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CHAPTER 32
I have half a mind to confront Mother Agnes right then and there, but the bells toll for noon prayers, and she would never forgo those to talk to me, especially if she had an inkling about what I wanted. Waiting isn’t an option, as Magister Thomas will be furious if I don’t come straight home.
The architect knows, too. He’s always known. I grit my teeth as Marguerite rushes to unlock the gate—she has her own keys now? “I’ll tell Mother you can’t have tea today,” she says, swinging the gate shut. “Promise you’ll visit again soon?”
I keep my lips sealed as I smile to avoid looking like a growling dog. “I promise. You can tell Mother Agnes that, too.”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but now I feel eyes watching me from the narrow streets leading into the Quarter, through every gap between vines growing over windows. I hurry home, checking often to see if I’m being followed. Both Magister Thomas and Remi are already gone, and after changing into work clothes, I reluctantly begin my task.
The rest of my day is spent hunched over the window ledge, sorting and arranging tiny bits of colored glass. To keep theunused pieces from getting too scattered, I set them in the paper envelope, whose folds contain them nicely. The sight of it makes me grind my teeth, however, and the tension in my jaw quickly leads to a headache.
I don’t know much about Selenae, other than that they’ve been around as a people for over a thousand years. When the Hadrian Empire fell apart, it took a few centuries for Gallia to unite itself under a single ruler. The relatively recent explosion in trade brought a mixture of people and ideas together, ushering in a Golden Age of construction—both in cities and the massive Sanctums that sprung up. Gallians mingled with Taurans and Prezians and Brinsulli and others to the point that those of mixed parentage—like Remi—are as common as not.
The People of the Night held themselves apart through all of that, however—a preference made easier by the hours they keep. Non-Selenae are good enough to do business with when it suits them, but they treat outsiders with a sort of pity, as though they consider us misguided. No one joins their communities, and the few that leave seem to wither away like a vine severed from the main branch, often fromskoniaaddiction.
Mother Agnes made a point of telling me my parents loved each other, so if they weren’t wed, they likely wanted to be. That wasn’t all she said, though.
Your family left you here because they truly believed you belonged in the Light.
They didn’t think I was like them somehow.
The thought I’ve shoved aside a dozen times will no longer be denied. What I can do—what the moon does for me—must be a power every Selenae has. They gather at night to enjoy what I’ve only recently discovered. For some reason, they musthave assumed I didn’t have the same abilities, yet they continued watching over me, and Gregor has realized the truth.
As has Magister Thomas.
By sunset, my fingers are covered with cuts from handling tiny, sharp edges, and my face hurts from squinting in concentration. Remi comes home alone, and when I ask when Magister Thomas will return, he avoids my eyes and mutters that the architect said not to wait for him to eat dinner.
“You can start without me,” I tell him. “I want to finish this section.”
Remi only shrugs. “I’ll save you some bread.”
“Thank you.”
I’m not mad at him anymore. There’s too much going on in the world to be petty, and his punishment was more harsh than even I expected. It’s not just being forced to stop his beloved work, it’s having everyone know it.
Remi passes me again a while later with a quiet “Good night, Cat” just as I’m plucking the last piece of glass from the bent paper. My vision blurs as I fit it into place. The moon is already up, but maybe I should stay indoors tonight. I have a headache, and if I’m caught by the magister, there will be hell to pay. Still, my eyes are drawn to the silver light shining on the slate outside like those of a starving man attracted to the sideboard at a banquet.
No longer weighed down, the paper wavers with a breeze and starts to fly out the window. I grab it before it can go far and stand to let the shutter down when something on the page catches my eye. Writing. But not writing. I hold it up to the moonlight reflecting off the street. The paper has the impression of letters, like it was under a page that was written on. It’s too faint to read, however. At least here and now.
Swiftly, I refold the sheet as it was, not wanting to add any more creases. I guess I will be going out tonight.
My heart pounds as I climb to the window ledge in the front tower. The moon had already passed beyond where I could have seen it from my room, so I changed into my climbing clothes but didn’t dare leave the house until Mistress la Fontaine finished setting tomorrow’s bread to rise and went to bed. The Sanctum’s facade is slightly shorter than the transept arms, but it’s closer, and I have no desire to ever set foot in the south tower again.
I’m in such a hurry that I tear the elbow of my jacket on the double prong of the latch as I squeeze through. After pivoting the window back in place, I climb the stairs past the gallery up to the triforium that runs above it. The next level higher is the facade’s tower, with an outdoor bridge of sorts to its twin on the opposite side, identical except that it houses the Sanctum bells. I could stop here, but I continue up the spiral staircase to the very top.
The moon greets me like a friend as soon as I step out of the round house and into the open air. A shiver of exhilaration goes through me as moonlight soaks into my skin, ending with the glorious sensation that I could fly if I wanted to.
Is this what usingskoniafeels like? And if this is barely more than a half-moon now, what will it be like in a few days?
Though I’m tempted to stretch out my senses, I came here with a purpose. I quickly unfold the paper and raise it to the moonlight. The impression of writing becomes visible on the page, almost as clearly as if the words were written in ink. Some letters weren’t pressed quite strong enough—often the last of a word oran E appears to be missing—until the final sentence, which was written with a heavy hand and underlined.
Y u promis action by th n xt ful moon. Ther are only 6 day lef .
Katarene needs guidance.
Magister Thomas had told Marguerite he would come tonight to discuss the next step, but he’s not meeting with Mother Agnes. He’s in the Selenae Quarter, talking to Gregor. About me.
I am Katarene.
Now swirling beneath the tumultuous idea that I have Selenae abilities that need guidance is the hope that every foundling child carries in their heart against all odds: I have a family and they want me back.
Mother Agnes isn’t standing in the way of the Selenae reaching out to me, either. In fact, she’s facilitating it. Her emphasizing that my family truly believed I belonged in the Light was a preemptive urge to forgive their decision to leave me in her care. I’m tempted to march down to the Quarter right now and demand answers from them. Then again, knowing that would be my first impulse was probably why the prioress never told me who left me at her door.
And because of that abandonment, I was raised to be a Child of Light, even if I rebelled against Mother Agnes’s vision of vows and a habit. Instead of prayers and charity, I offer my talent and labor to the Sun by building the Sanctum.
I run my hand along the limestone rail, savoring the subtle texture and the beauty of its lines and curves. I love everything about this building inside and out—its statues and arched ceilings, its colorful glass windows and ornate marble floors, eventhe smoky wisps of incense and the echoes of voices raised in song. Standing here now, I’m more at home than anywhere else.
Is this the world I truly belong in, or is it simply the only one I know?
My eyes are closed and my hands on the stone, which is probably the reason I can both hear and feel the latch on the window below being opened.
