Deck of Scarlets (The Scarlet Quill)
Prologue
S he kept the scarlet wool cape her mother made draped securely around her small frame. The fabric was soft under her touch, a reminder of home as she began to trek up the most prominent hill in the village. Her reddish curls hung loose around her shoulders, some strands catching in her open mouth from breathing heavily up the trail. Frigid nights were not letting up anytime soon; the farther she traveled, the colder it got.
She passed by crowded villages, where some sold an abundance of fresh fruits and vegetables. Her father had given her enough coins to purchase such fine eatery, and she ended up leaving with a small parcel of the crispest apples and a bundle of carrots. Thanking the little boy at the market stand, she continued on her way, apple in hand. Days passed, and the voyage to the convent was nearing its end. Finally, the tallest point of the building peeked over the hill, signaling the conclusion of a very long journey. She would be welcomed with open arms and start her new life there. A life that none of her sisters wanted, but she felt the calling deep within her soul. The Lord was ready for her to ascend to the holiest place, where prayer and blessings were abundant. All she wanted was to help and give to her village.
The trail began to broaden as she reached her destination. A two-story building of gray stone, built strategically, with wide wooden doors faced her. Lit sconces illuminated a small portion of the frosted ground. Bare trees and dead bushes graced the foundation with old acorns from the previous season, just like the dried leaves crunching under her shoes. Bricks on the church were worn from relentless years in the sunlight. Crusted sap coated parts of the stone steps as she ascended, the clicking of her shoes echoing in the silent night, marking her arrival.
She approached the wooden doors, her hand inches from the metal handle, when a male voice halted her in place.
“You made it.” The sound was smoother than honey dripping lazily from a honeycomb in the summer heat.
“I wasn’t expecting to be greeted at this hour,” she mused, her hand remaining still.
“Your arrival was expected. However, the timing is a bit late.”
She flexed her fingers, ready to retort a remark, when an enormous shadow cast over the door, claws as long as the dead branches swaying in the night joined the now distorted figure. That was when she screamed.