Mother Mabel frowns at her wards.
“My apologies.” Pierus rests a hand on his chest. Cracked, sooty talons interrupt the silver strands of his long, unbound hair. “When you live forever, every woman appears as a child. I only meant to inquire as to the number.”
The tithe requires the blood of twenty-one Daughters of Thornbrook. There has never been a lack of volunteers. Most are curious about Under, and the cost is little: one drop of blood, pricked from the finger with the point of an iron blade. Mother Mabel claims Under’s survival depends on the strength of our faith, expressed through the willing donation of our blood. Following the tithe, the fair folk assist Mother Mabel in wiping participants’ memories, to shield them from the horrors of what occurs. But the process is not foolproof. Some women have been known to recall certain memories or visuals years later.
“Rest assured there will be exactly twenty-one women.” She steps into a pool of shifting candlelight. I believe the movement is intentional, for her chasuble, with its gold threads, comes alight. Even the Orchid King stares. “We will meet you at Miles Cross, as is tradition.”
“I am glad to hear it,” he says, “and I am grateful for our continued allyship. If you have any questions or concerns, you are welcome to voice them. I will linger for a time, but I must return before noon.”
With that, we are dismissed. A few of the more courageous acolytes approach Pierus with questions. I slink toward the doors with the rest, though I swear I sense the Orchid King’s gaze on the back of my neck as I leave.
I spend the morning carting bins of laundry down to the wash. The dresses and albs will soak in lye overnight, followed by any necessary mending. I’m on my way to the refectory for lunch, fingers sore from stitching thread, when someone calls my name.
With a sinking stomach, I turn toward Mother Mabel. She stares at me for an indeterminate length of time. “Please join me in my office.”
She knows. It is my only thought as I shuffle after her retreating back.
The abbess’ house, tucked snugly against the cloister’s western edge, contains a small dining room, a chapel, an office, and additional bedchambers for any prestigious visiting authorities. Tapestries hang from the plaster walls. A side table contains multiple copies of the Text in various shades of brown leather.
She settles at her office desk, a massive slab framed by the arched window overlooking the western grounds. Her chair is all angles. Her spine reaches, straight as a pole. The Abbess on High still wears her chasuble. Perhaps she needs the Father’s reassurance after the Orchid King’s visit.
She gestures to the empty chair before me. “You are welcome to sit.”
It does not sound like a request.
I sit.
“How are you healing?” she asks with unexpected compassion.
I blink stupidly, then relax into the chair. I’m not here to discuss my foray into Under. Hopefully my absence in the refectory was not noticed. “Well enough.”
“Good.” Mother Mabel drags the Text toward herself. For a time, she stares at the cover, and I wring my hands, wondering if I should speak.
“I have been thinking lately.” She pinches her gold necklace and looks to me. Two serpents shape the metal, a clasp formed by their open mouths. “You accepted your punishment without complaint and have displayed true devotion to Thornbrook these past few weeks. In light of your good conduct, you are welcome to visit the infirmary and have your wounds checked.”
I stiffen at the suggestion. Zephyrus’ pearl blossom salve has hastened my healing, and I would not have the physician question my lack of scarring. “I appreciate the sentiment,” I say carefully, not wanting to appear ungrateful, “but my back has healed well enough.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She flips to a bookmarked page. “We all have our scars, our lessons learned. They are paramount to our growth.” Frail parchment whispers between her fingertips. “However, I would like to extend my apologies. I did not enjoy dispensing your punishment.”
I remember the scream of the lash seconds before my skin split. Sweat dampens my underarms.
“No apology needed,” I whisper. “I understand why it was necessary.”
That watchful stare scans me from head to toe. As always, I fear she finds me lacking. “Is there anything you wish to discuss with me, Brielle? Anything at all?”
Mother Mabel is not warm, exactly, but she has provided me a home and a purpose when I feared my life had ended. Eleven years old, abandoned on a rain-drenched doorstep, three words to usher me into a new life:Be good, Brielle.
“No, Mother Mabel,” I reply, head bowed. “There is not.”
“I see.” The disappointment in her voice catches my attention. “You can always come to me in times of need. There is nothing we cannot navigate together.”
Guilt is the hound dogging my heels. Higher the secrets pile: Under, Zephyrus, lies upon lies. “I understand.”
“May I ask you a question?”
She has the right to ask. She also has the right to demand answers of me. “You may.”
“What is it you want from this life?”
