“Cleric Primus,” Renault greets with a bow of his head.
Horatius returns the gesture with only a nod; his position as Cleric Primus is one of the few that elevates a mortal above a son of an Apostle family. “Anything to report?” he asks in his deep, monotone voice. His owlish face shows not a stitch of what he might be thinking. “Sir Magnus is interested in this manuscript, too. I fear if you aren’t having any luck with it, I’ll grant his request.”
Renault’s jaw clenches. “It so happens that I’ve had a major breakthrough just now.”
I sit up straighter, excitement buzzing through my blood, eager to see how Horatius will react. Like the other two Clerics, he thinks Renault’s choice to have a woman for his assistant is foolish—even more so now that I’m his betrothed. PerhapsHoratius’s ever-expressionless face will show a glimmer of surprise when he learnsIwas the one who made the break in the translation.
“I’ve deciphered the document,” Renault says proudly, gently sliding the manuscript over the table, closer to where the Cleric stands. He walks Horatius through the process—myprocess—and explains the contents of the manuscript. At no point does he mention me or even look my way. My stomach plummets further and further with each word.
“Hmm,” Horatius says, his small, dark eyes locked on the document. “Well done, Sir Renault. Carry on for now. See if you can glean anything else.”
“Thank you, Cleric Primus,” Renault replies with an enthused smile, his face tinted with a warm glow. Horatius turns and continues through the antiquarian section, disappearing from sight.
I swallow hard, biting the inside of my cheek. Oh, I know how important it is for a Host woman—particularly an Apostle bride—to be humble. I shouldn’t seek praise or exaltation. But how dearly I wanted to see Horatius’s reaction to someone like me accomplishing this break.
“I’m sorry, Ophelia,” Renault says in a low murmur, scooting his chair closer to me. “You know how the Clerics are. I thought he might discount your incredible work simply because it came from you. I wanted to buy you more time with the manuscript. I know how you love the ships of old.”
Discontent still stirs in me, but I let out an exhale, reaching to trace my fingertips over the magnificent illustrations along the edges of the scroll. “I understand,” I manage to get out, though my stomach twists as I look up into his hazel eyes. Panic blooms in my chest as I search his expression, desperately trying to figure out what he wishes for me to say. “All that matters is that you’re proud of me.”
He grins then, taking one of my hands and placing a kiss on my knuckles. Relief flushes through me.
“What a perfect bride you are,” he murmurs, reaching over to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. I blush, ducking my head to avoid his gaze. “Let’s take luncheon, shall we? And we can discuss your progress with the Lupa Nox.”
And just like that, all the happiness drains out of me, like a cloud has blotted out the sun. Instead of my loving betrothed and the warm safety of the Libris Sanctum and the joy of my discovery, there is only the looming dark of my ever-growing sin.
Chapter 11
We take our midday meal out on the stone terrace that embraces the outer curve of the Libris Sanctum in a half-moon. The day is overcast, the roar of the storm-strewn sea audible even from this distance. With the sixth month coming to a close, the air grows cooler each day. The stained glass of the Sanctum glimmers like fish scales in the gray light.
A kitchen maid approaches our table, offering a tray of light meal selections: dried fruit and crumbly cheeses, quick breads and pickled vegetables. I recognize the maid as a fellow foundling and open my mouth to greet her by name, but then remember that, as an Apostle bride, I can no longer enjoy such informalities. Instead, I offer her a small smile, hoping she’ll understand.
Renault hasn’t said a word since I recounted my morning with the Lupa Nox, and he remains silent as he fills his plate. Once he’s done, I make my choices from what remains. Though my stomach rumbles and I’d like two pieces of bread, I remind myself of how difficult it is to feed all the people of Lumendei,how scarce our resources are during these days of never-ending war with the Sepulchyre.
As devotees of Moryx, I don’t know why they won’t stop now that the Creatrixes are gone, why they insist on causing so much strife. Granted, I understand little about them at all, worshipping the powers of death when the First Son promises eternal life—even to mortals, granted in the heavenly realm of Caelus.
In the end, I pluck only one piece of bread from the tray, sipping my birch tea as I wait for Renault to speak—to say anything at all. He does not, tearing into a large hunk of bread instead, his gaze averted. I nibble on some dried peach, my insides in knots, all hunger vanished.
“She’s only been here two days, Renault,” I remind him, trying not to tremble at the idea of disappointing him after all he’s done for me. “I can do this, I promise.”
He finally looks at me, shoulders unpinning from their agitated position. A cool breeze dances across the courtyard, rattling the ivy vines that climb up the Sanctum’s stone walls. “I know,” Renault murmurs, reaching across the table to brush my hand. “I’m sorry, Ophelia. I…I’m just tired. I’ve spent these past few months fighting so hard for you. To keep you safe.”
I swallow hard, the movement catching in my throat. “Yes, you have,” I agree, meeting his gaze, his hair an auburn halo in the sun. “I need to pull my own weight, too. And I will. I just need to figure out how to gain her trust.”
My mind strays to the Lupa Nox, her long legs spread, back straight against the Vincula’s chair. That dark, devilish gaze, the knowing curve of her mouth. I squeeze my eyes shut.
“Oh, you silly girl.” Renault laughs, his thumb ghosting the back of my palm. “You won’t gain her trust. Youcan’t, no matter how hard you try, and I have little doubt you’d put your entire heart into it. No, Ophelia. That won’t work.”
I glance up at him, my meal forgotten, tension gathering across my back. The marks from my penance last night sting suddenly, a reminder of my weakness. He holds my gaze, as if awaiting some epiphany we both know I won’t have.
“Try playing on her sympathies first,” Renault suggests, pausing to take a long swig of his ale. “The Sepulchyre believe a lot of ridiculous things about us, including that we oppress our women. If you tell her that you’ll be harmed if she doesn’t allow you to try converting her, it might open an opportunity. One you’ll have to use wisely, of course. She’ll only be entertaining you.”
My mouth goes dry. The weak sunlight grows hot all at once, igniting a wildfire along my hair, my shoulders, my back. I struggle to grasp the words Renault has just spoken, struggle to weave them together into something I can understand.
“And she would believeyou’dhurt me? A titled Apostle, my husband-to-be?” I ask, my voice high and incredulous.
Renault just shrugs, his gaze sliding to the horizon in the distance. “It’s very likely,” he says. “They espouse all sorts of nonsense about us. How else do you think their leaders send people like Nyatrix so readily into the fray again and again?”
The Lupa Nox’s name slams into me, rendering the overcast courtyard into a battlefield of its own. My mouth aches to hold those syllables between tongue and teeth. I can’t. I won’t. I try to return to the task laid out before me, reaching for my teacup.
