Chapter 19
I feel as though I’ve been struck in the stomach, the air forced from my lungs. Shamefully, I shrink back against the stool, fear slinking down my spine. The creature before me is every inch the Lupa Nox—muscles strained beneath linen, her eyes dark and beast-like, teeth bared, lips curled.
I stagger back a few more steps, trying to slow the gallop of my heart and the spiraling thoughts in my skull. I anchor myself in the things I know: the glories of my Lord I have been taught all my life. The truths I hold close to my heart, the sacred words that keep me afloat.
“The First Son tells us that suffering is holy,” I say on an exhale, my voice shaking. I’m unsure whether I’m trying to convince the knight alone or perhaps myself, too. “Suffering purifies us, prepares us to leave this sinful realm and ascend to Caelus. That is all I want for you. For anyone. To purify themselves and accept the gift of eternal life. Instead of death with the Sepulchyre, you could have immortality with the Host. That starts with your Baptisma.”
I keep my eyes trained on the toes of my boots peeking out from beneath the sweep of my flannel skirt. When I hear no rattling of her chains, I force myself to look up at the knight. She is calmer and has retreated, having taken the same amount of steps away from me as I did from her. With a long exhale, she meets my gaze. There is a sadness in her eyes that slams into me like a gale.
“Last night, the High Ecclesia visited me. It is not a Baptisma your people wish me to undergo,” she says, her shoulders sagging. “It’s the Communion.” As she speaks, her eyes search mine, though I do not know what she seeks.
My brow furrows as I wrack my mind for any knowledge of this rite, but I know the Catechisma as well as any sister of the cloth and have never heard of such a thing. “Perhaps you misheard,” I offer gently, sweeping out the creases in my skirt. “There is no such thing as the Communion.”
She pins me with a pointed look, all the sharp angles of her face knife-like. “A group of fucking corpses in masks and cloaks appeared in the middle of the night. Trust me. I paid very close attention to what they said.”
I startle, a current running through my body as the knight describes what must be the High Ecclesia as corpses. My mind wanders to that morning in the gardens, the High Ecclesian who summoned me, the way Their mask had slipped, the smell of rot . . .
“What exactly are They, anyways?” the knight asks, her tone casual, as if we are sitting down to tea in the orchards.
“The closest thing to God that walks these halls,” I tell her stiffly, the words rote and memorized, an automatic response. “The First Son’s right hand and counsel. Fatum, Exalted.”
I feel worn out, like a cotton strip laundered too many times, too thin to be of use. Shakily, I rise from the stool, pulling a tin of gentle salve from my kit.
“I am going to apply this to your bruises,” I tell her, leaning heavily on my cane, my hips in abject agony. “And then I am going to leave. I hope when I see you next that you are more willing to open your heart to the First Son and His Catechisma. I only want to help you, truly. I am sorry for the treatment you claim you’ve received from my congregation, but I do not wish you ill.”
The knight lifts her head from her chest, a shock of dark hair tumbling into her face. “I know,” she says, so soft it barely sounds like her voice at all.
Cautiously, I approach, dragging the stool with me. She watches my movements, her gaze catching on the way I hobble with my cane, and she frowns. Shame burns through me, but I do my best to push it aside.
She must see how my fingers tremble as I raise them to the feral planes of her face, dabbing the softly scented salve onto the bruises. She flinches away from me at first but then relaxes into my touch. For a moment, I am lost in the familiar rhythm of tending to the flesh of others.
“That’s quite potent,” she says, barely more than an exhalation, her breath dancing across my wrist. “Feels better already.”
She is trying to charm me again; though this salve is a helpful ally in healing bruised skin, it has no numbing properties and wouldn’t alleviate much on immediate application. I offer only a noncommittal noise, working a pea-sized amount into the bruise on her jaw. With the knight’s permission, I lift her shirt, biting down on my tongue the entire time I apply the herbal remedy to her inked skin.
“Where have you been all my life?” she asks as I straighten, her mouth curving and dangerous again. I clamp my jaw shut. “Nothing’s ever worked that quickly.”
