Deep, male, something liturgical. It's strange, hypnotic, sort of like Gregorian chant, but with... melodic twists that sound almost alien. I swallow, my throat dry, and sit up. Everything aches from travel, from cold, from the fact that I appear to have slept in my coat and all my clothes from yesterday. Above me, the almond brown eyes of the Virgin Mary stare down.
"Gwenna!" There's a rapid series of knocks at the door. "Breakfast! Come, come!"
Before I can react, before I can even move, the door bursts open, and it's the three girls from yesterday. Dasha, once again, beaming with delight. Sveta, sweeping in after her, and little Katyenka, tiptoeing in last.
"Good morning," Dasha says. "You sleep well?" She says, nodding eagerly.
"Um," my voice feels froggy in my throat. "Yes, fine, thank you."
"We have food," Sveta says. "In the hall. You come?"
"Sure," I say, blinking slowly. Do Russians drink coffee? I shudder to think of what awaits me on the caffeine front. I push the blankets off of me and get up, shedding my coat.
It's a little warmer, at least, and I desperately need to change my base layer. "Just give me a..." I trail off, going to my suitcase, rummaging around. A skirt, I guess. They're all wearing them, it seems respectful. A long-sleeve thermal, a sweater. If I layer fleece tights and wool socks, I probably won't freeze to death.
I pick them out, throw them over my hand, and when I turn around, the girls are all still there.
"Here," Dasha says, rushing forward, "please." She takes the clothes, sets them on my bed. I squint my eyes shut and shake my head.
"I'm just going to…get dressed."
"Yes, yes," says Sveta.
None of them moves.
"Could you wait…outside?” I say, tentatively.
"Oh," Dasha cries, putting a hand to her mouth. "We just want to help, but yes." She bows her head, nodding, and they slip out.
Finally. I change as quickly as I can. Tight skirt, shirt, sweater, socks, and splash my face with ice-cold water from the pitcher. Glancing at myself in the mirror over the dresser, I look…terrible. I have no idea what time my body thinks it is, my skin feels tight and dry, and I haven't eaten a proper meal in at least 24 hours.
I locate my hairbrush, pull it through my hair, smear on some moisturizer, and add a double layer to my lips.
Where are they?, I wonder.Are they awake? Training? Practicing? Eating?
Suddenly, I can't wait to get out of the room. The sooner I'm out, the sooner the day goes on, the sooner we're gone. TheSt. Ignaty Refectory is around another corner, a long communal hall with a high ceiling and long tables, more icons on the walls—they're everywhere, I suppose—and arrow-loop windows on one side that look out at a gray morning. Finally, I can see this place, although there's not much to see: sparse grass and mud, a pewter-colored sky. Slow rises of hills, concealed behind low clouds.
It looks dead.
"Come," Dasha says, leading me by the small of the back, "this way."
It's then I notice that the hall is divided. One side is men: young men, presumably students, older men in robes. And the other is sparser, a handful of women, mostly older, with weathered faces and scarves. And that's the side I'm looking at.
The food is cafeteria-style, metal trays from a small buffet, kasha, black bread, hard-boiled eggs, pickles, more tea. I take a little of each, not especially hungry, despite the fact that I've barely eaten. But my three compatriots stack theirs high, like they're each eating for three.
When we sit, I pick around my offerings. Half an egg, a few bites of black bread. My stomach feels like a brick.
"No," Sveta says sternly, looking at my plate. "You must eat." She shoves half the food on her plate onto mine.
I am taken aback. She's being polite, I assume, but it's almost forceful. "Thank you," I say, a bit bewildered.
Next to her, Dasha widens her eyes, gives her a look, mutters something in Russian. I tune them out and peer across the room. I can see them. Kingston, Kai, Lanz, Callahan. They're all together at one table, hunched over, eating, discussing. I ache to be next to them, to hear what they're talking about, to just be around them and not overhear.
A few tables away, I see Luther with Father Maksim and a few more monks, plus some other men who must be officials.
I look back to the four of them, and Kingston sees me, his golden eyes locking on mine.I'm okay, I try to communicate telepathically.I'm fine. I'm good. It's not exactly the truth, but it's what I want him to think.Stop worrying about me and worry more about being poisoned or having your throat slit in your sleep.
For his part, he doesn't look convinced. Next to him, Kai is scowling at his food, not eating, but looks up when he sees Kingston stare. His face softens a little, and he starts to get up, but Kingston pushes him back down, whispers something into his ear. Kai's scowl gets bigger. Lanz and Callahan turn too, Lanz chewing his lip, and Callahan looking tense.
