Chapter 2
Three drops of rosewater to purify the soul. Bands of iron to rectify sin. Will of the Great Goddess be done, may She keep you in the everlasting Hush.
— Oath of the Sisters of Silence
While part of me wants to race off for Red Water Cove, map in hand, I think better of it. There’s planning and prep to be done. Goodbyes to be shared should this not end in my favor.
Helgate, the capital of Ethirya, is divided into districts, ranked by social status.
East Slag, where the lowest of the low can be found, is also the gateway to Solomon’s underworld that stretches beneath the city, full of opium clubs, gambling dens, slave markets, and worse.
The Barrows sit at its border separating it from Moor Town, Hightower, and Harbor Valley.
The Barrows are cozy enough during the day, more dangerous at night.
They host markets and pubs for the lower class and the inn I rent out of when I can afford it.
“Your rent’s late again, boy.” Leda’s voice breaks through my reverie like a straggle of tree branches scratching glass window panes in the night, and the sound sends that same eerie feeling of cold dread through me.
At this time of day, she’s usually down in the inn’s kitchen, prepping dinner for her patrons, but it seems my luck is running particularly thin.
I clear my throat, key hovering just outside the lock of the room I’ve been renting for the last fortnight.
The heel of my boot scrapes as I make a slow turn to face her—dark dress and even darker hair, frizzy beneath a leaden gray kerchief.
She wipes her hands on her soiled apron before leaning into the broom propped beneath her arm and dragging a hand beneath her crooked nose.
“I told you last week if you don’t pay, my husband’ll throw you out with the shit ‘n rubbish. So what’ll it be, three silver eyrir or the gutters?
Could write the magistrate and tell 'em a boy with no papers is walking the Barrows.
They'd have a 'ittle draft dodger like you shipped off to battle inna heartbeat, they would.” Her fingers tighten around the broom as though she may need to brandish it at me, and a sneer pulls the more unfortunate side of her face, showing a hint of stained teeth.
“I’m good for the money. Cinder isn’t paying until tomorrow, though. I’ll throw in an extra silver eyrir for the inconvenience.”
Her sneer deepens; she takes a step forward, concluding I’m no real threat after all—underfed, scrawny, only an inch or so taller than her but a stone lighter.
Though my fingers are calloused, they’re nowhere near the meaty fists of her husbands, or the two hair-brained lumbering sons of hers that prowl the streets, harassing anyone who falls into their path.
“Two extra. Tomorrow,” she says, standing close enough that I can smell the rancid ale on her breath.
The whites of her eyes are tinged yellow as they flick to my room door behind me.
“And if your lady friend doesn’t stop dropping in, I'll be charging double next week. Can’t have my good name besmirched for nothin'.” She shakes her head, mock disgust stretching her wrinkled cheeks, as if worse things than she’s assuming don’t happen behind her room doors daily.
“How a novitiate of the Sisterhood could sully herself with the likes of you, I'll never understand. Throwing it all away for a handsome face. I should report you to the magistrate. Both of you. Maybe I will, if you don’t pay up. Tomorrow.” With a wave of her hand, she offers a final glare before stomping off down the dusty hall.
It’s an empty threat, hollow as boiled bones—a report to the magistrate would mean inspectors poking about; half her clientele would be scared off for months.
But my stomach still drops as I turn back to my door, testing the handle to find it already unlocked, thinking of what those in power would do with the likes of me.
Lord Solomon Black and his younger half brother, Harlow, have their hands dipped in almost every district. From Blossom House to the temples, to the magistrate itself that’s supposed to keep order and justice in Helgate. Wealthy, corrupt, charismatic.
I remember the first time I ever laid eyes on the eldest Black brother, standing in line with the other orphans as he inspected us one by one.
He was a wolf moving through flocks of sheep, cloaked in their wool.
As Blossom House’s benefactor, Lord Solomon often dropped in to greet the children, speak with leaders of the Sons of Serenity, and inspect the Sisters of Silence who maintained edict and care for the orphans there.
