Chapter 11
W e take our midday meal out on the stone terrace that embraces the outer curve of the Libris Sanctum in a half-moon. The day is overcast, the roar of the storm-strewn sea audible even from this distance. With the sixth month coming to a close, the air grows cooler each day. The stained glass of the Sanctum glimmers like fish scales in the gray light.
A kitchen maid approaches our table, offering a tray of light meal selections: dried fruit and crumbly cheeses, quick breads and pickled vegetables. I recognize the maid as a fellow foundling and open my mouth to greet her by name, but then remember that, as an Apostle bride, I can no longer enjoy such informalities. Instead, I offer her a small smile, hoping she’ll understand.
Renault hasn’t said a word since I recounted my morning with the Lupa Nox, and he remains silent as he fills his plate. Once he’s done, I make my choices from what remains. Though my stomach rumbles and I’d like two pieces of bread, I remind myself of how difficult it is to feed all the people of Lumendei, how scarce our resources are during these days of never-ending war with the Sepulchyre.
As devotees of Moryx, I don’t know why they won’t stop now that the Creatrixes are gone, why they insist on causing so much strife. Granted, I understand little about them at all, worshipping the powers of death when the First Son promises eternal life—even to mortals, granted in the heavenly realm of Caelus.
In the end, I pluck only one piece of bread from the tray, sipping my birch tea as I wait for Renault to speak—to say anything at all. He does not, tearing into a large hunk of bread instead, his gaze averted. I nibble on some dried peach, my insides in knots, all hunger vanished.
“She’s only been here two days, Renault,” I remind him, trying not to tremble at the idea of disappointing him after all he’s done for me. “I can do this, I promise.”
He finally looks at me, shoulders unpinning from their agitated position. A cool breeze dances across the courtyard, rattling the ivy vines that climb up the Sanctum’s stone walls. “I know,” Renault murmurs, reaching across the table to brush my hand. “I’m sorry, Ophelia. I…I’m just tired. I’ve spent these past few months fighting so hard for you. To keep you safe.”
I swallow hard, the movement catching in my throat. “Yes, you have,” I agree, meeting his gaze, his hair an auburn halo in the sun. “I need to pull my own weight, too. And I will. I just need to figure out how to gain her trust.”
My mind strays to the Lupa Nox, her long legs spread, back straight against the Vincula’s chair. That dark, devilish gaze, the knowing curve of her mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Oh, you silly girl.” Renault laughs, his thumb ghosting the back of my palm. “You won’t gain her trust. You can’t , no matter how hard you try, and I have little doubt you’d put your entire heart into it. No, Ophelia. That won’t work.”
I glance up at him, my meal forgotten, tension gathering across my back. The marks from my penance last night sting suddenly, a reminder of my weakness. He holds my gaze, as if awaiting some epiphany we both know I won’t have.
“Try playing on her sympathies first,” Renault suggests, pausing to take a long swig of his ale. “The Sepulchyre believe a lot of ridiculous things about us, including that we oppress our women. If you tell her that you’ll be harmed if she doesn’t allow you to try converting her, it might open an opportunity. One you’ll have to use wisely, of course. She’ll only be entertaining you.”
My mouth goes dry. The weak sunlight grows hot all at once, igniting a wildfire along my hair, my shoulders, my back. I struggle to grasp the words Renault has just spoken, struggle to weave them together into something I can understand.
“And she would believe you’d hurt me? A titled Apostle, my husband-to-be?” I ask, my voice high and incredulous.
Renault just shrugs, his gaze sliding to the horizon in the distance. “It’s very likely,” he says. “They espouse all sorts of nonsense about us. How else do you think their leaders send people like Nyatrix so readily into the fray again and again?”
The Lupa Nox’s name slams into me, rendering the overcast courtyard into a battlefield of its own. My mouth aches to hold those syllables between tongue and teeth. I can’t. I won’t. I try to return to the task laid out before me, reaching for my teacup.
