Chapter 14
I stare at the violets, my mind tumbling tide-like, and pray I am mistaken. The longer I look, the more I realize this is no miracle.
This can be nothing but goetia.
The Catechisma teaches us that the power to create is vast and dangerous, dark powers only the Creatrixes and their diaboli can grant. My chest heaves—with terror this time, not twisted pleasure—as I brush one hand against the soil.
It is moist and rich between my fingers, smelling of damp spring mornings. The violets, too, are impossibly lifelike, their petals thin as the finest silk.
“What am I?” I whisper, choking on the words.
I am no Saint. I have no Mysterium. I am not the kind of person chosen to work a miracle. I yank my good leg away from the violet-studded soil, running through the Catechisma verses I’ve memorized, desperately trying to find something that can explain what’s happening to me. Something that might say I am not doomed.
In a panicked flurry, I pull myself up to stand beside my bed, grabbing dirty linens from the woven basket tucked into the corner. Breathing far too heavily for such a simple task, my mind blank with panic, I use my hands to shovel the soil into the pockets of a dirtied work skirt. I feel like a tiny creature, digging and digging and digging, hoping to find some kind of sanctuary down in the earth, a place safe from snapping teeth and prowling hunters.
Once the evidence of my sin is hidden away in my hamper, I force myself to dress quickly. I need a copy of the Catechisma. All bound manuscripts are kept in the Libris Sanctum for the safety of the texts. My thoughts are too scattered to find answers in memorized passages. I need the full truth of our Lord if I am to find an answer.
I slip out of my chambers, the handle of my cane in a death-grip. With hot needles prickling every inch of my skin, nausea gathering low in my stomach, I force myself to walk to the Libris Sanctum. I’m unsteady on my feet, my heart in my throat. I’ll be early, I realize as I cross the Spine. Renault won’t have arrived just yet. I tell myself it’s all right—that I’ll request a copy of the Catechisma from one of the junior scribes, sit at our researcher’s alcove and try to breathe.
The man at the front desk glances at me, his brows furrowing for a moment, but I just keep going. If I stop to answer his questions or try to make up a reason for why I’m early, I fear I’ll pass out on the cold marble floor. And I would very much like to avoid making a spectacle of myself. A good Host wife, after all, is always seen but rarely heard. A good Host wife does not dream of another woman, does not awaken to black soil and violet petals tangled up in her bedsheets.
Following my familiar path through the towering, ornately carved bookshelves eases the racing of my heart. The plush floor coverings—a beautiful, pristine cream—mute the sounds of my cane as I walk down the center aisle. I’ve nearly reached Renault’s alcove when my eye catches on something.
The hem of a storm-gray vestment, trailing like a thundercloud across the floor and then disappearing behind the stacks a few rows ahead. I freeze, a prey-like instinct, whipping my head around and nearly losing my balance. I have never in all my anni seen a member of the High Ecclesia in the Libris Sanctum. They have Their own hall here in the Cloisters, complete with Their own chapel, too. There is no reason for one to be here at all. Except, perhaps, for me. What if They’ve sensed my wickedness? What if Their grand divinity has already alerted Them to this act of goetia I did not will and do not want?
I chew on my lip, all the anxiety pounding through my veins igniting yet again. I’m mistaken, I tell myself—there are a thousand reasons the High Ecclesia might be in the Libris Sanctum. Surely it is arrogance—another sin, of course—to think such Exalted beings might be here for me. With that thought firmly repeated in my head, I almost manage to turn and walk down the row to my left, which will lead me to our reserved alcove.
But then—my betrothed’s voice. Low, of course, out of respect for the Sanctum, but unmistakably his. And undeniably coming from the row where I just saw a storm-gray vestment trail across the floor.
Something deep in my chest pulls me forward, away from safety, even though sweat breaks out across my lower back as my stomach roils. Quietly, moving with delicate, tiny steps, careful to stay on the floor covering, I make my way to the row next to the one where Renault’s voice seems to be coming from.
