Chapter 20
“ F orgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I murmur, bowing my head. “It has been eight days since my last confession.”
Since the Lupa Nox tore into my life with her sharp claws and pretty mouth , I don’t add. I close my eyes, resting my forehead against the grate that separates me from the pontifex on the other side. The confessional is small, the kneeler covered in a rich burgundy velvet. My legs shake from the position; my body has always resisted being on its knees.
From beyond the elaborate bronze grate, the priest begins the rite. I fall into the familiar process, though my heart pounds as we approach the moment where I must confess. I wring my hands, the flail marks on my back throbbing. Perhaps I am not strong enough to be truthful. For a long, halting moment, I fear that I used up all my strength when I confessed to Renault. That the rest of me is just wickedness, just sin, happy to obscure and distract.
“Father,” I manage, my tongue too heavy in my mouth, “I have lusted after someone other than my betrothed. I have questioned my faith.”
Silence greets me from the other side. The seconds stretch into bells, my muscles spasming. Incense slinks beneath the door and winds into my nostrils. I tremble, starved for the approval of my God. It is so pathetic, I know, how desperately I wish to be told that, despite my confession, I am good. That’s all I need, I think—to be reminded that I am good. My throat closes off as a tear rolls down my cheek.
“Child,” the pontifex finally says, his voice gentle. My shoulders relax just slightly, and I shift my weight, trying to take pressure off my left hip. “You are here on your knees begging for forgiveness, and because of that, I know you can be saved. But I beg you to take your stumbling seriously. This is how people Fall, child. And I do not want such a fate for you.”
“Of course,” I stutter, the words barely audible. I try to cling to the pontifex’s kind voice and the way he sounds genuinely concerned—but all I hear is that I might be Falling. Something like desperation claws at my insides, though I cannot flee. Even if I turn and rip open the heavy brocade curtain, I will still be in the house of the God against whom I transgressed. There is nowhere I can go in this city that is not His.
“If you are involved in worldly things,” the priest says, thoughtful now, his voice emanating from a formless shadow beyond the grate, “perhaps it is best to step away. Focus on womanly pursuits: readying for your nuptials, caring for the children of the Church, preparing nourishment for our people. Surround yourself with godly women. Temptation is a terrible reality of this world thanks to the Creatrixes. Follow the path that leads you to Caelus instead.”
A choked noise escapes my throat. How I would love to follow his instructions, to purify myself of whatever has come over me, but the woman I spend the most time with is the furthest thing from God I have ever known.
“Yes, Father,” I say, reeling, a strange, tinny noise piercing my ears. “Thank you, Father.”
“The First Son always offers us the chance to try again,” he says, and he means it. He believes it in a way I fear I no longer can; I’m too marred by sin, too utterly irredeemable. “Be well, child.”
I thank the pontifex and then, with an undignified grunt, pull myself to my feet. Spasms race down my bad leg, and my vision briefly goes white. My shoulder slams into the confessional grate, and the latch almost gives. At the last moment, I catch myself on my cane. I heave a few heavy breaths, calming my racing heart, before I push through the curtain and out into the Devorarium.
A few congregants wait on nearby pews to enter the confessional, but for the most part, the space is empty after Morning Mass. I settle into a pew on the side and try to find that peace, that godliness, that I once believed I knew so well. To the left of the altar, the door to the Baptisma grotto is open. The reflection of water dances on the marble floors. If I were lowered beneath the surface today, would the First Son accept me? Or would those ancient, blessed waters sense my wickedness, my doubt, and drag me to the bottom?
The thought brings me no comfort, so I cast my gaze toward the large mural behind the altar. The Last Supper—the First Son and His beloved siblings, all willing to sacrifice themselves to save the people of this world. It’s the sacrifice we imitate at every Mass—that He may eat of our body and drink of our blood should the darkness of the Creatrixes ever rise again.
The Fatum of the High Ecclesia undergo a more intense version of the ritual, one shrouded in secret, reserved for only the most holy. They are meant to represent our Lord’s twelve siblings, of course, His closest inner circle, ready and willing to lend Their power the moment He requires it. After the terrible war with the jealous Creatrixes, many of the High Ecclesia were slain, leaving our Lord with only ten—incomplete, unfinished, lacking the full depth of power.
I pick at my cuticles and take a long, deep breath. Instead of some shred of peace entering my body, the phantom scent of rot passes beneath my nose. With a start, I glance around, but no High Ecclesians have entered the Devorarium. I haven’t seen any, in fact, since that strange moment with Renault in the Libris Sanctum.
The memory of the two of Them, moving like one animal in perfect unison, plays out in my mind. With a dry swallow, I raise my eyes to the mural again, studying the siblings the First Son plans to devour. I chew the inside of my lip and shove the blasphemous thoughts that burst into my mind away. And then I rise from the pew, because I cannot stay in the Temple of God with such things tumbling through my head, with all the bile sloshing in my stomach. Whatever the Lupa Nox has done to me, it will not be excised with a single confession.
