Chapter 9
9
I T TAKES TIME, BUT EVENTUALLY , life returns to its previous rhythm. Meals, chores, service, the forge, all in an unending blur. Unfortunately, a gulf separates me from the other novitiates. With no explanation for my disappearance, they resort to gossip. They do not ask me about my day. They do not greet me in the halls. They assume that I have lied, and they are correct.
What do they give me? Silence.
I scrawl these words with tear-stained cheeks in my journal late one evening. My hand cramps from the hours of furious inscription. Only when I am purged of the hurt does my pulse slow, easing me into a calmer state, though never calm enough to truly feel at peace.
Setting the journal aside, I move to the window and peer below. Tucked in the shadow of the towering complex, a woman brandishes a blade of solid steel. Its silvery arc catches the torchlight as she moves slowly through various exercises with painstaking intention.
Many nights I watch Mother Mabel train in secret. How many know of her skill? Who has she informed other than me? I am in awe of her grace, yet trailing that emotion comes the inevitable shame. We haven’t revisited our evening training sessions. I wonder if the break is permanent.
Returning to my bedside, I kneel, place my linked hands atop the mattress, and bow my head in the low candlelight. “Eternal Father. Hear me, for I am struggling. I do not always know the answers to life’s questions. I do not know why it was I who found the West Wind, or why I allowed him to lead me into Under.”
I squeeze my eyes tighter, blow out a breath. I wish I had never stumbled across Zephyrus. Since my return, I feel more alone than ever.
Recentering myself, I reach into the farthest depths of my heart and pull the last traces of this confession free. “Despite these obstacles, I know you have a plan for me. I eagerly await its revelation. In Your name, I pray. Amen.”
Early one morning, weeks after my lashing, Mother Mabel directs us to the refectory following Mass. Watery light leaks through the cloister, and beyond the manicured yard, low clouds gather, dragging the scent of rain inland.
One by one, we file through the doors, solemn, for the change in routine is unusual. A pair of novitiates heaves shut the oaken doors. The thud lingers in the rafters, then ebbs, the quietest death.
“Please take your seats.” Mother Mabel strides up the center aisle, toward the dais where she takes her meals.
Someone gasps.
One heartbeat is all it takes. I do not imagine the scent tingeing the air—something ensnared in soil, long buried, now unearthed. My pulse spikes as the crowd presses in. What disturbs them so?
“Calm, ladies,” Mother Mabel soothes. “You are not in danger. Please take your seats and I will explain.”
I crane my head over the crowd, seeking the reason for the disturbance. Someone’s elbow drives into my back.
“Quickly.” Our abbess’ command snaps out, and a moment before the crowd lurches forward, I spot him.
The Orchid King squats like an overgrown weed atop the dais. His bare chest, indecently exposed, draws my focus, the round, disked nipples flushed a healthy pink. His lower torso transitions into a heavy stalk fringed by broad leaves, from which thick vines slither out in place of legs. Lastly, the small, red, open mouths of the nightshade blossoms, their vines curled around his wide shoulders like docile serpents.
My gaze swings wildly across the room. With an impending storm shrouding Carterhaugh in a dreary pall, the candlelight breeds shadows. Zephyrus is nowhere in sight, not that I expected his presence. I have not seen him in weeks.
Everyone vies for the tables farthest from the dais. Harper and Isobel rush toward the back corner, the latter reaching the last remaining bench steps ahead of everyone else. Harper claws at her friend’s arm, yanking her back. “I don’t think so.”
The shorter woman sneers. “I arrived here first.” Her nails gouge into Harper’s wrist, drawing blood. “Let go.”
Harper’s blue eyes glitter, but when she notices the Orchid King’s attention, her confidence falters, and she releases Isobel. “I’ll remember this,” she hisses.
“I’m sure you will.”
“Ladies.” Mother Mabel glares at them across the hall. “If you please.”
