“I’m fine,” I sputter, holding out a hand as the guardsman approaches. I heave out a harsh exhale, and then, without another word, I slip back into my room, pulling the door shut behind me. I try not to think about how Sergio will delight in this bit of news as his Holy Guard feeds it to him—my dearest friend abandoning me, my body crumpling to the ground.
My hands tremble, the heels of my palms torn and smarting, as I close the heavy iron latch. I take a shattered inhale and then freeze. For a long, tight moment, I swear that the scent of rot tinges the air. But then more tears arrive, unceremonious and broken, a wild sound tearing from my chest as my legs go out from underneath me. Putting all my weight on my cane, I manage to take the three measly steps to the hearth and let myself collapse onto the bed of cushions and blankets. And then I curl into a ball and weep.
When I truly have nothing left, when I am dry as wrung-out flannel, I reach toward the edge of the hearth. I feel the smooth porcelain beneath my fingertips and bring the cup to my mouth, hoping for the tiniest shred of comfort.
But my tea has gone cold.
Chapter 21
Iwake in front of my hearth without any memory of falling asleep. For a moment, everything is fuzzy, tinged with haze. But then it all comes back, swift as a fox’s bite. The look of disgust on Carina’s face hovers in front of me like a specter. I hate myself so deeply that my stomach boils. For a few moments, I wait to see if sleep will claim me again, if for a few sacred bells I can escape myself.
But though the fire is mere embers and the air in my room has gone chilly, sweat presses damp hands to every inch of my skin. Moving carefully, I unwind myself from the woolen blankets and sit up straight.
The sight of Carina’s abandoned teacup and spiced orange tea on the hearth pierces my heart like a dagger. I wince and look away, gritting my jaw against another flood of tears. Have I not cried enough? Surely no other Apostle wife-to-be walks the Spine’s halls with such horrifically swollen eyes, such mussed hair.
I sit, staring at the hearth. I have no idea what bell it is, though outside my door the hallway sounds quiet. The sweat on my skin begins to cool, turning chill, so I pull an old, thick blanket across my legs. My mind wanders, and I wish with allmy heart it went to Carina and how I’ve betrayed her. To Renault and how I’m already failing him as a bride. To Sergio, even, and the oppressive threat he continues to pose.
But I suppose I am too far gone, because instead, my mind races toher, like a dove called back to the cathedral. Moth to flame. Ocean to shore.
I choke on a sob, digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands. Anni ago, I took a knife to my own chest and cut out that dangerous, sinful piece of myself—pulled something soft and beating and true from beneath my ribs and cast it into the flame. How is the Lupa Nox resurrecting that which should be dead and gone?
I force myself to my feet. I think—at least at first—I plan to wash up and crawl into bed. But somewhere between the wounds on my back sending agony shooting through my body and all the shame I feel from Carina’s reaction, I find myself tidying my braid to leave my chambers. In the smoky, mottled mirror, I examine my swollen eyes, the redness across my cheeks, the feverish gleam in my gaze, wondering if the Lupa Nox has cast some Cursed enchantment over me.
And that, I think, is when I decide to beg her for release. I tell myself there is little point in appealing to her better nature, that she lacks one entirely. And yet I still wash and change into a soft wool gown. I don’t swap out my shift, even though it’s marred with blood and sweat. The thin linen is plastered to my flail marks, and I cannot stand the pain of peeling it away. Instead, I change my underthings and reach for thick woolen socks to ward off the night’s chill.
And then, addled by crescendoing pain and increasing madness and the pit of shame, I leave my room. Perhaps she will take pity on me. Perhaps if I ask correctly, or if I weep on my knees before her, the Lupa Nox will choose another victim. Perhaps the High Ecclesia will see I’ve failed. Perhaps instead ofdrowning in the sea of my forbidden desires, this city will just bind me to the stake and end it.
In truth, I no longer care.
I move through the quiet dimness of the Spine, skirting the molten bronze glow of the candelabras that line the middle of the corridor. I do my best to avoid the steady gaze of the Holy Guard, moving through the shadow-limned space along the wall. Then, out from the Militaire Annex strides a High Ecclesian. I gasp and duck into the Libris Sanctum Arch, pressing against the locked doors.
Their vestments are a strange color—a deep, ruddy brown, the hue uneven and patchy on the archaic-looking garments. Heavy gold chainmail drips from Their body, a broadsword at Their waist. Articulated gauntlets wink in the low light. My heart leaps into my throat and I press myself back into the shadows, slipping all the way into the Sanctum’s Arch.
I suppress a whimper as my back meets the heavy iron latches on the Sanctum’s doors, but the High Ecclesian—all the way across the Spine—does not react. Steadying my breath, I try to figure out Their trajectory, my gaze trailing down the corridor. And that’s when I realize light is seeping from the Devorarium. It’s a strange, sickly light, tinged green, something about it bloated, incorrect.
The High Ecclesian reaches the Devorarium doors, Their masked face rotating owl-like on that towering body. I can only imagine Their gaze sweeps the hall before They pull open the massive door with an armored hand and then slip inside.
My breath releases in a long, skittering rush. I press my hand to my heart, fighting to coax it into a slower rhythm. My mind spins as I stare at the light slinking from the Devorarium.
The Lupa Nox said They wanted her to undergo the Communion—a ritual I’ve never heard of, never seen in any of the hundreds of manuscripts I’ve handled. I waver in the thickshadow of the Sanctum’s arch.Unless—oh, unless that scroll I handled the other day was?—
I squeeze my eyes shut. I tell myself to go back to my chambers, to forget about this inane plan. I tell myself that all I really want is more salve for my back, a cup of water, and to crawl into bed. To give Renault as many beautiful little children as he wants and to pleasure him with my body along the way. To find a way for Carina to forgive me. To bow my head and pray for my Lord’s blessings.
But I cannot excise that manuscript from my head—the glassy-eyed siblings, the process for overtaking another’s body.
My feet carry me to the Devorarium, even though every step jars the wounds on my back, agitates my inflamed knees and hips. I stand in front of the Arch, wavering. Every instinct tells me to flee the sickly light sticking its corpse-like fingers beneath those massive doors.
I do not. Instead, I move farther down the Spine, toward the auxiliary hall of the Devorarium. I still know the floorplan from my kitchen days—the rooms where the pontifices prepare for mass, the entrances to the confessionals, the small kitchen for keeping our holy men fed during long rituals and Feast Days.
The narrow, unassuming door is unguarded and unlocked as always. I slip through, turning to ensure it’s closed. Darkness engulfs me as the beeswax light of the Spine disappears. I hesitate, waiting for my eyes to adjust. After a few tense moments filled with little more than the furious beating of my heart, I can make out vague shapes—just enough to navigate.
One hand on my cane, the other on the wall, I make my way down the corridor. When the smooth wall is interrupted by a series of tall, slim doors, I know I’ve found the pontifices’ entrance to the confessionals. Fumbling for the handle, I pull open a door and slip inside.
For a moment, the light pouring through the grate from the Devorarium feels near-blinding, but as I take the final few steps, my eyes adjust. I settle into the pontifex’s chair—a sacrilege, no doubt—and press my face against the bronze grate. Just a few bells ago, I was on the other side, begging for forgiveness from my knees.
That pontifex tried his best, I suppose.
The heavy brocade curtains are pulled to the side with tasseled silk loops, as they usually are when not in use. The confessional provides me with a limited view of the pews and altar—which is dressed in curling wisps of corpse-gray gauze and pale, slender, impossibly tall candles crowding every inch of available space. It is wholly unlike anything I’ve ever seen within this Church, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s even real at all.
