My fingers dig into the muslin cloth as I fold, unfold, and then re-fold it, only to drop it into the launderers’ bin. “Yes, Headmistress,” I say, barely holding back a flood of tears and something else lurking behind them—something fire-like instead of water. I turn away from Magdalena to conceal my face, just in case the torrent breaks free.
But her strong fingers grip my shoulder for the barest of moments. “Sometimes we must comply to survive,” Magdalena murmurs, close to my ear, her words fierce, filled with equal parts sorrow and conviction. “Save your energy.”
Before I can process her precise meaning, Magdalena leans away and adds, louder now, “Try to get some sleep. I’ll send someone if I need you, but I think the worst is over. Tonight wasn’t too terrible, excluding the Hexen attacks. At least as far as nights in Physica Hall go.”
I look at the headmistress, clinging to her tiny concession, but the gaze I meet is cold, stoic, lacking any of the fiery conviction I swear I just heard. So a nod is all I hazard, leaning hard on my cane as I turn, traveling down the far side of the hall to avoid the throng of physicians gathered in the center. I don’t want to see his face again, hear that voice, feel his eyes crawling across my body.
My vision blurs as I reach the doors to the Spine. Saints, how can someone likeme—clearly consumed by sin, riddled withwickedness—be the one to convert the Lupa Nox? What if the darkness in her seeks out the shadows in me and we tumble into the void together, lost forevermore?
Something like a sob barrels up my throat. My eyes are thick with the haze of unshed tears. In the urgency to return to my room, I barely recognize my betrothed in a Saint’s alcove, speaking in hushed tones with someone. I do not want to spy or pry, but curiosity gets the best of me. I slip down the Spine, trying to stick to the evening shadows, peering beneath the arch of the grotto as I approach. Just as I draw even, confirming that it’s Renault’s broad shoulders and auburn hair I see, whomever he’s speaking with shifts their weight.
A swathe of storm-gray vestments slips across the marble. For the barest second, silver gauntlets wink in the candlelight.
A High Ecclesian, conversing with Renault in the early bells of the morning, Their voice hushed, tucked away in a grotto. None of this, I know, can be good. My body urges me to run, and exhausted as I am, I cannot fight the impulse. I comply, picking up my pace.
I’m maybe fifteen strides away when the sound of my name slinks out into the quiet of the Spine.
“Ophelia,” Renault calls.
My stomach does a strange flip—I’ve heard girls talk about this as a sign of infatuation—and I come to a halt, my cane nearly slipping on the marble floor. Hastily, I press my free hand into my eyes, dragging away evidence of my tears. I turn, trembling, terrified of finding the High Ecclesian at his side.
But there is just my betrothed. A long sigh heaves out of me. “Renault,” I greet, dipping into a small curtsy, the appropriate response as we are in view of the public.
“Are you all right?” he asks, stooping over me, fingertips brushing my chin. When I don’t look up, the pressure of his touch increases until I tilt my head back, meeting his eyes.
“Fine,” I squawk, but the word comes out raw, like it’s been scraped against the rough cliffs of Lumendei. I want to ask about the High Ecclesian, but I don’t know how, and I don’t know if Renault can even speak freely here in the Spine.
“Then why are you dressed like this while out of your room?” he asks.
My mind fumbles desperately to jump from what I’ve just seen to responding to Renault’s question. I examine his expression, looking for those clues I so often miss.
I want to tell myself that the way his brows draw together and his eyes search my face, then my body, is out of concern for me. I want to tell myself this so badly it makes my lungs hurt.
“The attack,” I say, barely a whisper, only just audible over the sounds of another platoon marching by. “I-I wanted to get to the infirmary as quickly as possible. I didn’t know the severity of the injuries.”
Renault frowns, his fingers tracing the loose strands of hair around the front of my face, their ends brushing my collarbones. “I love your commitment to our people,” he murmurs, one hand falling on my shoulder. How can the palm of a mortal man feel so heavy? “But you’re an Apostle bride now, Ophelia. You should be attired with more decorum in public. I know it’s a lot to adjust to. Sometime soon, I’ll send my mother over with some new dresses that are easy to pull on when you have to get up quickly.”
My chest tightens for a thousand reasons, some that I cannot even name, but then all my frustration turns inward, toward myself—where it belongs. How dare I bristle so much at Renault’s care? I am living the fantasy of so many women—foundling and noble alike. He only wishes for me to present myself well, like any good Church of the Host woman should. He doesn’t understand that dressing on my own can be difficult for me. He doesn’t know how the dream of my own mother shookme, how I have been . . . unmoored ever since I met the Lupa Nox.
“Yes,” I agree, nodding vigorously. “Thank you so much for your generosity, Renault. I promise I’ll put more care into my appearance moving forward.”
He sighs, cupping my chin. “It’s silly, isn’t it?” he murmurs, the side of his mouth curving in a way that makes him look more like my friend and less like a titled Apostle nobleman. “I know. I’m sorry. Such things come with the station, I fear.”
My heart warms, those shards of ice melting from my chest. I want to tell him that sometimes I cannot discern the difference between his playacting for the public’s eye and what he truly means; he is too good at appearances, too practiced thanks to his noble birth.
“Well worth it,” I assure him, smiling. “I’m going to retire to my room now, if that’s all right.”
“I would walk you, but I’m already late for an emergency gathering,” Renault says, gesturing up the hallway to the Militaire Annex, a vast series of connected halls, courtyards, and fields that branch off the far side of the Spine.
“No, I completely understand,” I reply, desperately trying to hold back the strange relief I feel. I think it has little to do with Renault; I only wish to be alone.
My betrothed nods and then, before I can ask about the High Ecclesian, strides down the gleaming floors of the Spine. I gather myself, hands trembling, and return to my room. No one speaks to me along the way, for which I am beyond grateful.
The moment my door closes, a sob rends my chest. My hands tremble too much for my cane, so I set it against the wall and limp toward my bedside drawers, my hips aching unbearably, my knee screaming with white-hot pain. I deserve it all, and yet—it’s not enough. Collapsing against the side of my mattress, I yank open the top drawer, shaking fingers searching for theworn leather handle. The weight of it in my palm immediately soothes me. Crumpling to my knees—a painful position given my leg, which is all the better—I pull down my dressing gown to expose my back.
With no fire in the hearth, the cool night air ghosts across my skin like a phantom. I take a deep breath, gripping the flail with one hand. The cords are waxed, the ends of each strand knotted, metal beads increasing its bite.
This, I think just before I strike myself, is the trouble with being an already-cracked vase placed upon a pedestal—it is so very far to fall.
