The scrawl betrays a jittery hand. This Brielle was afraid. Desperate. I return to the previous entry.Not if I want to become the next acolyte.
As I read the rest of my journal, information begins to patch the holes of this forgotten summer season. If I’m inferring correctly, I was eligible to prove myself as an acolyte. But if Harper earned the honor instead, she must have journeyed into Under with me, whatever quest we’d been granted forcing us into the realm beneath Carterhaugh. If Harper can’t remember becoming an acolyte, what really happened in Under all those months ago?
My fingers tremble with rare fury. Slowly, I close my journal and set it on my desk.
This has Mother Mabel’s name written all over it. Only she decides what task a novitiate must fulfill to ascend, which means she knows what I do not. As for me? I have been too trusting. I have drifted through time, idle and drowsy, awaiting change. But change comes from within. I cannot expect another to whet my blade. Enough is enough.
Twilight softens the curves of the long arcade as I depart the dormitory and turn right down the cloister. I push inside the abbess’ house before courage deserts me.
Candlelight streams beneath her office door. I do not knock. It feels good to barge in and reclaim that power for myself.
Mother Mabel glances up from her desk in shock. “Brielle.” She appraises me with a critical eye: the clench of my hands, the steel in my spine, the directness of my gaze. “Did you forget something in town?”
“That’s not why I have come, Mother Mabel.” I shut the door behind me and cross the room, ignoring the empty seat I would normally occupy to receive council. Today, I stand.
Deliberately, she sets down her quill, straightens in her high-backed chair. Curtains shutter the window at her back, veiling the evening landscape. “I’m listening.”
“I want to ask you about that girl in the market, the one you sent away.”
Her bland expression doesn’t falter. “We have been over this. You cannot trust the fair folk. I am only looking out for you.”
“I’m not interested in more of your lies.”
She stiffens. “Excuse me?”
It frightens me how quickly the demands surge forth. I am obedient Brielle, agreeable Brielle, soft Brielle, demure Brielle. Mother Mabel fashioned the mold I was poured into, but I do not have to retain this shape.
“Do you deny that you lied to me?” It takes every scrap of valor not to quail before the woman who has filled so many roles in my life. Mentor, mother, teacher, guide. I trusted her implicitly. I thought she could do no wrong.
“You are going to have to be a little more specific,” she clips. “After all, I cannot read minds.”
Fair enough. “I want to know what happened during the tithe. I know I have visited Under. I—” This, too, must be said. “I had relations with a man and gifted him my virginity.” According to my journal, I had no regrets.
Her dark eyes flare, and my fingers twitch toward the dagger at my waist. A beautiful sword hangs on the wall behind her desk. Its blade draws the warmth of candlelight inward until it seems as if thelight is absorbed. I’ve never seen this sword before. I can barely tear my eyes away.
With a strained smile, she nudges her documents aside. “You must understand. Everything I do for you girls, and for Thornbrook, is to ensure there remains a refuge for those who need it. What kind of abbess would I be if I did not do everything in my power to spread His goodness, His kindness, to all?”
I’ve heard this before. Traps nestled in traps, one of distraction, another of evasion, to imbue my own thoughts with doubt.
“I wish things had gone differently, Brielle. I really do—”
“Enough.” My hand cuts the air. “You evade the issue. Do you deny that you lied to me?”
And Mother Mabel says, “I do not.”
My heart sinks, stone-like, and I retreat a step. The Abbess of Thornbrook preaches morality, truth, but she has not lived that life herself. Can I trust no maternal figures in my life?
“I want to know what happened during the summer months,” I say. “I deserve that much.”
She considers me for a long moment. I’m afraid she will deny me. It is well within her rights. “Very well.” Her hands come to rest atop the desk, fingers interlaced. “To put it simply, you entered Under without my permission. Obedience—the first of your broken vows.”
I fight the urge—the necessity—to fold forward, bowing my spine beneath her disapproval. The force of Mother Mabel’s gaze is strong, but I will not bend. “According to my journal entries, I was selected to vie for the position of acolyte, and I’m assuming your quest sent me into Under. How could I break my vows if I entered under your instruction?”
“That was not the first time you entered Under, Brielle.”
I go quiet.Under. It is a memory I can neither see nor hear nor taste, its identity obstructed behind the veil of forgetfulness.
“You were tempted by Under. I could see it in your eyes. You nearly died during the tithe. You would have, under different circumstances.”
