I nod and turn away, headed for the door.
Then the sound of my name leaves her lips, long and low and lonely, almost as if no one has ever called me by my true name before. As if everyone else has only ever spoken a false imitation of those syllables, and somehow it is the wicked wolf-woman who knows the real melody of it.
“Ophelia,” she repeats. “Please. Could you . . . try to find something out about the Communion?”
I set my jaw, steadying myself to look over my shoulder. What I find there chills me. The deadliest weapon of the Sepulchyre—that long, muscled column of her, powerful in a way I cannot even begin to imagine—looksafraid.
My breath catches, hand curling tightly around the top of my cane. The next words are out of my mouth before I can consider the ramifications.
“I’ll try. I promise.”
Six bells chime as I slip into the Sanctum. I skirt around the massive orrery in the lobby, my steps carrying me to the circulation desk. Despite the early bell, there’s already someone there—a page, by the looks of it, trying to resolve a dispute about requested materials with the clerk.
In my head, I rehearse: I will ask for any scrolls containing mention of a ritual called the Communion. Historical texts, propaganda articles, all of it—anything with that word, I wish to see. It’s for Sir Renault Amadeus, I’ll say, because who could refuse one of the most powerful Houses?
I claw my fingers around the top of my cane, straightening my back despite the pain. I amnotbewitched by the Lupa Nox, I tell myself, though shame creeps up the back of my neck anyway. No—something strange is going on here, and I think it started when I was tasked with caring for the knight. If I were more intelligent, surely I would’ve seen these foul designs from the beginning. But I’m only a foundling woman, and I’m just now catching up.
What I’m about to do, the lie I’m about to tell—it’s only because I’m worried there is an infection festering in Lumendei, perverting the sanctity of my city and my Lord. Worried Renault and I might be caught up in something even more unholy than the Sepulchyre knight down there in the dark.
The page turns away from the clerk, nodding, and my heart ricochets into my throat. I step up toward the desk, my cane catching on the edge of the floor covering. With an undignified gasp, I steady myself, my face hot and red as I approach.
The clerk arches a brow at me, looking down from the tall, ornately carved desk. My throat constricts, and for a long moment, I say nothing at all.
“And what exactly can I help you with?” the clerk inquires, his expression souring.
I clear my throat, smoothing my skirts. Then I straighten my spine and prepare to speak. “I—er—um, I was just wondering if Sir Renault was here? He said he might arrive early and would like my assistance,” is all that comes out. The low boil of shame contorts in my stomach.
The clerk’s expression is pinched, and my heart flutters at the possibility that he might find me suspicious. But then his features smooth over and he just shakes his head.
“Oh,” I breathe. “Al-all right. Thank you.” I bow my head and scurry away, pinpricks of heat assailing my skin. Before my mind quite catches up with what my body is doing, I’m passing under the Libris Sanctum Arch, back out into the Spine.
Weariness and self-hatred slam onto my shoulders. I watch the hustle of the morning that has always brought me peace: the kitchen staff carrying in sacks of potatoes and the novice moving down the center of the shining marble floor, conjuring light on each beeswax candle with a Mysterium-charged wave of her hand, the Holy Guard’s shift change, golden morning light melting their armor into glimmers of bronze?—
All of it feels like it belongs to someone else. Like perhaps it wasneverreally mine. Like I was foolish to think I might belong here. I lean against the stone wall, careful of my wounded back, and close my eyes.
I see nothing but the Lupa Nox and the dangerous curve of her mouth. That Cursed dream returns to me—the bridal chamber and silken gown, the long, muscular column of her body between my thighs. I choke in my next inhale and force my eyes open.
Across the wide expanse of the Spine, the Devorarium doors creak open. Morning Mass must be beginning. I exhale, something like relief spreading warm and bright in my chest. I will go to my pew, and I will find solace with my Lord. The priests are usually available for confession after Morning Mass, too—I will kneel and speak of my sins. Like a poison, I will excise the knight from my body.
I lean further back into the wall, propping my cane against it, raising my hands to tidy my braid. I should return to my chambers and freshen up, I know—but I’m afraid to be alone. Afraid that the darkness the knight has awoken in me will unhinge its jaws and swallow me whole. So, instead, I’ll risk a reprimand from Renault. With no mirror, I do my best, steadying my body against the wall, trying to ignore the pain the pressure causes in my wounds.
I’m winding my long braid around the crown of my head when the back of my hand brushes the wall. Instead of smooth marble, I feel something soft—soft as black earth and violet petals. Startled, I turn, grabbing for my cane. A gasp barrels out of my throat, and I stagger back, my eyes barely understanding what I’m seeing.
In the shape of a woman—ofme, I realize, of my outline—moss has grown along the marble. Its texture is rich and downy, tiny violets threaded through like embroidery. Panic floods me, my heart pounding so hard I’m afraid it might tear through the membrane of my skin. The memory of the soil and violets in my bed resurfaces again harshly, making my mind swim.
I cannot be seen like this, the worker of some strange tiny miracle. Any innocence I maintained after the goetia trial will be stripped from me, and even Renault may not be able to save me. So I flee, moving quickly across the Spine to the safety of the Devorarium.
The corridor has never felt so broad, the heat of the candelabras never so intense. I swear I feel a thousand eyes on me, the sensation like insects crawling across my skin. My breath far quicker than it has any right to be, I join the throng of people streaming in through the Devorarium’s enormous doors. My stomach in knots, I risk a glance back over my shoulder.
The wall outside the Libris Sanctum is smooth, gleaming, untouched by goetia or the soft kiss of moss. A strange relief fills me as I turn back to the vestibule and make my way to my pew.
I would so much rather be going mad than giving into sin.
Chapter 20
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” I murmur, bowing my head. “It has been eight days since my last confession.”
Since the Lupa Nox tore into my life with her sharp claws and pretty mouth, I don’t add. I close my eyes, resting my forehead against the grate that separates me from the pontifex on the other side. The confessional is small, the kneeler covered in a rich burgundy velvet. My legs shake from the position; my body has always resisted being on its knees.
