From beyond the elaborate bronze grate, the priest begins the rite. I fall into the familiar process, though my heart pounds as we approach the moment where I must confess. I wring my hands, the flail marks on my back throbbing. Perhaps I am not strong enough to be truthful. For a long, halting moment, I fear that I used up all my strength when I confessed to Renault. That the rest of me is just wickedness, just sin, happy to obscure and distract.
“Father,” I manage, my tongue too heavy in my mouth, “I have lusted after someone other than my betrothed. I have questioned my faith.”
Silence greets me from the other side. The seconds stretch into bells, my muscles spasming. Incense slinks beneath the door and winds into my nostrils. I tremble, starved for the approval of my God. It is so pathetic, I know, how desperately I wish to be told that, despite my confession, I am good. That’s all I need, I think—to be reminded that I am good. My throat closes off as a tear rolls down my cheek.
“Child,” the pontifex finally says, his voice gentle. My shoulders relax just slightly, and I shift my weight, trying to take pressure off my left hip. “You are here on your knees begging for forgiveness, and because of that, I know you can be saved. But I beg you to take your stumbling seriously. This is how people Fall, child. And I do not want such a fate for you.”
“Of course,” I stutter, the words barely audible. I try to cling to the pontifex’s kind voice and the way he sounds genuinely concerned—but all I hear is that I might be Falling. Something like desperation claws at my insides, though I cannot flee. Even if I turn and rip open the heavy brocade curtain, I will still be in the house of the God against whom I transgressed. There is nowhere I can go in this city that is not His.
“If you are involved in worldly things,” the priest says, thoughtful now, his voice emanating from a formless shadow beyond the grate, “perhaps it is best to step away. Focus on womanly pursuits: readying for your nuptials, caring for the children of the Church, preparing nourishment for our people. Surround yourself with godly women. Temptation is a terrible reality of this world thanks to the Creatrixes. Follow the path that leads you to Caelus instead.”
A choked noise escapes my throat. How I would love to follow his instructions, to purify myself of whatever has come over me, but the woman I spend the most time with is the furthest thing from God I have ever known.
“Yes, Father,” I say, reeling, a strange, tinny noise piercing my ears. “Thank you, Father.”
“The First Son always offers us the chance to try again,” he says, and hemeansit. He believes it in a way I fear I no longer can; I’m too marred by sin, too utterly irredeemable. “Be well, child.”
I thank the pontifex and then, with an undignified grunt, pull myself to my feet. Spasms race down my bad leg, and my vision briefly goes white. My shoulder slams into the confessional grate, and the latch almost gives. At the last moment, I catch myself on my cane. I heave a few heavy breaths, calming my racing heart, before I push through the curtain and out into the Devorarium.
A few congregants wait on nearby pews to enter the confessional, but for the most part, the space is empty after Morning Mass. I settle into a pew on the side and try to find that peace, that godliness, that I once believed I knew so well. To the left of the altar, the door to the Baptisma grotto is open. The reflection of water dances on the marble floors. If I were lowered beneath the surface today, would the First Son accept me? Or would those ancient, blessed waters sense my wickedness, my doubt, and drag me to the bottom?
The thought brings me no comfort, so I cast my gaze toward the large mural behind the altar. The Last Supper—the First Son and His beloved siblings, all willing to sacrifice themselves to save the people of this world. It’s the sacrifice we imitate at every Mass—that He may eat of our body and drink of our blood should the darkness of the Creatrixes ever rise again.
The Fatum of the High Ecclesia undergo a more intense version of the ritual, one shrouded in secret, reserved for only the most holy. They are meant to represent our Lord’s twelve siblings, of course, His closest inner circle, ready and willing to lend Their power the moment He requires it. After the terriblewar with the jealous Creatrixes, many of the High Ecclesia were slain, leaving our Lord with only ten—incomplete, unfinished, lacking the full depth of power.
