“You showed me there is always room for improvement. Since my appointment, I’ve learned that faith does not have to be rigid. It can change. It can be reinterpreted. If we do not remain the same, why should our beliefs?”
The idea doesn’t sit comfortably with me. Not because I disagree, but because I have pondered exactly that.
“If you are truly a Daughter of Thornbrook,” Harper says, “you will find your way back to the Father.”
I have questioned many things, but never the Father. Never my god. How can the world, so vast and complex, exist without the touch of a divine hand? Thornbrook saved my life and gave me purpose when I had none. Is that not a miracle?
“I appreciate your honesty, Harper,” I murmur, “but I would like to be alone.” I do not know my way forward. I am frightened and unmoored. I seek only my thoughts. “I’ve a lot of work to do.”
Harper dips her chin, visibly saddened. “All right.” She pads to the doorway, but stops at the threshold to look back. “I misjudged you, and for that, I’m sorry, truly sorry, for all the pain I have caused you. There were times I treated you no better than a dog. I was shortsighted, selfish, and cruel. It shames me to know we could have been friends, had I not behaved so horribly.”
The apology manages to worm its way inside my heart. I hold it there, warm and healing, as her footsteps recede into the bright morning.
24
ADAY BEFORE THE TITHE, I hammer the final blow. Its ring shimmers with clarity inside the hot, stuffy forge, dawn creeping across the threshold in strips of dappled violet and gold.
My arm shakes as I lower the hammer onto the anvil. Seventeen hours from shapeless metal to sharpened blade and it is nearly done. Grasping the hilt, I drive the dagger into the bucket of salt water at my feet. A hiss of steam erupts where water and hot metal collide. When it clears, I hold the blade aloft, inspecting its tapering from every angle, the lovely, flattened gleam. It will do.
I hang it on the wall to cool with the others. Twenty-six daggers, all iron-forged. A six-month task, now complete.
The sun continues its climb behind the mountain as I emerge into the brightness of full day. The wind does not blow. It hasn’t for many weeks now. I have wondered why, and I worry.
Upon reaching the abbess’ house, I knock on the door.
“Enter.”
Pushing it open, I step inside the foyer and head down the short hallway where Mother Mabel’s office is located. She sits at her desk, penning a message. Beside the open window at her back, Meirlach hangs from a wall mount, a pillar of sharpened steel capped in gold.
At the interruption, she lifts her head, sets down her quill. “Brielle. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve finished the last of the daggers,” I say, nudging the door open further. “They’re ready for transport into Under.”
Her smile is brief, gone within the next heartbeat, but the affection in her eyes lingers as she gestures to the vacant seat across from her desk. “That’s wonderful news. All twenty-six are accounted for?”
“Yes, Mother Mabel.” I perch on the edge of the chair, hands folded in my lap.
“Excellent. Your hard work has not gone unnoticed. This will benefit all of Thornbrook. Pierus will appreciate your contribution as well.”
I do not care to benefit the Orchid King. I forge the daggers so we may continue to lease Thornbrook’s land for another seven years. “I’m happy to serve Thornbrook in any way I can.”
The skin around her eyes smooths, all fine lines pressed into dewy youth. “Indeed. What would we do without you?”
I’ve asked that question myself. In time, the Abbess on High would train another novitiate to replace me. Someone needs to light the forge.
I push to my feet. “If that is all.”
She holds up a hand. “Forgive me, Brielle, but I have to ask. Are you all right?” Concern shadows her gaze. “You seem troubled.”
My body feels heavy in uncomfortable ways. There is much to say, but I’m not sure whether I have the strength for this conversation. I feel myself spiraling, warmth in my face and sweat on my palms.
“When you returned to Thornbrook, it was clear the trials of your journey had changed you.” Though not the gentlest woman, Mother Mabel speaks kindly, perhaps sensing my distress. “You stood taller. You walked with surety. You did not cower in the face of adversity. But there has been a deadness to your gaze that concerns me.”
A deadness.That sounds about right.
She shifts the quill and parchment to the corner of her desk, making room for her hands. The long, belled sleeves of her alb hiss as they pass over the naked wood. “Do you know why a novitiate must complete a task prior to taking their final vows?”
“To prove their worth?”