Care, of course, was a loose concept. Our days were filled with bone cracking labor, penance and prayer to Ireus and Trine.
Bending and scraping and silence. Swift punishment was enacted should we put a toe out of line.
Most girls are groomed into the Sisterhood, and the boys have the opportunity to fight for placement among the Sons, which is a position that comes with power, influence, and stability.
I’d wanted none of it. The night before my initiation into the Sisterhood, I ran. Ran from Blossom House in Hightower with a handful of stolen coppers and the shirt on my back, straight to the slums of East Slag where I quickly learned I’d be better off dressed as a boy.
But I didn’t leave everything behind that night. It came looking for me.
She’s poised on the very edge of the narrow twin bed, unnaturally still as she stares toward the grime coated window that overlooks the busy square.
A simple, long, smoke gray tunic adorns her with a heavy underskirt that brushes the floor.
Her deep auburn hair is mostly covered by a cloth made of the same soft gray that wraps around it to rest between her shoulder blades.
At her waist a white cord’s cinched tight, knotted three times to display her status.
Three knots for five years in service to the triple goddess, Trine.
Her initiation into the Sisterhood is mere weeks away.
Thin bands of iron, almost like bracelets, are locked tight around her wrists, and a vial of rosewater dangles from her neck.
Both are meant to ward against the temptation of nymph magic, for the city is filled with slaves and their dangerous power.
“Rowan.” My voice cracks around her name, too familiar. The sensation of relief and joy, too strong.
Trust no one.
Still, it is every effort not to run to her side and throw my arms around her.
She stands at the sound of her name, a strict and rigid prominence to her spine that reminds me of the space between us now, the difference in our paths.
The sound of my own haunting voice from that night seems to reach through time, begging, breaking, to realize she would not run with me, that she planned to stay the course; join the Sisters of Silence.
My voice hitches. “I was so worried this morning when Jezebel showed up, saying you needed silver, but couldn’t tell me why. What’s happened? Are you alright? Have you…have you changed your mind about the initiation?”
A hope soars in me—dangerous, reckless—a yearning I haven’t dared even dream of. The two years since I fled that horrible place have been the loneliest of my life.
She turns, angling her graceful neck back toward the window where the sunlight pools over her ivory skin.
Beautiful. She’s far too beautiful to be hidden beneath a veil for the rest of her days, caving to the will of the Sons.
When she doesn’t speak, anxiety takes root in my chest, a writhing serpent.
I long to hear her voice, the soft, melodic lilt.
It’s sweeter than a song birds, and when we were alone, off doing chores away from the orphanage, she used to sing such heartbreaking tunes for me.
Songs that reminded me of home. Songs that made me feel alive on the days I worried I was no longer capable of such a thing anymore, that perhaps the Sisters had stifled all emotion out of me.
After her oaths are made, she'll never be permitted to speak again. Only the Mother's Three are allowed to talk once the vows are taken, and those wenches will never die.
The gentle rise of her shoulders signals her deep breath, and she reaches for a pouch tucked into the folds of her dress, the rattle of eyrir clinking in her hand.
“I am sorry to have worried you. Jezebel can be quite careless and dramatic. The details are best left unshared, but know that your kindness saved a life this morning. Unfortunately, I cannot replace all that you gave, but this is what was left.” She opens her palm to reveal two copper eyrir gleaming with light from the window, the magistrate’s seal etched into them.
"I don't care about the money, Ro. I was just worried about you.
She said it was dire, that you needed it, life or death.
What's going on?" All morning, I've tried not to think about it, knowing the worry would only burn holes in my stomach.
Trusting that the smart, clever girl who is my oldest friend in Helgate could fend for herself with the help of the silver eyrir Jezebel came for.
I wait for her smile, the one that used to make the room shine with an unmatched light and joy, but it doesn't come. And when I finally step forward, reaching for the hand held down by her side, she jerks back as though my touch is poison.
A dryness settles in my mouth, shock at the fact things could be so different when once we'd been as close as sisters. There's a flash of something, it brightens her eyes for just a moment. Regret? Pity? I can't tell anymore. She's a stranger to me.