“So I tell her that she needs to allow me to attempt to convert her,” I begin, the words heavy and clumsy, like I’ve just learned to speak. “To avoid punishment?”
Renault stills, the tendons in his neck suddenly standing out. His jaw grinds and my stomach flips. “Yes, Ophelia,” he finally says. “It’s not that complicated, is it?”
“No,” I reply, meek, staring at the light golden-green liquid in my teacup. “No, I just wanted to make sure I understood.”
“Good,” he replies, leaning back, that easy posture returned to his broad shoulders. “Let me know how it goes during your visit tomorrow.”
I fiddle with my half-eaten slice of dried peach. My throat feels tight, my eyes sharp with tears waiting to be shed. I swallow and dig my fingernails into my palm. Just once , I wish I could be strong, sure, filled with the spirit of my Lord’s grace. I yearn for Saintess Lucia’s statue in the garden and the cold marble floor of the Foundling’s Chapel and the bite of the flail.
“I actually might be seeing her again tonight,” I offer, nibbling on the fruit. I taste nothing. “She needs to bathe to prevent infection. I know she is our enemy, but I volunteered to be present, to protect her modesty. The knights will need to approve, of course.”
Every blood vessel in my body pounds, shame curling around my ankles and dragging me down. I do not know how Renault will react, and I do not know why I volunteered these words to him, why I am always regretting whatever comes out of my mouth in his presence. A shuddering breath escapes me as I look down at the shimmering stone courtyard. A dull-faced weed grows through a crack, defying the godly order of the space.
“An excellent idea,” Renault says, his tone enthused. I look up, daring to smile, just a little. My betrothed gazes at me with a pleased expression on his handsome face. “She’ll be in a vulnerable position. You can show her your own vulnerability in that moment, and it will feel like a genuine exchange of intimacy. Wonderful work, Ophelia.”
The praise dances across my skin like the first spring day after a long, hard winter. I cling to it with both hands, my fingers scrabbling and desperate. “I’m so glad you think so,” I say, feeling the apples of my cheeks redden with heat.
Renault finishes his meal, sopping up the remaining spiced oil with a chunk of bread. “Well, I’ll need to ensure the rest of the knights go along with our little plan,” he says, beaming at me. “Why don’t you run off to the gardens for a little bit? I believe Carina is eager for your assistance wrangling the blackberry harvest.”
At this moment, I want only to abandon my fiancé and the rest of my meal—no matter the pangs of hunger in my stomach—for the safety of the gardens and my dearest friend. How I wish to scramble to my feet, childlike, and run for the brambles, my hair streaming behind me, a gold silk banner.
Instead, as I must, I demur. “Oh, are you sure?” I ask, dabbing at the corner of my mouth with a handkerchief pulled from my pockets. “Is there no more work you need assistance with in the Sanctum?”
“Not today, my lovely Ophelia,” he replies, getting to his feet. “Run along now. I’ll send a page with news of the knights’ decision as soon as I know.”
Apprehension twists low in my gut, and I swallow down something sour. “Yes, Renault,” I reply, lowering my gaze as he presses a chaste kiss to the top of my head. Then he is gone, his tall frame disappearing behind the sweeps and angles of the Libris Sanctum’s dark stone. A long exhale unhinges itself from my mouth, as if I’ve been holding my breath without even realizing it.
“Anything else, Miss?” comes a voice from my elbow.
I startle and turn, only to see Alta—the kitchen maid—hovering beside my table. “Oh, no,” I reply with a nervous, inelegant wave of my hand. “Thank you so much, Alta.”
My fellow foundling studies me, her gaze drifting to the path Renault has taken off the terrace. Then she smiles. “Of course, Ophelia,” she replies in a low voice. She glances in each direction and, finding no one paying us any mind, leans closer. “I’m so happy for you. Not just a noble fiancé, but of the House Amadeus? And so very handsome, too? How wonderful.”
