“If that is the price of her life,” he whispers, “then I will gladly pay it.”
Pressing a kiss to my chilled cheek, he sets me aside, careful not to disturb the sword jutting from my chest. He then stands before the altar, dagger in hand. He does not flinch as he drags the blade through the center of his palm. Blood drips onto the white stone.
He turns, motions to my peers with grief-hardened features. “They will each gift their blood. You will go last, Abbess.”
The Daughters of Thornbrook calmly approach the altar. They readily pierce their fingers, squeezing the skin until blood wells, then patters onto the snowy slab. Harper slices her palm with a quiet sob. The remaining women add their blood to the mix without complaint, even capricious Isobel.
Mother Mabel is the last to approach, appearing small and bent in the vast space. “Heavenly Father,” she says. “For you, our hearts are open.”
As her blood joins the small pool, a wind snaps through the cavern, stirring shadows into dust.
“Let it be done,” intones the West Wind, and the world ruptures in the white light of a newborn star.
PART 3THE GRACED
39
“SHOULDN’T SHE HAVE WOKEN UPby now?”
“Hush.” A pointed demand. “Healing takes time.”
I feel myself sloughing off the dense, dream-thick sleep, rising nearer toward the surface, toward sun.
“And you care why?” Isobel’s nasal voice. I would recognize it anywhere.
“Brielle almostdied,” Harper responds with a low hiss. “Of course I would care.”
“Since when? You hate Brielle.”
“I don’t hate Brielle.” But she does not sound entirely convinced.
The silence, though brief, snaps against my skin with rising tension.
“I don’t know what’s happened to you of late,” Isobel sneers, “but I would rethink your allegiance here. The higher you climb, the harder you fall. Who you befriend matters. Remember that.”
Boots stomp across the room. A door opens, then slams shut.
A sharp pain pulses through my chest. My eyes fly open on a gasp, palm lifting to cover the hurt when my hand is caught by another’s—long-fingered, porcelain smooth. My bleary gaze lifts to Harper.
“Don’t touch,” she says, “or you risk reopening the wound.”
That fine-boned face, the midnight hair falling in sheets over her shoulders, her skin a startling purity against the soft gray cotton of her dress. It feels like an age since I have seen her.
Briefly, I scan my surroundings. The infirmary is a rectangular room lined with cots, crisp white sheets stretched tautly over the thin mattresses. Salves, tinctures, and balms clutter the shelves built into the far wall. Curtains mask the windows. We are the only ones occupying the space.
I snatch my hand away. “What are you doing?” My throat grates, the words hoarse and weak. Why is Harper sitting at my bedside? “Where’s Mother Mabel?”
Calmly, she reaches for the glass of water on my nightstand. Candles brighten the dim room with pockets of wavering light. “Thirsty?” She shoves the drink into my hand.
I stare at it. Plain water. Poisoned? Maybe.
A small sip coats my parched tongue. I take a larger swallow before returning the glass, which Harper sets on the bedside table with the agreeable nature of a small puppy. “That doesn’t answer the question. What are you doing?”
“Helping you.”
I can see that. “Why?”
Those lake-water eyes meet mine. “Why not?”