Three tables at the front remain. I shuffle forward with the rest, yet veer toward the kitchen, using the throng as a cover while I slip into a shadowed corner. Everyone is too stricken to notice. For once, I appreciate being overlooked.
Mother Mabel lifts a hand, and the noise cuts out.
“Please join me in welcoming the Orchid King.” She gestures to Pierus, whose shifting weight bows the platform beneath a heap of swollen, milk-white roots. Due to his bulk, there isn’t enough room for both of them on the dais. Thus, Mother Mabel stands to his right a healthy distance away. “As he is my guest, you will treat him with the same formality and respect you would show any visiting official.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mother Mabel. I will not take up much of your time.”
Mother Mabel offers him a bland smile. She stands as the stone pillars do, with rising majesty, blond hair darkened to gold as the refectory dims further and candlelight winks into distant islands. With everyone focused on the Orchid King, no one else seems to notice her clasped hands, the catch of tightening skin over rigid knuckles. If she is uncomfortable, why offer Pierus this invitation?
Arms extended, the Orchid King takes in his audience. “Daughters of Thornbrook, you have my respect. The tithe draws near. I want to extend my deepest gratitude for what you will provide my people. Please know your contribution will not be overlooked.”
As he scans the room, I press my back against the cool stone, grateful for my quick thinking. The brightness of my hair would surely have attracted his attention.
“Your participation is vital to the success of Under. As such, all requirements must be carried out with the utmost precision. Mother Mabel”—he turns to our abbess, all smiles—“have you secured the girls who will participate in the tithe?”
“That has yet to be determined,” she replies stiffly. “And they are women, Pierus.” Her gaze flicks to a wayward root, which eases through the legs of a bench, startling the group of acolytes sitting on it. The women flinch, though manners dictate that they remain seated.
Mother Mabel frowns at her wards.
“My apologies.” Pierus rests a hand on his chest. Cracked, sooty talons interrupt the silver strands of his long, unbound hair. “When you live forever, every woman appears as a child. I only meant to inquire as to the number.”
The tithe requires the blood of twenty-one Daughters of Thornbrook. There has never been a lack of volunteers. Most are curious about Under, and the cost is little: one drop of blood, pricked from the finger with the point of an iron blade. Mother Mabel claims Under’s survival depends on the strength of our faith, expressed through the willing donation of our blood. Following the tithe, the fair folk assist Mother Mabel in wiping participants’ memories, to shield them from the horrors of what occurs. But the process is not foolproof. Some women have been known to recall certain memories or visuals years later.
“Rest assured there will be exactly twenty-one women.” She steps into a pool of shifting candlelight. I believe the movement is intentional, for her chasuble, with its gold threads, comes alight. Even the Orchid King stares. “We will meet you at Miles Cross, as is tradition.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he says, “and I am grateful for our continued allyship. If you have any questions or concerns, you are welcome to voice them. I will linger for a time, but I must return before noon.”
With that, we are dismissed. A few of the more courageous acolytes approach Pierus with questions. I slink toward the doors with the rest, though I swear I sense the Orchid King’s gaze on the back of my neck as I leave.
I spend the morning carting bins of laundry down to the wash. The dresses and albs will soak in lye overnight, followed by any necessary mending. I’m on my way to the refectory for lunch, fingers sore from stitching thread, when someone calls my name.
With a sinking stomach, I turn toward Mother Mabel. She stares at me for an indeterminate length of time. “Please join me in my office.”
She knows . It is my only thought as I shuffle after her retreating back.
The abbess’ house, tucked snugly against the cloister’s western edge, contains a small dining room, a chapel, an office, and additional bedchambers for any prestigious visiting authorities. Tapestries hang from the plaster walls. A side table contains multiple copies of the Text in various shades of brown leather.
She settles at her office desk, a massive slab framed by the arched window overlooking the western grounds. Her chair is all angles. Her spine reaches, straight as a pole. The Abbess on High still wears her chasuble. Perhaps she needs the Father’s reassurance after the Orchid King’s visit.
She gestures to the empty chair before me. “You are welcome to sit.”
