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‘A barefooted heathen is what she is!’
Sister Apple spread her fingers towards the exit, still smiling. ‘It was commendable of you to notice the cell had an occupant.’
The older nun scowled and ran her hands over her forehead, tucking a stray strand of colourless hair back into her headdress. ‘There’s nothing that goes on in these cells I don’t notice, sister.’ She narrowed her watery eyes at Sister Apple then sniffed hard and stalked back into the corridor. ‘The child stinks,’ she offered over her shoulder. ‘It needs washing.’
‘I brought you some clothes.’ Sister Apple lifted the habit. ‘But I forgot how dirty you are. Sister Wheel is correct …’ She folded her arms over her stomach. ‘Come with me.’
Nona followed Sister Apple out of the room, weaving around various nuns emerging from their cells or speaking in low tones in the corridor. A couple raised an eyebrow at her approach but none addressed her. At one point an angular nun brought Sister Apple to a halt by laying a hand upon her shoulder. She towered above the others, her height seemingly gained by stretching a regular woman far beyond her design, leaving her dangerously thin.
‘Mistress Blade reports armed men beyond the pillars. An emissary came before first light.’
‘Thank you, Flint,’ Sister Apple nodded.
Sister Flint tilted her head, her face so dark that in the gloom Nona could see only black eyes, glittering as they made a study of her. The nun took her hand from the smaller woman’s shoulder, releasing her to her task.
Sister Apple led the way out into the brittle light of morning. By daylight Nona could see that the convent comprised so many buildings that back in the Grey it would qualify as a village. She suspected it had more stone-built buildings than Flaystown, though she had only glimpsed that metropolis from Giljohn’s cage on the day he drove her from her home.
‘Sister Flint said men are coming. Are they here for me?’ Nona asked. She wondered what help a score of nuns would be if Thuran Tacsis had sent his warriors for her. She should have lost herself in the city when she had a chance.
‘Perhaps.’ Sister Apple glanced back at the great Dome of the Ancestor and frowned. ‘Perhaps not. In any case, it would be best if you joined our order sooner rather than later – and you can’t do that dirty, now can you?’ She led on at a brisk pace.
‘Scriptorium, refectory, bake-house, kitchens.’ Sister Apple reeled off names as they passed various buildings. Few of them meant much to Nona but bake-house she knew and the aroma of fresh bread when they passed the door filled her mouth with drool. ‘The Necessary.’ The nun pointed to a small building, flat-roofed and seemingly clinging to the edge of the cliff a hundred yards off.
‘Necessary?’ Nona asked.
‘You’ll go there when you need it.’ Sister Apple shook her head and smiled. ‘The smell will let you know it’s the right place.’
They passed a long range of buildings with many small square windows, all shuttered on the windward side. ‘Stores and dormitories.’
Nona found herself observed, a dozen pairs of eyes at various of the windows. Some of the girls called out, perhaps to each other. She caught snatches, carried by the wind.
‘… chosen … never!’
‘… that can’t be her …’
‘… peasant …’
‘… she’s not the …’
‘Chosen?’
The voices followed them, words lost in the distance but the tone still hanging in the air. Nona knew it well enough, sharp and unkind.
‘Bathhouse.’ Sister Apple pointed to a squat building built of unadorned black stone, steam escaping from a row of narrow windows, only to be stripped away by the wind. The Corridor wind scoured the plateau, and crossing the gap between the dormitories and the bathhouse Nona found herself exposed to its teeth. She’d spent a lifetime learning to ignore it – just another hard edge of a hard life – but one warm night had left her soft and shivering.
They reached the shelter of the bathhouse walls. The nun unlocked the heavy door and ushered Nona in. Hot wet air wrapped her immediately, the steam reducing her vision to a few yards. Wooden benches lined the foyer and a tall arch gave onto what might be a rectangular pool, its surface offered only in glimpses.
Metal shafts ran beneath the benches in profusion. ‘One of those was in my room!’ Nona pointed.
‘Pipes, child. They’re hollow – mineral oil runs through them. Very hot.’ Sister Apple nodded at the arch. ‘Let’s get the prison filth off you.’
Nona started uncertainly towards the pool, wondering how deep it was, and how hot. The streams around the village never reached much past your knees and quickly stole the feeling from everything below that point.
‘You’re not going in wearing clothes.’ Sister Apple’s voice held a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
Nona turned to stare defiantly up at the nun, her lips pressed together in a puckered scowl. Sister Apple stood with her arms folded. One silent second followed the next and at last Nona started to tug off her Caltess smock, stiff with Raymel Tacsis’s dried blood. She made a slow and awkward job of it: in the village even the littlest of the littles rarely ran around naked; the ice stood too close for that. Only around the harvest fires or in the all-too-brief kiss of the focus moon had Nona ever been as warm as there in the convent bathhouse.
‘Hurry along. I doubt you’re hiding anything unusual under there,’ Sister Apple said, pulling back her headdress as the heat got to her too. She had long hair, red and curling in the wet air.
Nona stepped out of her smock, arms folded about herself, with only the steam for modesty. She made a dart for the pool.
‘Wait!’ Sister Apple raised a hand. ‘You can’t go in filthy. You’ll turn the water black.’ She took a leather bucket from one of the many pegs lining the walls above the benches. ‘Stand over there.’ She pointed to an alcove between the benches on the left.
Nona did as directed, her whole body clenched. The alcove was wide enough for two or three people. The floor, tiled and perforated by finger-width holes, felt strange beneath her feet.
‘What—’ An explosion of hot water stole the rest of the question. Nona wiped her eyes clear in time to see the misty outline of the nun at the poolside having refilled the bucket.
‘There’s a brush on the floor. Use it.’ Another wave of hot water broke across Nona’s chest.
Nona reached, dripping, for the brush. She’d never felt anything quite as wonderful as a bucketful of hot water. Not even fresh bread and butter came close. Not even eggs, or the bacon she had smelled cooking at the Caltess. If scrubbing herself with a bristly brush was the price she had to pay to get into a whole pool of it, she would scrub.
Two buckets later Sister Apple declared her clean enough for the pool. Nona ran to the edge and lowered herself in, toes questing for the bottom. ‘How deep is it?’ The rising steam blinded her, the heat delicious.
‘This end is shallow. On you … to your shoulders?’
The water reached her neck before Nona’s feet found a smooth floor and she released her death-grip on the side. She stood, arms floating at her sides, sure that she had never been truly warm before.