I pick at my cuticles and take a long, deep breath. Instead of some shred of peace entering my body, the phantom scent of rot passes beneath my nose. With a start, I glance around, but no High Ecclesians have entered the Devorarium. I haven’t seen any, in fact, since that strange moment with Renault in the Libris Sanctum.
The memory of the two of Them, moving like one animal in perfect unison, plays out in my mind. With a dry swallow, I raise my eyes to the mural again, studying the siblings the First Son plans to devour. I chew the inside of my lip and shove the blasphemous thoughts that burst into my mind away. And then I rise from the pew, because I cannot stay in the Temple of God with such things tumbling through my head, with all the bile sloshing in my stomach. Whatever the Lupa Nox has done to me, it will not be excised with a single confession.
As I take the outer aisle down to the doors, I wonder—not for the first time—if the knight is doing anything at all to me. Or if perhaps I am just finally losing the battle with that wicked seed I’ve always known was planted inside my heart. Perhaps when I attempted to cut that piece of myself out, I didn’t slice quite deep enough.
I make my way through the Spine as quickly as I can, my head down, headed for the gardens. Fresh air and hard labor will help; that’s what the priest said. To concern myself with womanly things, like feeding our people.
But even with my gloves donned, a basket tucked under my arm, when I pluck a blackberry from the bush, all I can think about is what it might taste like to kiss another woman. All I can see is the knight’s dark, plaited locks. The dangerous curve of her lips.
I want nothing more than to feel that mouth against mine.
The priest told me to surround myself with godly women, and there is no doubt that Carina meets that description, and so, later that evening, I send her a note requesting her presence in my room for after-dinner tea. It’s a fairly common practice among Apostle wives, I’ve learned. And with Renault called away for military business before the midday meal, I need someone to lean on. Even if I hate myself for all the weight I carry.
And I need my dearest friend, regardless of how she betrayed me with the Saints. She knows me,seesme, in a way Renault—or anyone else, for that matter—never has. My prior feelings for her complicate my decision, but I am so weary. I feel so alone, so sure that everything is about to crumble into dust. All I want is to forget, for at least a few moments, and return to that hazy, simple time of the girlhood I shared with Carina.
When I hear the knock, I fuss with the tea display set on the edge of my tiny hearth one more time and then hurry to the door, balancing myself on the edge of my bed as I go. I pull open the door, and there Carina is, wrapped in a worn checkered shawl, a small jar in her hands.
“I brought that spiced orange tea you love,” she says, looking down at me with a smile. As I gaze into her glimmering brown eyes and the planes of her familiar features, something inside of me unknots, like there’s been a rope constricting my lungs all this time and I’ve only just realized it.
I smile back and usher Carina inside, offering her a blanket. The autumn chill has swept in at nightfall just like it always does—fiercely and all at once. The height of the days in Lumendeithis time of the annum feels like summer, but the depth of the night is closer to winter.
With my cane, I carefully lower myself onto the woolen blankets and cushions I’ve arranged in front of the hearth. Carina is already swaddled in a quilt, spooning the delicious tea she brought into the pot of hot water I’ve prepared. My hip catches and I grunt, but then I manage to find a comfortable position.
“It’s so kind of you to remember,” I murmur, watching the firelight dance across Carina’s shimmering chestnut hair. “About the tea.”
She looks at me sidelong, a smile tugging at her lips. “We’ve only been friends for what, fifteen anni?” she asks with a laugh. “Of course I remember.”
Warmth floods my chest, and I snuggle deeper into the soft nest of blankets and cushions. We say nothing for a long while, just sitting in companionable silence as our tea steeps. I’m not sure I have this with anyone else—certainly not Renault. This feeling of complete and utter comfort, like I can allow my shoulders to slump and speak my mind as the words come, or not speak at all.
Carina passes me a steaming cup of tea—prepared just how I like it with the tiniest dash of honey—and I wrap my hands around it. I wish everything felt like this: soft, warm, gentle, with only the murmur of the fire in the background.
“How have you been doing?” she asks, cradling her teacup against her chest. “I was so happy when you wanted to see me.”