It does not sound like a request.
I sit.
“How are you healing?” she asks with unexpected compassion.
I blink stupidly, then relax into the chair. I’m not here to discuss my foray into Under. Hopefully my absence in the refectory was not noticed. “Well enough.”
“Good.” Mother Mabel drags the Text toward herself. For a time, she stares at the cover, and I wring my hands, wondering if I should speak.
“I have been thinking lately.” She pinches her gold necklace and looks to me. Two serpents shape the metal, a clasp formed by their open mouths. “You accepted your punishment without complaint and have displayed true devotion to Thornbrook these past few weeks. In light of your good conduct, you are welcome to visit the infirmary and have your wounds checked.”
I stiffen at the suggestion. Zephyrus’ pearl blossom salve has hastened my healing, and I would not have the physician question my lack of scarring. “I appreciate the sentiment,” I say carefully, not wanting to appear ungrateful, “but my back has healed well enough.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She flips to a bookmarked page. “We all have our scars, our lessons learned. They are paramount to our growth.” Frail parchment whispers between her fingertips. “However, I would like to extend my apologies. I did not enjoy dispensing your punishment.”
I remember the scream of the lash seconds before my skin split. Sweat dampens my underarms.
“No apology needed,” I whisper. “I understand why it was necessary.”
That watchful stare scans me from head to toe. As always, I fear she finds me lacking. “Is there anything you wish to discuss with me, Brielle? Anything at all?”
Mother Mabel is not warm, exactly, but she has provided me a home and a purpose when I feared my life had ended. Eleven years old, abandoned on a rain-drenched doorstep, three words to usher me into a new life: Be good, Brielle.
“No, Mother Mabel,” I reply, head bowed. “There is not.”
“I see.” The disappointment in her voice catches my attention. “You can always come to me in times of need. There is nothing we cannot navigate together.”
Guilt is the hound dogging my heels. Higher the secrets pile: Under, Zephyrus, lies upon lies. “I understand.”
“May I ask you a question?”
She has the right to ask. She also has the right to demand answers of me. “You may.”
“What is it you want from this life?”
Her question gives me pause. No one has ever asked this of me, but I thought the answer was obvious. “I wish to bring myself closer to the Father,” I say. “I wish to be His servant in all ways.”
“You do not wish for something different? A family, or your own home to tend? There is no shame in it.”
“I do not.” My response does not waver. Only the Father may claim my wounded heart.
Mother Mabel closes the Text with a snap. “I wonder if the abbey is enough for you.”
The pit that has steadily amassed in my stomach opens wide and engulfing. Am I no longer welcome here? If so, what purpose will I serve? Who will I serve, if not the Father? Another moment ticks by before I’m able to collect myself. “It is enough, I promise you. I do not wish to leave.” My voice fractures.
She sighs. Fabric shifts as she rounds the desk in a few short strides and gently cups my cheek with one hand. “I do not wish that either. I have never met anyone so focused on their studies. But with your behavior of late, I have begun to question your place here.”
The coolness of her touch only serves to remind me how feverish I have become. Turning my head away, I fight to regulate my increasingly chaotic emotions. “I never want to disappoint you, Mother Mabel. I’ve worked hard to prove I belong here.”
“You are dedicated,” she assures me. “Of that, I have no doubt.”
I should find satisfaction in Mother Mabel’s words. Rarely does she bestow praise. Yet this conversation stirs up many long-lived insecurities.
“If I am worthy,” I dare to say, “why have you continued to pass me over?” My hands ball into fists. “A decade I have been at Thornbrook. Why choose novitiates less driven, less experienced, than I?”
She drops her hand, pulls away. I cannot read her expression. “I admit I have been unfair to you. When one becomes an acolyte, one gives everything to the Father. Your studies become more intense, your cause calls you away to the outer reaches of the realm.” Finest lines feather her mouth, its subtle upward curve. “But I need you here, in the forge. You are the only one who can do what you do.”
