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Marguerite twists her delicate hands as Mother Agnes answers. “I told her she had to issue the invitation in person.” The prioress lowers herself into her seat. “You were never here to receive it.”
My friend’s blue eyes brim with tears, but Marguerite only ever cried for others. Quite often it was over my being punished, so nothing has changed. I sigh. “I’m sorry, Marga. I was just so—”
“Proud,” finishes Mother Agnes.
I scowl. “I was going to say angry.” And rightfully so.
The prioress sits back, unconcerned. “Anger is a form of pride.”
I don’t know if she’s right, and I honestly don’t care. I’m just sorry Marguerite suffered for it.
“You cut your hair, then?” I ask her. The thought brings a pang of loss. I’d envied Marguerite’s glorious tresses all my life, and not just because their glossy near-black color made mine look like shades of pigsty.
She laughs softly. “No, actually. I was given a dispensation to keep it until the fall so it can grow a little more.”
“The fall?” I ask. “Why—oh.” Collis’s massive trading fair. People of all professions arrive from every corner of Gallia—including wigmakers. “You’ll be able to auction it among several buyers.”
Mother Agnes nods. “The money will buy a new weaving loom, which will increase our output.”
The abbey is self-sufficient, and even turns a profit from selling cloth the sisters and novices make, but the loom they use is older than the prioress herself.
“I’m happy to make the contribution,” Marguerite says. Of course she is.
“Sister,” says the prioress. “You’ll have to catch up with Catrin on her next visit. Could you bring us some tea while we discuss her current business?”
I snort. She acts like we’ll be haggling over the price of wool. “And some ginger biscuits, please,” I add, taking a seat on the long, hard couch to her right.
“How is the Sanctum expansion coming along?” Mother Agnes asks as the door closes.
There will only be small talk until Marguerite has come and gone again. “We’ll start vaulting the ceiling in a few weeks,” I say. “The masons spent all winter shaping stones for the arches.”
I’m still describing how they will be installed under the peaked roof when Marguerite returns bearing a tray. She spends extra time arranging the cup, saucer, and biscuits in a precise way in front of the prioress, then pours the tea and sweet cream. Then she sets the honey by me, knowing I prefer it, and leaves an extra stack of cookies for me with a wink. All the while, I’m debating how to bring up what I want to know.
Each of Mother Agnes’s three husbands lived in a different country, so she’s likely seen more of the continent than even Magister Thomas. When the last died, her accumulated fortune—and lack of heirs—attracted the attention of the kinghimself. He already had a queen, however that didn’t mean he couldn’t tie the rich widow to someone beholden to him.
She was summoned to the royal court, but after stopping to rest at Solis Abbey, Lady Agnes decided never to leave. Writing the king a very lovely letter, she described how the Sun had called to her in a dream, commanding her to stay and serve as a Sister of Light. Her properties, therefore, now belonged to the religious superiors of Collis. She was also immediately elected prioress, a position ordained until death. Not even a royal order could undo it.
Over the next four decades, Mother Agnes expanded the abbey from a prayer commune of a dozen sisters to a center of religious education, producing more vocations than any on the continent. Most of that came from establishing a home and school for foundling girls, the majority of whom went straight from the classroom to the cloister.
Shrewd recruitment motivations aside, the fact is life offers orphan girls like Marguerite and me few better options.
“I heard there was a murder,” says Mother Agnes as soon as the door closes again. “And that you were involved.”
I’ve never figured out where her information comes from, but it’s always accurate.
“Tell me,” she says, raising her cup to her lips. “Why did the provost bother assigning a venatre over the death of this poor girl?”
“Two reasons,” I answer. “The crime was rather horrific, and Oudin Montcuir admitted to, um, being in her company that night.”
The prioress nods sagely. “And that’s why neither the comte nor his older son leads the investigation.”
“Exactly. Though Lambert Montcuir has been assisting.” I tapthe side of my cup. “The venatre, Simon, is a distant relative of theirs but he’s dedicated to solving the crime and is very knowledgeable. I’ve been helping him, being that I found the body.”
Mother Agnes’s expression grows serious. “Catrin, what were you doing on the streets in the middle of the night?”
“Inspecting at the Sanctum,” I say. She never liked my climbing habits, even before they took me away from the abbey. “We were behind, and I can see plenty well by moonlight.”
“Howwell?”