As I take the outer aisle down to the doors, I wonder—not for the first time—if the knight is doing anything at all to me. Or if perhaps I am just finally losing the battle with that wicked seed I’ve always known was planted inside my heart. Perhaps when I attempted to cut that piece of myself out, I didn’t slice quite deep enough.
I make my way through the Spine as quickly as I can, my head down, headed for the gardens. Fresh air and hard labor will help; that’s what the priest said. To concern myself with womanly things, like feeding our people.
But even with my gloves donned, a basket tucked under my arm, when I pluck a blackberry from the bush, all I can think about is what it might taste like to kiss another woman. All I can see is the knight’s dark, plaited locks. The dangerous curve of her lips.
I want nothing more than to feel that mouth against mine.
T he priest told me to surround myself with godly women, and there is no doubt that Carina meets that description, and so, later that evening, I send her a note requesting her presence in my room for after-dinner tea. It’s a fairly common practice among Apostle wives, I’ve learned. And with Renault called away for military business before the midday meal, I need someone to lean on. Even if I hate myself for all the weight I carry.
And I need my dearest friend, regardless of how she betrayed me with the Saints. She knows me, sees me, in a way Renault—or anyone else, for that matter—never has. My prior feelings for her complicate my decision, but I am so weary. I feel so alone, so sure that everything is about to crumble into dust. All I want is to forget, for at least a few moments, and return to that hazy, simple time of the girlhood I shared with Carina.
When I hear the knock, I fuss with the tea display set on the edge of my tiny hearth one more time and then hurry to the door, balancing myself on the edge of my bed as I go. I pull open the door, and there Carina is, wrapped in a worn checkered shawl, a small jar in her hands.
“I brought that spiced orange tea you love,” she says, looking down at me with a smile. As I gaze into her glimmering brown eyes and the planes of her familiar features, something inside of me unknots, like there’s been a rope constricting my lungs all this time and I’ve only just realized it.
I smile back and usher Carina inside, offering her a blanket. The autumn chill has swept in at nightfall just like it always does—fiercely and all at once. The height of the days in Lumendei this time of the annum feels like summer, but the depth of the night is closer to winter.
With my cane, I carefully lower myself onto the woolen blankets and cushions I’ve arranged in front of the hearth. Carina is already swaddled in a quilt, spooning the delicious tea she brought into the pot of hot water I’ve prepared. My hip catches and I grunt, but then I manage to find a comfortable position.
“It’s so kind of you to remember,” I murmur, watching the firelight dance across Carina’s shimmering chestnut hair. “About the tea.”
She looks at me sidelong, a smile tugging at her lips. “We’ve only been friends for what, fifteen anni?” she asks with a laugh. “Of course I remember.”
Warmth floods my chest, and I snuggle deeper into the soft nest of blankets and cushions. We say nothing for a long while, just sitting in companionable silence as our tea steeps. I’m not sure I have this with anyone else—certainly not Renault. This feeling of complete and utter comfort, like I can allow my shoulders to slump and speak my mind as the words come, or not speak at all.
Carina passes me a steaming cup of tea—prepared just how I like it with the tiniest dash of honey—and I wrap my hands around it. I wish everything felt like this: soft, warm, gentle, with only the murmur of the fire in the background.
“How have you been doing?” she asks, cradling her teacup against her chest. “I was so happy when you wanted to see me.”
“I’m all right,” I say, the truth confined in that tiny inner room. “Truly. Just tired.”
“I’m sure an Apostle wedding is quite an undertaking,” Carina says with a little laugh, looking over at me.
“Lady Amadeus is handling most of it,” I say with a shrug, taking a sip of my tea. It’s still too hot and singes the roof of my mouth. “How are things with you and Augustus?”
“But you ’ll be Lady Amadeus soon,” she reminds me, shifting to sit closer to me, our shoulders brushing. I wait for her to answer my question, but she just arches her brow at me.
“You know I have no interest in any of that,” I tell her with a laugh, turning away. “I just want to be safe from Sergio.”
“I know,” she replies, her words barely more than an exhale. “But that’s the trade-off, I suppose. And I can hardly believe Sir Renault doesn’t have some feelings for you to offer such a thing.”
My fingers tremble around the wide, gilded mouth of the teacup, some of that safety ebbing away. “I believe he values my abilities, my devoutness,” I say carefully, blowing on the hot tea to cool it down. “But love or infatuation? I think not.”
“You are widely considered to be the most beautiful of foundlings. And you were Spared,” Carina reminds me wryly, arching a brow. “’Tis a fair match, I think. The First Son rewards Renault for all his accomplishments with your beauty and acknowledges your unwavering faith with a marriage that’ll make you a noblewoman.”
At no time in my life would I have agreed with Carina’s words, but now I disagree for entirely new reasons. Unholy reasons. I stare into the coils of steam wafting off the dark mouth of my teacup, yet again unable to stop thinking of the Lupa Nox. Her words slink into my mind, unbidden.
The men of the Host love nothing more than a woman’s suffering .