“So you will keep me a novitiate forever?”
She shakes her head. “Truthfully, I was going to select you as a candidate this year, until I learned of recent occurrences.”
We stare at one another, but she has always been obdurate, uncowed. I drop my gaze to the floor.
Mother Mabel says, “I know you have visited Under.”
Calmly, I lift my eyes. Sadness and grief bring years to one’s face, but this has never been more evident than it is now. Between one blink and the next, folds sink into the soft flesh of her visage, the skin sagging beneath the chin, but in the next blink, the vision vanishes. She remains unaged.
“Mother Mabel.” The words crumble to a dry wheeze, and I fall to my knees. “I’m sorry. I admit, I have visited Under, just once.” The trembling in my limbs intensifies, for I fear. Oh, how I fear. “When you asked me if there was anything I wished to tell you, I was afraid. I thought that if you learned I had broken the rules, you would send me away. The truth is, I stumbled across a wounded man in the forest, and he manipulated me into trusting him. He took me into Under.”
“Who did? I want a name.”
“Zephyrus.” Curiously, the air changes shape around his name, but I fear witnessing the abbess’ reaction and keep my focus on the floor. “I do not know how to explain it, Mother Mabel. It was…”
“Terrifying?” she inquires softly.
Closing my eyes, I let the warmth of her compassion wash over me.
“Yes.” That inky lake, those scarlet glass orbs, the field of roses sheltered within the cave. “There is much I do not understand about the realm.”
Mother Mabel rounds my other side. “My dear, we have all been tempted by Under one way or another. However, as Daughters of Thornbrook, we must remember our purpose. We must stay the course.”
“I know, and I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It was a brief upset. I promise it will not happen again. I will work hard to regain your trust.”
“It is not my trust you need to regain. It is His.”
The comment lands with painful precision, as intended. I stay quiet.
She touches my shoulder in comfort, a fleeting warmth. “I wish you would have come to me. I would have been able to guide you through this mess. It hurts me to know you have been suffering.”
She’s right. I have been suffering. But wasn’t that the point of my punishment? What else did she expect me to do?
“Do you know why you’re asked to forge the iron daggers for the tithe?”
“I assumed it was for the ceremony, for the participants’ protection, since iron is fatal to the fair folk.”
“You are correct, but they also serve a greater purpose.” Fingertips steepled against her mouth, she paces the length of the room in a cloud of sweet incense, the myrrh having fully infused the office. “They act as an anchor and help ward off any enchantments that might touch us. Without them, we would lose ourselves to that which tempts us.”
“I understand.”
“Promise me you will do everything in your power to resist Under’s allure.” She halts, angles toward me. “I would hate for your disobedience to be cause for dismissal.”
Every horror, every sadness, every tatter of grief I have carried these weeks freezes to ice inside my chest. If I do not have the abbey, if I do not have my god, then I have nothing. I am nothing. “I promise.”
Gently, she pats my arm. “You are a sweet girl, Brielle. You try your best. I cannot fault you for that.”
I am not a girl though. Twenty-one years I have walked this green earth. Body, mind, and soul, I am wholly a woman.
Mother Mabel returns to her desk, and I’m surprised when she offers me a genuine smile. It smooths the harshness from her features. “It takes a woman of great character to admit her wrongdoings. I would like to offer you the opportunity to ascend, if you are interested.”
No matter how many times I dissect that statement, it does not seem real. “Truly?”
“Should you begin the process of transition, your heart will belong to the Father. Once you speak your final vows, He becomes your life.”
“I understand.” By all that is holy, I never thought this day would come. My chest swells in elation, and the world radiates color.
“Good.” Her smile softens. “You understand, then, that before a novitiate can ascend to an acolyte, she must prove her dedication by completing a task that tests her devotion. Normally, the task is granted to a single candidate, but in your case, there is another who seeks the same opportunity.”
Just as quickly, I deflate. I had hoped, prayed, but there is yet another obstacle to overcome. “Who?”