I almost turn away from her, dismissing her words as more wiles, but even in the shuddering candlelight of the chamber, I can see the bruising and swelling on her face has decreased. My eyebrows knit together as I lean forward, the pain in my hips suddenly far away, even the flail’s bites across my back momentarily forgotten.
“That’s not possible,” I murmur, pulling her shirt’s hem back up before blushing at my readiness to do so. “May I touch you again?”
“Anytime, little dove,” she replies in that low, husky tone that calls to the hidden core of my sin.
My bust strains against my corset, the blood in my face pounding, as I force myself to focus. With my free hand, I run my fingers across her ribs, palpating here and there.
“Your rib isn’t broken,” I say, alarmed. If she says anything, I don’t hear it—not with the desperate way my hand roams her torso, trying to find a trace of the deep bruises, the break in the rib. I draw away, my skin flushed and hot, to stare at her. “How are you working goetia in Blessed chains?” I demand, though I don’t expect an answer. I certainly don’t expect her to look at me with an open expression, her eyes wide.
“I’m not,” she replies. “I can’t work Mysterium. Hell, I can’t even do sympaethetica.”
“Of course you can’t work the Mysteries,” I mutter incredulously, though my heartbeat skips. I have no idea what sympaethetica is—probably some Sepulchyre lie. “Why would the First Son grant you power? No. This is goetia, which I have no doubt the diaboli gleefully lend you.”
At that, her earnestness fades and she rolls her eyes. “The only diaboli are the men in your halls and the beasts in the Sundered Lands. Goetia , your people call it. What they mean is ‘any power claimed by someone who should not have it.’”
Her words hang heavy in the air. Perhaps, for instance, the power to say no to a marriage. The power to do anything but submit to one’s husband. The power to claim Mysterium for oneself, to study in the Physica Scholae beside the men. That other world dangles in front of me tantalizingly, but I know it is only a delusional dream—or, worse, a temptation. Sadness grips my entire body, like I’ve been tossed into the flames.
“I suppose the Fatum are bound to heal faster than mortals,” I finally say, though I don’t dare meet her gaze. It’s the only explanation I can muster for what I’ve just seen. “I’m unaccustomed to your kind.”
I turn away from her and begin to pack up my kit. Strange feelings crest in my body, nameless things that won’t fit within the confines of that tiny inner room. My back begins to throb once more. The thought of facing Renault sends a wave of clamminess across my skin.
“When I return next, I want to read to you from the Catechisma,” I tell her, only meeting her eyes once I’m a safe distance away. “I want to show you that there is more to this world than death and darkness.”
I watch her throat bob as the knight swallows hard, the same bone-deep sadness washing over her face. “All right,” she agrees. “I’ll do my best to listen.”
I nod and turn away, headed for the door.
Then the sound of my name leaves her lips, long and low and lonely, almost as if no one has ever called me by my true name before. As if everyone else has only ever spoken a false imitation of those syllables, and somehow it is the wicked wolf-woman who knows the real melody of it.
“Ophelia,” she repeats. “Please. Could you . . . try to find something out about the Communion?”
I set my jaw, steadying myself to look over my shoulder. What I find there chills me. The deadliest weapon of the Sepulchyre—that long, muscled column of her, powerful in a way I cannot even begin to imagine—looks afraid .
My breath catches, hand curling tightly around the top of my cane. The next words are out of my mouth before I can consider the ramifications.
“I’ll try. I promise.”
S ix bells chime as I slip into the Sanctum. I skirt around the massive orrery in the lobby, my steps carrying me to the circulation desk. Despite the early bell, there’s already someone there—a page, by the looks of it, trying to resolve a dispute about requested materials with the clerk.
In my head, I rehearse: I will ask for any scrolls containing mention of a ritual called the Communion. Historical texts, propaganda articles, all of it—anything with that word, I wish to see. It’s for Sir Renault Amadeus, I’ll say, because who could refuse one of the most powerful Houses?
I claw my fingers around the top of my cane, straightening my back despite the pain. I am not bewitched by the Lupa Nox, I tell myself, though shame creeps up the back of my neck anyway. No—something strange is going on here, and I think it started when I was tasked with caring for the knight. If I were more intelligent, surely I would’ve seen these foul designs from the beginning. But I’m only a foundling woman, and I’m just now catching up.
