignment. His preferred assistant had taken ill, so I filled in. Renault was kind enough to take an interest in a broken thing like me, and we’ve been friends ever since.
“Oh,” Renault says in a low huff beside me. I watch his shoulders deflate, sunlight streaming in above his profile, nearly blinding me. “It’s a story—a parable of sorts. Not actually about ship-building.”
My heart sinks. The manuscript is decorated in a frame of ships at sea, their sails billowing in the wind, the currents carefully etched beneath their bows. We’d hoped the document might provide some insight into the creation of these magnificent things. Any attempt our craftsmen make seems to fall short; we can never make the ships actually float . So much knowledge was lost in the wars that have ravaged Sylva thanks to the Creatrixes. But since the First Son banished them—about ten anni before my birth—the Host has slowly worked to recover as much as possible.
“Still an exciting discovery in regard to this form of Ceremonia, though, surely,” I offer. It’s a fine accomplishment for House Amadeus. Members of the Twelve put a strong emphasis on academic discoveries, not just military victories.
The words have barely left my mouth when Cleric Primus Horatius rounds the corner. The tall, narrow man’s balding head gleams in the morning light, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He spots Renault and makes his way over. My breath constricts in my chest, gaze cast down toward my hands.
“Cleric Primus,” Renault greets with a bow of his head.
Horatius returns the gesture with only a nod; his position as Cleric Primus is one of the few that elevates a mortal above a son of an Apostle family. “Anything to report?” he asks in his deep, monotone voice. His owlish face shows not a stitch of what he might be thinking. “Sir Magnus is interested in this manuscript, too. I fear if you aren’t having any luck with it, I’ll grant his request.”
Renault’s jaw clenches. “It so happens that I’ve had a major breakthrough just now.”
I sit up straighter, excitement buzzing through my blood, eager to see how Horatius will react. Like the other two Clerics, he thinks Renault’s choice to have a woman for his assistant is foolish—even more so now that I’m his betrothed. Perhaps Horatius’s ever-expressionless face will show a glimmer of surprise when he learns I was the one who made the break in the translation.
“I’ve deciphered the document,” Renault says proudly, gently sliding the manuscript over the table, closer to where the Cleric stands. He walks Horatius through the process— my process—and explains the contents of the manuscript. At no point does he mention me or even look my way. My stomach plummets further and further with each word.
“Hmm,” Horatius says, his small, dark eyes locked on the document. “Well done, Sir Renault. Carry on for now. See if you can glean anything else.”
“Thank you, Cleric Primus,” Renault replies with an enthused smile, his face tinted with a warm glow. Horatius turns and continues through the antiquarian section, disappearing from sight.
I swallow hard, biting the inside of my cheek. Oh, I know how important it is for a Host woman—particularly an Apostle bride—to be humble. I shouldn’t seek praise or exaltation. But how dearly I wanted to see Horatius’s reaction to someone like me accomplishing this break.
“I’m sorry, Ophelia,” Renault says in a low murmur, scooting his chair closer to me. “You know how the Clerics are. I thought he might discount your incredible work simply because it came from you. I wanted to buy you more time with the manuscript. I know how you love the ships of old.”
Discontent still stirs in me, but I let out an exhale, reaching to trace my fingertips over the magnificent illustrations along the edges of the scroll. “I understand,” I manage to get out, though my stomach twists as I look up into his hazel eyes. Panic blooms in my chest as I search his expression, desperately trying to figure out what he wishes for me to say. “All that matters is that you’re proud of me.”
He grins then, taking one of my hands and placing a kiss on my knuckles. Relief flushes through me.
“What a perfect bride you are,” he murmurs, reaching over to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. I blush, ducking my head to avoid his gaze. “Let’s take luncheon, shall we? And we can discuss your progress with the Lupa Nox.”
And just like that, all the happiness drains out of me, like a cloud has blotted out the sun. Instead of my loving betrothed and the warm safety of the Libris Sanctum and the joy of my discovery, there is only the looming dark of my ever-growing sin.