My eyes sting. “I’m sorry, Carina,” I say, my voice low and miserable. “I don’t want to keep burdening you with all my troubles.”
The breeze tugs at my long skirts, ruffling the edge of my worn gardening apron. The accusations of goetia against me harmed Carina by association—and I will carry that guilt for the rest of my life. Everyone knows we are dear to each other, so when I was brought to trial, accused of making a dark pact with the diaboli in exchange for heinous, perverted powers, Carina found herself under much suspicion, too.
She’s not from an untouchable noble family, not like my betrothed, Renault. I couldn’t help her. Renault tried, wielding his powerful noble family name, but even he—the third son of the House Amadeus—had to resort toproposingto me to keep me safe. I set my jaw, staring at the ground, wondering if the soil might do us all a favor and swallow me whole.
Because now Renault’s entire family is outraged at him, talking about revoking his inheritance. Carina lost her work with the seamstress, finding herself back to basic labor beside me. All of it because my friends just wanted to help me. Shame burns my face, my throat raw. What a burden I am. The First Son must regret Sparing me.
I glance up to find my dearest friend looking at me with a tenderness that makes my breath catch, the sun breaking through the morning mist to turn her long strands of chestnuthair to gold. “You don’t need to apologize,” she says, her voice firm.
“Right,” I say, glancing back toward the Cloisters’ immense stone Spine at the far end of the garden. “Sorry. I-I’m going to take the yarrow inside and start processing it. The infirmary is low.”
Clutching my basket close to my chest, I slip past Carina, fighting the urge to look over my shoulder. Instead, I wind through the familiar snaking paths of the garden until I come to the main walkway, marked by crushed white seashells.
My tongue tastes sour in my mouth as I greet a group of novices on their way to pick berries before the day grows too hot. By the time I reach the stone porte cochere leading into the Cloisters, I let out a choked gasp of relief, tucking myself into the shadows of the structure. The scent of incense from the Morning Devotions creeps from beneath the double doors to my right, their ancient wood surface whitewashed and studded with gold stars.
“Please,” I ask, directing my gaze upward toward the heavenly realm where I might find the First Son, the one true God I’ve dutifully served since my youth. “King of Kings. I beseech you. Deliver me from this torment. You know my heart. I am not worthy, no, but I am trying.”
Something about the atmosphere shifts, a ray of sun slanting through the garden’s mist in a way that brings to mind illuminated manuscripts and gilded goblets. My breath catches in my chest, my heart beating to a foolishly hopeful rhythm ofmaybe, maybe, maybe.
Then the Cloisters’ doors burst open with startling force. I jump, nearly dropping my basket, and slink deeper into the shadows of the porte cochere. Even though it should only be more novices or my fellow garden-workers coming through thedoors, I still don’t want to be seen—not like this, my eyes red and puffy with tears, my hair knotted by the wind.
But it is no mortal who walks through the doors.
No, something much worse: a member of the High Ecclesia comes stalking out of the Spine. The hair on the back of my neck rises to attention, my throat crumpling. I press myself against the moss-damp stone, hoping the shadows are deep enough to conceal me from the closest thing to God that prowls these sacred halls.
The High Ecclesian pauses in the middle of the stone terrace, sunlight glinting off the chains of gold and pearl that drape from Their chatelaine. Billowing vestments conceal Their towering form in shades of steel-gray; a sacred heart is embroidered in the middle of Their chest, blood-red velvet and glittering thread. Silver pauldrons adorn Their shoulders, the looping layers of chainmail winking in the sun. A heavy hood and smooth gold mask covers Their features—the same as every member of the High Ecclesia.
I’ve never been so close to one of Them before. I hold absolutely still and wait for Them to continue on Their holy business. Surely They want no interruption from a mortal foundling woman cowering alone in the shadows. The High Ecclesia does not speak to the likes of me, and for that I am grateful.
Theyterrifyme.
And perhaps it’s my terror that leaves me spellbound, for though I have been schooled since childhood to lower my eyes in Their presence, I find myself examining the High Ecclesian from the safety of my hiding place. To my surprise, the gray cloth of the hood gathered at the sides of Their metal mask has slipped away near Their cheekbone.
I peer closer, sure that my eyes are deceiving me for a second time this morning. Because beneath the edge of the mask, I seethe pallid skin of a corpse—a blue-tinged paleness that no living creature should or evencouldpossess. I gasp in surprise, tasting sickly sweet rot upon my tongue. Unadulterated fear races down my spine.
All at once, the High Ecclesian’s head snaps toward me, golden chatelaine charms viciously catching the sunlight. I stop breathing, my heart thundering against my trembling ribs.
“Foundling,” They intone in a voice as old as the ground I stand upon. “Come with Us.Now.”
Chapter 2
Even though I’m hidden deep in the thicket of shadows, the High Ecclesian’s gaze finds me easily, sizing me up the same way a butcher might behold a pound of flesh to be carved and cut. “YouareOphelia Foundling, betrothed to Renault Amadeus, yes?” the High Ecclesian demands when I say nothing, Their body straight as an arrow.
My palms are so damp my cane nearly slides from my grasp. Wisps of incense trickle out from the Spine, wiping away the taste of rot lingering on my palate.
“Yes,” I manage, finally forcing myself a step or two away from the wall.
“Then,” the High Ecclesian replies, “with Us. At once.” For a moment, Their large hand reaches out for me, gold-washed plate armor clinking like bones. At the last second, They seem to change Their mind and turn on Their heel, stalking back through the doors into the Cloisters’ Spine.
My heart races rabbit-quick. Wistfulness unfolds in me like an old letter, its creases brittle. I want so badly to think the High Ecclesian is here because of the statue’s tears, because Carina is mistaken, because my Sainting is true. I cross the threshold, the whitewashed doors swinging closed behind me.
More foolishness—it is the Twelve, not the High Ecclesia, that verify new Saintings. And even if a Saint did choose me, the noble mortal men that sit at that powerful table—including Renault’s father—would certainly test my claim in every way possible.
Any hope of miracles I dare to harbor withers and dies as my eyes adjust to the candlelit gloom of the Spine. The main corridor that runs up the center of the Cloisters is devoid of its usual morning bustle; instead, it’s still, silent, grave-like. More Holy Guard than I’ve ever seen inside the city’s gates—even during Sepulchyre attacks—line the wide, long passageway. Their ranks are tight, shoulder-to-shoulder. The sun streams through the arched stained-glass ceiling far above my head, branding strange shadow-shapes onto their bronze armor.
My mouth goes dry, unease burrowing deeper into my bones. It’s impossible not to feel like the Holy Guard is watching me, memorizing my every move to report back to their commander—the man who accused me of goetia and nearly destroyed my life.
I fix my gaze on the hem of the High Ecclesian’s storm-colored vestments and force myself to follow. My cane rings out too loudly on the gold-veined marble; normally I move through the Spine invisibly, hidden by the servants on errands and the cooks wheeling in bounties of vegetables and the novices going about their work.