What I’m about to do, the lie I’m about to tell—it’s only because I’m worried there is an infection festering in Lumendei, perverting the sanctity of my city and my Lord. Worried Renault and I might be caught up in something even more unholy than the Sepulchyre knight down there in the dark.
The page turns away from the clerk, nodding, and my heart ricochets into my throat. I step up toward the desk, my cane catching on the edge of the floor covering. With an undignified gasp, I steady myself, my face hot and red as I approach.
The clerk arches a brow at me, looking down from the tall, ornately carved desk. My throat constricts, and for a long moment, I say nothing at all.
“And what exactly can I help you with?” the clerk inquires, his expression souring.
I clear my throat, smoothing my skirts. Then I straighten my spine and prepare to speak. “I—er—um, I was just wondering if Sir Renault was here? He said he might arrive early and would like my assistance,” is all that comes out. The low boil of shame contorts in my stomach.
The clerk’s expression is pinched, and my heart flutters at the possibility that he might find me suspicious. But then his features smooth over and he just shakes his head.
“Oh,” I breathe. “Al-all right. Thank you.” I bow my head and scurry away, pinpricks of heat assailing my skin. Before my mind quite catches up with what my body is doing, I’m passing under the Libris Sanctum Arch, back out into the Spine.
Weariness and self-hatred slam onto my shoulders. I watch the hustle of the morning that has always brought me peace: the kitchen staff carrying in sacks of potatoes and the novice moving down the center of the shining marble floor, conjuring light on each beeswax candle with a Mysterium-charged wave of her hand, the Holy Guard’s shift change, golden morning light melting their armor into glimmers of bronze?—
All of it feels like it belongs to someone else. Like perhaps it was never really mine. Like I was foolish to think I might belong here. I lean against the stone wall, careful of my wounded back, and close my eyes.
I see nothing but the Lupa Nox and the dangerous curve of her mouth. That Cursed dream returns to me—the bridal chamber and silken gown, the long, muscular column of her body between my thighs. I choke in my next inhale and force my eyes open.
Across the wide expanse of the Spine, the Devorarium doors creak open. Morning Mass must be beginning. I exhale, something like relief spreading warm and bright in my chest. I will go to my pew, and I will find solace with my Lord. The priests are usually available for confession after Morning Mass, too—I will kneel and speak of my sins. Like a poison, I will excise the knight from my body.
I lean further back into the wall, propping my cane against it, raising my hands to tidy my braid. I should return to my chambers and freshen up, I know—but I’m afraid to be alone. Afraid that the darkness the knight has awoken in me will unhinge its jaws and swallow me whole. So, instead, I’ll risk a reprimand from Renault. With no mirror, I do my best, steadying my body against the wall, trying to ignore the pain the pressure causes in my wounds.
I’m winding my long braid around the crown of my head when the back of my hand brushes the wall. Instead of smooth marble, I feel something soft—soft as black earth and violet petals. Startled, I turn, grabbing for my cane. A gasp barrels out of my throat, and I stagger back, my eyes barely understanding what I’m seeing.
In the shape of a woman—of me , I realize, of my outline—moss has grown along the marble. Its texture is rich and downy, tiny violets threaded through like embroidery. Panic floods me, my heart pounding so hard I’m afraid it might tear through the membrane of my skin. The memory of the soil and violets in my bed resurfaces again harshly, making my mind swim.
I cannot be seen like this, the worker of some strange tiny miracle. Any innocence I maintained after the goetia trial will be stripped from me, and even Renault may not be able to save me. So I flee, moving quickly across the Spine to the safety of the Devorarium.
The corridor has never felt so broad, the heat of the candelabras never so intense. I swear I feel a thousand eyes on me, the sensation like insects crawling across my skin. My breath far quicker than it has any right to be, I join the throng of people streaming in through the Devorarium’s enormous doors. My stomach in knots, I risk a glance back over my shoulder.
The wall outside the Libris Sanctum is smooth, gleaming, untouched by goetia or the soft kiss of moss. A strange relief fills me as I turn back to the vestibule and make my way to my pew.
I would so much rather be going mad than giving into sin.