Chapter 9
My sleep is fitful, saturated not with the warm sunlight of dream-memories, but with open jaws and the constant sensation of falling. When the sun peeks over the horizon only a few bells after I return from Physica Hall, I rise dutifully. I perform my stretches and then dress, moving carefully, my back raw and smarting from last night’s penance. Despite the pain, I brush out my hair, the long locks concealing my shoulders and chest. I choose a dove-gray day gown Renault gifted me earlier this annum. It is difficult to dress myself in garments like this one, given all the tiny buttons and the tightly corseted waist, but I know I must—it was sinful and foolish of me to think otherwise.
And then I go to the cliffs. I should be in the chapel instead, praying for the strength to accomplish this task—this saving of a most tainted soul. But I do not know how to speak to God. I was never taught. And I cannot bear to gaze upon the statues of the Saints in their alcoves. The truth still rattles in my body like a thunderstorm, lightning-hot fingers reaching out to burn me in all my weakest places. There are so many from which to choose.
The wind plucks a tune along the tall stalks of the wildflowers as I gaze out at the sea. Diamond-bright waves crash far belowmy feet at the base of the sheer cliffs. With Lumendei, the Sundered Lands, and the horrors that lie beyond it at my back, the ocean seems to stretch in all directions, vast and endless. Something about it has always felt holy to me—the same as the cathedrals of moss-gowned trees at the edge of the gardens, the way the light filters through the tomato vines onto the ground below. A tiny blasphemy, I know. But I cannot find peace within the Cloisters. The wound of the truth is still too fresh. It hurts every time I breathe.
I took the long way to the cliffs, ensuring I wouldn’t walk by Saintess Lucia’s statue. I feel betrayed by her kind eyes and embroidered robes, though I know it’s not her fault. Because she’s not real. She never was. Just a metaphor. One I was too stupid, too simple, to understand.
Wrapping my arms around myself as the wind comes roaring up the cliffs, showering me with sea spray, I glance toward the sky. It’s time, I know, for the Vincula. For the Lupa Nox. I swallow hard, taking one last look at the sea. Then I gather up my cane and make my way back down the crushed seashell path, the Spine rising up in the distance.
I approach the porte cochere carefully, my eyes searching the darkness for a glint of gold, an unnatural stillness. If a member of the High Ecclesia must escort me down into the Vincula’s depths each day, I will manage, I tell myself fiercely. But every limb shakes as I draw closer. I feel like a winter-worn tree; one strong gust will uproot me entirely. Saintess Lucia’s medallion sits cold and unfeeling against my breastbone, all the warmth and power gone out of it. I am not even sure why I still wear it. And yet I cannot bear to take it off, either.
My thoughts swarm, thick as locusts, as I approach the stone arches leading into the Spine. But there is no one, nothing, the downy shadows free of billowing gray vestments and pearl chains. With a shuddering exhale, I move through the heavywooden doors into the Spine, gaze sweeping the wide marble corridor.
A member of the Holy Guard breaks away from the formation at the Vincula’s archway. I waver, my mind going blank with a panic only Sergio can induce, but I don’t see him anywhere. And, I tell myself, I have little choice in the matter. All I can do is continue toward him.
It is early still, and only the kitchen staff and healers move about, too concerned with their own tasks to glance my way. I prefer invisibility, but as I meet the guardsman in the middle of the Spine, his eyes drag across my hair and then my bust, dripping down to my waist, made to look smaller by the dress’s design. More to report back to Sergio, no doubt. That nameless feeling boils in me again.
But then he meets my gaze and introduces himself politely. So it was only a brief look, an acknowledgment—a compliment, then, unlike the physician’s crude commentary. I warm a bit with pride; it is good for Renault’s standing if others find his bride beautiful, as long as it does not encourage ungodly behavior. A delicate line, like all things in Lumendei—one I regularly trample over, though I never intend to. I remind myself to express my gratitude to my betrothed for his guidance as the guardsman leads me toward the attollo. I see why he’s been chosen—he has just enough Mysterium to convince the platform to descend.