Her tone is genuine, her eyes light, and Alta means nothing but kindness—yet her words land on me heavy as millstones. How fortunate I am to have been Spared, how unfairly lucky to have been born with this face and this body—excluding my leg, of course.
I thank her, stacking Renault’s plate with mine, but all I feel is a pit at the bottom of my stomach. A girl like Alta should be in my place. Surely she’s never lusted over a fellow woman or claimed to remember nothing of her dead, blasphemous mother or wished to be glorified for her intelligence.
“Take care,” Alta says with a broad smile before heading back to the kitchens.
I stand before the guilt can drag me to the ground, though I find myself unsteady even with my cane. A cold breeze tears through the courtyard, bringing with it the sharp scent of the sea.
I should go to my room and change out of this pretty day dress. But the call of penance will sing too loudly—that clear-headed relief of pain and torn flesh, the comfort of the flail’s worn handle between my fingers. No, I’ll go straight to the gardens, borrow an apron from the potter’s shed, and be sure to mind the blackberries as I work.
I am already mottled with enough stains, I think.
B y the time I reach the blackberry brambles, the sun is beginning to break through the cloud cover. Carina is there, her hair tied back with a faded scarf, picking berries at double the pace of the novices, who generally seem to be more focused on giggling and whispering to each other. Anni ago, one of us might have sternly corrected them—reminded them of their vow to the First Son, to the holy path they are meant to walk.
But now, with Carina and I both in our third decades, something in us has softened. The novices are just girls, and so we allow them to giggle and gossip and sometimes even cry, supplementing their gathering baskets with our own pickings so nothing is amiss. I wanted to take the divine cloth, once—wanted to make my novice’s vows at ten and six. I know how difficult the road is for our sacred young women. I will not begrudge them a moment’s levity among the blackberries, half-drunk on early autumn sunlight.
“Carina,” I murmur in greeting as I fall in beside her, reaching into the thick dark of the bushes.
“Ophelia.” She beams at me, pausing her picking for a moment, the lines around her eyes crinkling. “I’m sorry to make a plea for your return so quickly. I know you’re excited about Renault’s newest research.”
“No, no,” I reply, the words punctuated by the thudding of berries into my basket. “I’m happy you did.”
Carina pauses, her hands gone still as she looks up at me. That is the danger of kindred spirits, I suppose—there is no hiding. “What’s wrong?” she asks, her arms crossed now. “Oh, of course, you don’t have to talk about it. Only if you want to. I’m here whenever you’re ready.”
My throat constricts as my chest warms pleasantly. I tell myself to say nothing, driving a blackberry thorn into the fat pad of my thumb, as if the pain might hold me to the promises I’ve made. But I am adrift in a sea of strange, terrifying longing for things I should not even want in the first place, and I cannot stop myself from clambering onto the sun-kissed rocks of Carina’s shoreline.
“The Saints aren’t real,” I whisper, the words rending the wound anew. I clutch my basket to my chest, hating myself for burdening Carina with this knowledge that threatens to break me every moment. Surely I have weighed her down enough. And yet, the sinful, selfish thing that I am, I keep speaking.
“They’re . . . a metaphor, Carina, for regular people like us, invented by the Apostles. Saintess Lucia isn’t . . . She can’t . . .”
I stop myself before a sob can tear open my throat, clamping one hand over my mouth. I don’t want Carina to be forced to comfort me, carry more of my weight. Settling myself, I resolve to be there for her —to be the one bearing the burden for once in my life. My kindred spirit in so many ways, Carina is equally devout and utterly devoted to the Host. This truth will, I have no doubt, shatter her.
I look up into her expression, reaching for her hands, ready to guide her through the same pain I myself am still muddling through. I watch as she takes a deep, hitched breath, frozen in place. And then, all at once, I realize that there is absolutely no surprise in her expression. No pain. No astonishment.
Not a stitch of betrayal.
“I know, Ophelia,” Carina finally says, slowly meeting my gaze. “I already know.”