Maureen and Helena clung to each other, as did Quinn and River.
“Get in the priest’s office,” I said in a low voice, as a third boom sounded.
They all looked at me and then, like children, fell into line as I pointed at the space behind the podium and then walked them inside, gently closing the small door behind us. The assaults on the door continued and seemed to increase in volume.
“We can only hide in here so long,” Quinn said to me, not unhelpfully, but concerned.
There we were, nine women in a closet of an office, huddling. And then it occurred to me, we were well and truly damned. The Tintarian sanctuary doctrine applied only to private holdings, nothing supported by taxes. Government buildings or buildings owned by a monarchy were not safe. I closed my eyes. A small tax on Ecclestonians paid the priests’ salaries and provided the relationship between businesses and those in need of work. Tintar would see Saint Agnes as an extension of The Council of Ten. My eyes darted around the room. I was trying not to panic when I saw it, the basket of linens delivered earlier by the laundress, piles of white cloth. I lifted the basket onto the priest's small desk, sheafs of paper falling to the floor. From the top of the basket, I held up a voluminous garment.
“What are you doing?” said Mischa.
“How religious would you say the Tintarians are? About their temples and their clerics and gods?” I asked River.
“Very,” she said, over the sound of their battering ram.
The doors would splinter in minutes.
“Put these on,” I ordered, tossing the first garment to Maureen.
“What?” cried Mischa.
“They’re robes,” I explained, now pulling them out of the basket with speed, praying there were nine of them. There were ten. I huffed out a breath of relief, pulling one over my head. Another strange thought occurred to me. I was about to die and a few hours ago, the worst thing I thought could happen would be seeing my estranged husband. I was about to die and I had been annoyed that the baker’s stall was closed. I was about to die and just days ago Mischa and I had shared a pipe and sat at a window in her house, talking.
“What are we doing?” Eefa asked.
“Just do it,” said Mischa, “Edie’s no fool. Just do it.”
I felt a warmth for my mouthy friend. I heard men’s voices outside. They were shouting and it was coming through more clearly as the doors must have been breaking.
We all flailed in the white fabrics. Once I had mine on, I turned back to River, my hands fishing under my white robe for my scribe’s apron. “Am I correct in thinking Tintar is a very symbolic culture? They like their sigils and amulets?”
She bobbed her head, her feline face paling above the already white robe.
I withdrew an old manuscript reed pen from the apron pocket. It felt full in my hand. “Let’s give ourselves some symbols then.” I took Maureen’s face in my hand. “I am sorry, the nib may scratch.” I gave her three wide blue streaks across her right cheek. The flow of the nib was broad and meant for heavier lettering.
As I moved to Helena and then Mischa, the doors gave a deafening crack.
“Hurry,” I said reaching for the other women, sketching the same streaks on them.
Eefa and Catrin were crying openly.
A final, doomed thwack sounded as the doors broke and flew open, shards hitting the inner walls of the chapel. There was a silence and then a steady voice’s command.
“You have been breached. Come out of the room and meet your deaths with dignity.”
3. Curse
Strength from within must have guided my hand to the office door’s handle.
“No, no, no, no,” whispered Maureen.
Behind me Eefa choked on a sob while her mother shushed her.
“Agnes, please, Agnes,” said Helena.
I heard Quinn, in a hushed tone, telling River something, holding her sister close.
Slowly, the creak of the hinges loud and echoing, I pulled the door inward.