The journey is far quicker than I remember, leaving me with barely enough time to gather myself. I walked in from the cliffs dazed, and I still feel strange, foggy around the edges, like I’m not truly in my body. Like all of this is happening to someone else. Like I’m only half-alive. I swallow, brushing out my skirts. I hardly even feel the fine, heavily embroidered cotton batiste beneath my palms.
The Vincula’s vestibule is a pool of shadow, barely breached by the glow of beeswax candles lining the alcoves. The power coursing out of the Mysterium-wrought gates makes me tremble, their ornate gold shapes shimmering like a torch in the dark. I pass through, a shadow myself, until I’m standing at the entrance to the Lupa Nox’s chambers. The gate is open and beckoning, the light of her chambers a bright door in the gloom of the Vincula’s lowest depths.
I step inside, two Holy Guard soldiers following me, though they stick to the gate as tightly as they can, the whites of their eyes showing behind their helms. Within the chamber, I spy a fresh healer’s kit sitting on a large stool with a linen apron folded beneath it. I exhale; Renault must have had a word with the Vincula’s keeper. I hazard a few more strides, my steps silent on the dirt floor.
The examination table from yesterday is gone. Instead, a straw pallet has been laid out in one corner. The space smells slightly of mildew. A hardwood chair is pushed against the wall, the only light coming from sconces far above my head. Upon the pallet is, I suppose, the Lupa Nox.
She looks smaller, somehow. Her back is to me, her body curled in around itself, her dark hair barely distinguishable from the gray linen blouse she’s wearing. It doesn’t appear to have been laundered; blood mars the fabric in more than one place.
I clear my throat but do not know how to address her. The knight is not under any sedation Blessings today—not until I check the condition of her concussion. But, as the guardsman explained on the attollo, she is firmly contained by Mysterium-charged bindings—her wrists and ankles shackled, a length of Blessed chain running down the middle, effectively hobbling her. From this angle, I can see a thick gold cuff encasing her powerful forearm, her tendons standing out in the light.
“Lady Knight,” I try, though my voice trembles like a field mouse caught in the open. “I’m your healer. I’m here to evaluate your progression toward health.”
A low noise escapes the curled form on the pallet, and for a moment, I think it’s a groan. But as the knight rolls over, I see from the devilish expression on her face that it’s a laugh, slow and slinking.
“It is adorable,” the Lupa Nox says, drawing the words out with amusement, “how you lot pretend to care about me.”
“We do,” I say with a frown, my hands shaking as I tie the apron around my waist, patting the pocket to check for gloves. “You’ll discover the Church of the Host is very different from the Sepulchyre.”
She laughs again, this time tossing her head back to expose an elegant, swan-like neck. The sound is more melodic than it has any right to be. “Oh, I’m well aware of our differences,” she replies, her tone biting. Then, not without effort, the knight gets to her feet, slightly favoring her right side.
I frown. “What’s wrong?” I ask, taking another tentative step closer. “I didn’t find anything on your right leg yesterday.”
She examines me with those dark eyes glimmering like pearls. “Just an old injury,” she replies, her expression empty, though her gaze is still sharp as she sizes me up. “I’m surprised you noticed.”
“It’s my duty to notice. Might you please sit in that chair,” I begin, gesturing, “so I can examine you?”
The Lupa Nox looks at me. No, she looksintome—like she can see right through me, straight to the wickedness embedded in my marrow. My heart races, and something warm tingles low in my belly just before she averts her gaze, taking in the guardsmen behind me at the gate.
“Fine,” she agrees, moving slowly toward the chair, which is just barely within reach. When she sits, the Blessed chain movesacross her chest like a gilded snake, flattening her blouse in a way that draws my attention to her elegant collarbones.
I clench my jaw. So muchpower, all bound up, gold glinting against her fawn skin. My gaze drops to her wrist bindings, her long fingers curled like poisonous petals. I can feel the Mysterium thrumming in the protective Blessings. Something else thrums in me—nameless, molasses-thick.
I grip the lip of the stool and begin to pull it over, its legs dragging across the dirt floor. Shame licks at my skin like an open flame. It must be so obvious to everyone else in the room how much I struggle to do a simple thing, how little regard our God has for me.
“For fuck’s sake.” The words startle me, and it takes a long second to realize they’ve left the Lupa Nox’s mouth. “Are either of you lovely gentlemen going to help the lady?”
