“It isyou, I fear, Lady Knight,” I reply, pulling out matches and a short candle, then lighting the wick, “that knows little of the truth.”
She is silent then, her shoulders hunched, though I can see the fury burning in her expression. I do my best to ignore it, asking her to follow the flame of the candle as I move it from side to side, and then up and down. I check how her pupils react to the light.
“Your concussion is much improved,” I tell her, anchoring myself deeply in the task of healing. It doesn’t matter who my patient is. Her body is just a body, and I have seen so many of them in my work.
She says nothing to me, her jaw working back and forth. I begin to pack up the healer’s kit and turn toward the guardsmen. “Is it possible for her to bathe? She has some minor wounds that could become infected otherwise.”
For a moment, an expression moves across the shorter guardsman’s face that I’ve seen before—on Sergio, on the physician just last night. My stomach spoils with queasiness. In some sort of unknown reflex, my gaze slides back to the knight. Her breathing, slow and even before, has hitched, fingers curling tight into a fist.
“I’ll need to be present,” I add quickly. “The bandaging on her hand can’t get wet, and more wounds may be discovered. And, of course, for her modesty.”
The guardsmen look at each other, exchanging something in that silent language of men I’ve never been able to decipher.
“We’ll need to consult with the knights,” one says, crossing his arms. “Sir Renault will inform you of the outcome.”
“Thank you,” I say, dipping my head. I turn to my charge to find she is examining me carefully, like she has found some new weakness to exploit. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Try to rest, if you can.”
“Yes, Lady Healer,” she replies, her eyes glittering.
My heart thuds in my throat. I grip my cane tightly, my palms slick, and make my way out of her chamber.
In the corridor, I pause, leaning against a wide stone pillar. A tangled knot of emotions sits heavily on my chest, making each breath a struggle. Absurdly and pathetically, I wish desperately for my mother. She’s been gone since I was barely five summers old, and I know so little about her. She died, like everyone else, when the Sepulchyre descended upon our village. I only stand here today because the Host came at the Sepulchyre’s heels, driving out their terrible army and saving me.
I remember enough of her to know she was a heretic, or perhaps something worse. I remember enough of her to know that I carry the line of healing in my blood. I remember enough of her to miss her, to wish fiercely for her like any orphaned mammal might, a small, defenseless thing in the vast sweep of night.
With my free hand, I shove roughly at the tears stinging my eyes. I am too old for this nonsense. I am to be a wife of the Twelve. My life is so much richer and more devout and wonderful than it would ever have been in a backwoods village with a heretical mother who consorted with false gods.
I let out a shuddering breath and head for the attollo. A guardsman escorts me back to the surface, to the now-bustling corridor of the Spine.
Weaving through the crowds, I silently thank the Morning Devotions incense for banishing the sweet, spicy scent of asphodels from my nose. The rich incense makes me feel calmer, softer, like I’m wrapped in my God’s devoted love. I drop off the healer’s kit at Physica Hall with a novice, instructing her to have one refilled and sent to the Vincula every morning. In the kitchens, I ask for a cup of tea to be delivered to theLibris Sanctum, where I’ll meet Renault and assist him with his research.
My heart lurches at the thought of seeing him, of him no doubt wishing to know what progress I’ve made with the Lupa Nox. Desperation sends my blood pounding. I feel like I’m clawing my way back from the edge of a precipice, like a single wrong move could send me plummeting. All I want is to please Renault, to earn my place among his esteemed family, to prove that Sergio’s accusations of goetia were simply a mistake. I want to bring children into the Church—as many as I can before my body grows too old. I want to be a good wife.
I try to settle myself before I walk beneath the large, gilded arch of the Libris Sanctum, drawing in a deep breath of leather and paper. The towering stained-glass windows running along the far wall send early morning sunlight piercing into the vaulted space of the Sanctum, dust motes dancing in the glittering spears of gold.
A young seminarian sits at the main desk, flipping through a manuscript of heavy vellum. I raise a hand in greeting and then head toward the antiquarian section, where I know Renault is awaiting me.
As I walk, I remind myself that I have everything I could possibly want—and much more than a sinner like me could possibly deserve.
“Ophelia, youbrilliantthing,” Renault murmurs, his gaze sliding to my parchment and then back to the ancient manuscript. “You’re absolutely correct.”
Elation fizzes in me as I straighten, turning to look at him. “Truly, you think so?” I glance back at my parchment—at the rough translation code I’ve managed to put together from the crumbling, half-intact manuscript. The language of this manuscript is an oddity—not quite Ceremonia and not any of the lower common dialects either.
“Yes,” he breathes, his face lighting up with excitement as he begins transposing the letters onto his scrap parchment, feather quill bobbing rapidly.
“Do you think perhaps it’s just an older form of Ceremonia?” I ask, unable to bite my tongue even though I know I should let my betrothed concentrate. “The style of the illuminations looks older, and there’s no gold flake. That either means it’s been worn away, or perhaps hadn’t come into style yet, or maybe it was made before the material had been fashioned at all.”
Renault doesn’t answer me, but that’s all right—my musings are likely silly anyway, my success in the translation just a lucky break after watching him work all these anni. We met when Renault was a junior scribe, about five and ten anni ago. I’d still been prone to falls back then, before the physicians, unable to fix my leg, passed me off to Headmistress Magdalena. She’d instead focused on figuring out how I might live with it.
The Libris Sanctum seemed like the safest place for me to contribute to the Host, so I organized documents and took down dictated notes from assistant scribes. He’d been one of them, a promising young apprentice, son of the famed Amadeus family, one of the Twelve. I’d been so nervous to meet him when I received my day assignment. His preferred assistant had taken ill, so I filled in. Renault was kind enough to take an interest in a broken thing like me, and we’ve been friends ever since.
“Oh,” Renault says in a low huff beside me. I watch his shoulders deflate, sunlight streaming in above his profile, nearly blinding me. “It’s a story—a parable of sorts. Not actually about ship-building.”
My heart sinks. The manuscript is decorated in a frame of ships at sea, their sails billowing in the wind, the currents carefully etched beneath their bows. We’d hoped the document might provide some insight into the creation of these magnificent things. Any attempt our craftsmen make seems to fall short; we can never make the ships actuallyfloat. So much knowledge was lost in the wars that have ravaged Sylva thanks to the Creatrixes. But since the First Son banished them—about ten anni before my birth—the Host has slowly worked to recover as much as possible.
“Still an exciting discovery in regard to this form of Ceremonia, though, surely,” I offer. It’s a fine accomplishment for House Amadeus. Members of the Twelve put a strong emphasis on academic discoveries, not just military victories.
The words have barely left my mouth when Cleric Primus Horatius rounds the corner. The tall, narrow man’s balding head gleams in the morning light, spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He spots Renault and makes his way over. My breath constricts in my chest, gaze cast down toward my hands.