When I arrive, I can barely believe I have done such a thing. Even if Renault is meeting with the High Ecclesia in the Sanctum, surely it is none of my business. I am merely his foundling wife-to-be; he is a member of the Apostles. And yet, though I know these things, though I believe them, my body still stoops to peer through the books, eyes roving.
There, in the next row, I see Renault with not one but two High Ecclesians. They are near-identical in Their gray vestments, looping pearl chains, gold-washed silver pauldrons, and the metal masks upon Their faces. Renault speaks—though from here I cannot make out the words—and the High Ecclesians are utterly still. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder, blocking Renault’s exit into the main aisle. He does not appear to be ill at ease, though. Besides, it’s not as if I could do anything even if he were.
He says something, hands moving in sharp emphasis. I lean closer, desperately trying to hear. I know I should not spy on my betrothed. I know this with every fiber of my being. And yet, I am so, so very afraid. I am terrified that perhaps my future is being decided by one mortal man and two Exalted Fatum somewhere beyond my reach.
My cane accidentally thumps against the base of the bookshelf, and I freeze. In unison, both of the High Ecclesians snap Their heads in my direction, an eerie symphony of glimmering metal masks and flowing cloth. Panic floods me, and I move as quickly as I can down the row, as far as I can get from whatever is happening, and snatch a book from the shelf. My trembling hands barely manage to grab onto the spine, and I feel the same way I always have—that my only ability is to reach for things I cannot have. Reach and reach and reach, but with no strength to hold on to anything at all.
I don’t know exactly when the blood stops pounding in my ears, when I realize that no one is pursuing me down the aisle, that no preternaturally still Exalted Fatum leans over me with admonishments on the tip of Their tongue.
I wipe both hands on my skirts, switching my cane back and forth between them, until they are dry. My mind scrambles uselessly, but I decide to take the book I’ve pulled off the shelves with me to our alcove. It is, I suppose by God’s will, about the different versions of ceremonial language used in the Catechisma—something I had brought up with Renault just the other day.
Slowly, I take the long way back to the alcove, looping around the far side of the library and past Cleric Horatius, who doesn’t even acknowledge my presence. I run into a junior scribe, from whom I request a copy of the Catechisma, as all copies of the sacred text are kept safe in a special vault. I should be able to rely on the memorizations we learn as young things in scholae, but my thoughts feel even more wild and untamed after what I’ve just seen.
When I finally reach the alcove, I all but fall into the familiar chair. Sunlight streams through the stained-glass windows and envelops me as I breathe in the comforting scent of paper, dust, and leather.
With a long exhale, I place the book on the table and reach across to organize the research materials a junior scribe pulled for Renault this morning. I need to keep my mind busy until the scribe arrives with the Catechisma, or I fear I’ll spiral further. Among the materials is something I’ve never seen before: a long parchment scroll, humming with Mysterium. Preservation spells, surely, I think as I gently slide the document out from beneath the more modern works.
Something like alarm skitters through me as I gaze upon it, though I can’t explain why. The language is archaic, and it takes me a few moments to understand the cadence. The scroll speaks of a strange process in which a god— my God, it seems, the First Son—can devour a congregant’s flesh. Some of the fear quiets, as this is routine Catechisma. We know we may be called upon to give up our body and our blood.
But no, I realize, leaning closer, the thrum of blood in my throat near-suffocating. Not quite routine. It is about overtaking the flesh in a different way entirely—a process to command multiple, separate bodies with one mind. It seems to be from very early in the Host’s history, and yet it’s nothing that I’ve ever been taught.
There is an illustration, time-worn and lacking detail, at the very bottom. The scene is almost exactly like the Last Supper depicted in the cathedral and so many other places in Lumendei—the final meal the First Son will ever have with His beloved siblings, who have agreed to give themselves up in order to destroy the Creatrixes.