Is the suffering sweeter, I wonder, if the woman is considered beautiful? If they can take a thing they see as near-perfect and mar it with the teeth of a flail, the bite of endless rebukes? Is the reward a woman’s beauty, or is it the ability to do with that beauty what they see fit?
I slam the teacup into my teeth, taking another searing gulp. I deserve the pain for such thoughts, these impurities clogging my mind. My fingers tighten, and I consider breaking the porcelain, using the shards to cut into my skin until I feel I’ve served my penance.
That won’t do, particularly not before the wedding. With a shuddering breath, I set the teacup down on the edge of the stone hearth. My body—my weak, ineffective, wicked body—is already compromised enough by my penance last night. And by the dark-haired, cruel-mouthed knight in the Vincula.
“Ophelia,” Carina says gently, breaking the spiral of my thoughts. I turn sharply to look at her. My dearest friend raises her hand, tucking a loose wave of hair back into my braid. Then her fingers cup my chin, and she holds my gaze, examining me. “What is going on? Something is going on. Please don’t try to deny it. Is this because of the Saints? Because I lied to you?”
The breath dies in my throat, and I choke on nothing, causing Carina to release my chin and shift back, offering me my teacup.
“I’m fine,” I manage, pressing my hands to my eyes. “I mean, I don’t need a sip of tea. Tea won’t fix this.”
And then, wrapped in the orange glow of the hearth and the comfort of my room and the safety of my oldest friendship, everything comes spilling out. The Lupa Nox, the threats from the High Ecclesia, my fears about Sergio or a burning if Renault and I can’t marry, if the First Son never grants me the Mysteries, if the knight corrupts me.
My dear, sweet, thoughtful Carina listens without interrupting. When I collapse into tears—complete with unseemly hiccups and strained words—she pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and then takes my hand in hers.
“So,” I mumble, gripping her palm. “That’s all of it, I suppose.”
For a few moments, she raises her free hand to dab the tears from my face. I close my eyes, surrendering to the feeling of care, of love, of support, come what may.
“But she is a woman,” Carina eventually murmurs, her head tilted to one side, lips pressing together as she considers. “How could she corrupt you in that way?”
Panic crowds my throat, and I stutter out something meaningless. Carina just waits, her deep brown eyes patient, as I find my words.
“I’ve...I’ve al-always been like this,” I manage, my voice hoarse from crying. “The w-way we used to talk about our future h-husbands as girls? I’ve always f-felt it for w-women, not men.”
She furrows her brow, the movement exaggerated by a slant of firelight, and pulls her hand from mine. My heart plummets.
“Ophelia,” Carina whispers, something not unlike horror etching her face. “This is a grievous sin. We are only meant to couple in order to bring children into the Church, and such a union could never result in that goal.”
A sob spills out of my mouth even though I could’ve sworn I had no tears left. “I know,” I choke out. “I’ve tried to stop, Carina. I cannot tell you how much I’ve prayed and begged and cleansed. And I thought I had. I thought it was gone when I no longer felt that way for you?—”
“For me?” Carina demands, her tone shrill, as she leaps to her feet. I realize my mistake too late, my hands still floating in the air somewhere around where my dearest, oldest friend should be. “ Me , Ophelia? You’ve harbored these feelings for me ?”
I swallow and say nothing, unable to summon a defense of myself, but apparently that’s answer enough for Carina. She storms the few quick steps to the door, shoves her feet into her boots, and is gone before I can manage to stand. I still try, though, snatching my cane and hobbling across the room. My heart pounding, I pull the door open desperately and stumble into the hall, tripping on the uneven stones.
I fall, my knees and then the heels of my palms hitting the cold floor. Pain ricochets through me, and every part of my body that hurts—my hips, the flog wounds on my back—explodes into agony. But I have no tears left, no words to fix the destruction I’ve reaped, so all I can do is open my mouth in a silent scream.
In the distance, I hear footfalls and a low, gruff voice calling out. I push myself to my knees, grappling at my cane, and drag myself to my feet before anyone can come to my rescue.
“I’m fine,” I sputter, holding out a hand as the guardsman approaches. I heave out a harsh exhale, and then, without another word, I slip back into my room, pulling the door shut behind me. I try not to think about how Sergio will delight in this bit of news as his Holy Guard feeds it to him—my dearest friend abandoning me, my body crumpling to the ground.
My hands tremble, the heels of my palms torn and smarting, as I close the heavy iron latch. I take a shattered inhale and then freeze. For a long, tight moment, I swear that the scent of rot tinges the air. But then more tears arrive, unceremonious and broken, a wild sound tearing from my chest as my legs go out from underneath me. Putting all my weight on my cane, I manage to take the three measly steps to the hearth and let myself collapse onto the bed of cushions and blankets. And then I curl into a ball and weep.
When I truly have nothing left, when I am dry as wrung-out flannel, I reach toward the edge of the hearth. I feel the smooth porcelain beneath my fingertips and bring the cup to my mouth, hoping for the tiniest shred of comfort.
But my tea has gone cold.