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 wasIwho 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 heavystalk 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 therefectory 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.