My Lord sits in the middle, as He always does, resplendent and glorious. But in this illustration, there are no mournful eyes, no quietly folded hands or bowed head. Instead, His jaws are unhinged like a snake’s—an open, black maw. I stare at the scroll, feeling as if I, too, am tumbling into the vast endlessness of the First Son’s appetite.
And then, from behind me, comes a simple sentence that feels like ice sliding into my veins.
“Ophelia, were you spying on me?”
I whirl in my seat, twisting my torso painfully to find Renault standing behind me, one hand curled around the frame of my chair. “R-Renault,” I stammer, a thousand hot pinpricks racing across my skin. “N-no, no, I-I was?—”
“I hope to God,” he says, leaning over me in a slow, terrifying movement, his eyes never leaving mine, “that you are going to be honest with your betrothed.”
I shrink away, my spine slamming into the edge of the table. A jolt of pain runs down my vertebrae to my withered leg. Desperately, I scramble for the right words—the ones he wants—even as the truth rams into the back of my teeth again and again. “I was looking for this book,” I say in a near-whisper, reaching for the title I just pulled with a trembling hand. “And I heard your voice. I’m early today, I know, and?—”
“Ahh,” Renault says with a smug expression, lowering himself to a crouch as if I am a child. “Is someone feeling a bit of jealousy due to our approaching nuptials?”
My brow creases. “What would jealousy have to do with?—”
“Oh, dear Ophelia,” he replies, reaching out to pat my head. “It’s perfectly normal. I assure you I wasn’t speaking to some other pretty research assistant or anything of the sort. Just associates.”
I have the presence of mind to not say anything, though I’m still trying to understand the meaning beneath Renault’s words. I know that there is one—at least I think—from his tone, but I can’t comprehend it. And I’ve learned better at this point in my life than to ask.
“Of course,” I say on an exhale, glancing down at my hands, which seems to please Renault as he moves to take his seat across from me. I stay silent, gaze trained on the table, watching the outlines of the stained glass appear and then disappear on the surface as the clouds move about the sky.
I can hear him shuffling through the pulled materials, but then he stills. Anxiously, I glance up to find him examining the same document I had been poring over just moments ago. Something flashes in his gaze, and then his eyes dart to me, brow furrowed.
“A gruesome manuscript,” he says with distaste. “I think it was meant for Sir Cassius. It was pulled from the Crypta.” I look at him quizzically, having never heard of this place before. He sighs, looking frustrated. “That vault near the kitchens. Where the High Ecclesia keep the truly dangerous documents, the ones that can’t stay in the Sanctum. And some Sepulchyre weapons. For study, of course.”
“Oh,” I say, my heart pounding against my ribs, my mouth dry.
Renault returns the document to the table and then slides one hand over to grip mine. His flesh is feverishly hot. “I suppose you needn’t worry about any of this. I just want you to be prepared, as an Apostle wife. This scroll, it’s Sepulchyre-made,” he says, his thumb sweeping over the back of my hand. For some uncharitable reason, my skin crawls. “Propaganda, you see. That’s why it’s usually locked away in the Crypta. But Sir Cassius is interested in studying such things. Do understand, Ophelia, that it’s a document designed to make our Lord and our Church look monstrous.”
His words should release the anxiety that’s squeezed tight around my lungs, that’s bidding my heart to race. It is, I think, exactly what I might want to hear after gazing upon such a disturbing thing. My eyes track to the scroll, this time examining the First Son’s siblings. Instead of looks of adoration or even determined preparation, the lesser gods are depicted here as glassy-eyed, hollow, slack-jawed things.
Before I can look closer, Renault slides the document away, tucking it into the return cubby at the top of the alcove. I try not to watch his movement, try not to track it with the keenness I feel. I twist my hands into my skirts under the table.
Why do I not believe my betrothed, the man meant to guide the rest of my life?