Pausing at the threshold, Laurelle glanced back at the line of remaining thirdfloorers. The powder on her face could not hide the blush of heat in her cheeks. Nervousness. She tried to smile bravely at the others, but it came out sickly.
All eyes, including Dart’s, followed Laurelle as she disappeared into the healer’s chamber. The door closed.
Now one girl sat between Dart and the door: Margarite. Like Laurelle, Margarite was dressed in white finery, down to the flowered tassels on her slippers.
Dart fingered the simple white shift and sash she wore, trying to pluck some semblance of beauty from it. Still, no amount of linen, silk, or the finest embroidery could make her pure again.
“Quit fidgeting!” Margarite spat under her breath, quick-tempered from her own anxiety.
Dart’s hands settled back to her knees.
For the past seven days, she had hidden all signs of the attack. But it had not been easy. Ripped and sore, she had continued to spot her underthings and bedsheets for the first three days.
On the second night, it came to the attention of Matron Grannice. Dart had hurriedly told the third floor matron that the bleeding was from her first menstra. With a frown, the portly woman had pulled Dart into her private study.
Panicked, Dart had expected her corruption to be bared, but Matron Grannice had merely sat her down and spoken kindly and gently. “The bleed is nothing to be ashamed of,” she consoled. “It is your first step into womanhood.” She then went on to instruct Dart in how to control her seepage and keep herself clean. Afterward, the matron had given her a long hug, a rare showing of warmth and affection from the large woman.
Dart had cried. It was not just relief that drew out her tears. Wrapped in Matron Grannice’s bosomy embrace, Dart was reminded how much she was about to lose. It was more than the roof over her head and the warm meals in her belly. It was the familiar faces she had known since a babe, the everyday routines of the only life she knew. Here was her home, her family.
She had cried for a long time until finally Matron Grannice had gently shushed her, wiped her tears, and sent her back to her bed.
A few days later, here she sat, awaiting the end. She would be stripped and spread on Healer Paltry’s bench. Experienced fingers would touch her shame and find her broken and spoiled, unfit for a god, too corrupt to even walk the halls of the Conclave. She would be whipped and cast out to the streets, spurned by all.
Master Willet had ripped away more than her virginity and innocence on the floor of the rookery. His rutting had torn down the very stone walls around her, broken her home into a bloody ruin. Had the monster known this? Had this been part of his black pleasure?
Master Willet’s disappearance had not gone unnoticed by the Conclave. Talk, rumor, and innuendo had quickly spread: that he had been waylaid by brigands outside the Conclave and his body dumped in the Tigre where it was washed away; that he had taken a whore for a wife and fled the First Land; that he had been practicing some Dark Grace and been sucked into the naether, never to be seen again. The less fanciful supposed he simply took service with some other caste and had left before his current contract was contested. But there were three in the Conclave who knew the truth: Dart, Pupp, and the person who had sent Master Willet up the stairs to attack a lone girl.
This last remained hidden, as much an accomplice in that dark play as those up in the rookery. No one came and pulled her aside, accused Dart in private or public of the crimes in the high tower. But someone knew.
Dart’s eyes settled to the hall’s stone floor. Pupp lay curled, his body steaming gently, his molten brass surface glowing brighter with each breath, then dimming as he exhaled with a wheeze of flame. She had experimented with him in solitary moments, testing various humours to see if anything besides blood would allow her to touch his phantom form. Nothing did, not saliva, yellow bile, or even tears.
Only blood.
In the dark, she had planned horrible strategies upon the body of the one who had sent Master Willet up the stairs. But now she would be cast out before her vengeance was complete.
The door at the end of the hall opened again. Laurelle strode out, back straight, eyes flashing. None needed to see her satisfied smile or the blue cross on her forehead to know she had passed judgment. “Margarite!” Matron Grannice called from the doorway, startling them all. “Don’t drag your heels, child! Get in here!”
All the girls popped to their feet. Margarite hurried through the door. Dart moved two steps over and took the girl’s abandoned seat. It was still warm from the fear of each girl who had sat there before.
The door closed.
Laurelle stood a few steps down the hall, basking in the envy of her fellow pupils. “It was nothing,” she consoled the others. “It is no more frightening than the yearly physique. Only much more thorough.” She spoke this last with the authority of a master to apprentices, then pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I have never felt so completely tested, so sure of my purity and readiness to be a handmaiden.”
Murmurs of approval and assurances that she would be chosen wafted down the line of seated girls.
Her words awakened the terror in Dart’s heart. As she stared at the closed door, her eyes traced the oak leaves and acorns on the lintel. Normally the sigil signified the art of healing: soothing balms, calming teas, all the gentle Graces to ease a body. But now the meaning had darkened; beyond that door, her life ended.
A touch on her shoulder made her jump. She turned to find Laurelle bent before her. All the girls watched, ready to see what new mischief Laurelle meant to inflict on Dart for their amusement.
Pupp was already on his feet, passing through Laurelle’s gown, his molten skin roiling with agitation.
“I know your secret,” Laurelle whispered, so softly no other could hear. “I know about the blood.”
Dart tensed, her vision darkened at the corners.
Laurelle continued. “I overheard Matron Grannice. Having your first menstra is frightening enough, but to have it mere days before the full moon ceremony…” Her fingers found Dart’s hand and squeezed ever so gently, then let go. “You’ll be fine.”
The sudden kindness caught Dart unprepared.
Laurelle straightened. “It’s not like you have any chance of being chosen this night anyway.”
Snickers and giggles met her words.
But Laurelle seemed deaf to the others. As she turned away, she carried a haunted look to her eye, and a touch of something else, the hint of envy again.
Studying her closely, Dart watched Laurelle struggle for a more confident smile. Dart had always been the invisible one, the girl in the shadows, as much a phantom as Pupp at times. For the first time, she wondered how much of a burden it was to always stand in the light.
Laurelle moved down the line of girls, offering little words of encouragement and praise. But Dart saw how her shoulders trembled slightly, burdened by the weight of all the expectations placed upon her. Not only by the girls, Dart suspected, but by her family, too.
The creak of hinges drew all their eyes back around. Margarite appeared, head high, a blue cross shining brightly on her brow.
“Margarite!” Laurelle cried, rushing to embrace her. “You passed!”
The girls laughed, dancing in each other’s arms.
Matron Grannice shooed them farther down the hall. “Dart, you’re next. Let’s not keep Healer Paltry waiting.”
Dart stood, but with her first step, she came close to falling. Her knees had turned to porridge, her thighs to rubber. Only a quick hand to the wall saved her.
“It’s not a walk to the gallows,” the matron grumbled and helped her stand straighter with a grip on her elbow.
Dart was half led, half dragged over the threshold.
“Why does she even bother?” Margarite said behind her. “Who would pick such a weed when there are flowers like us to choose?”
Matron Grannice closed the door behind Dart, shutting out the rest of the
thirdfloorers. Dart wondered if she’d ever see them again.
Behind her, Pupp pushed through the door, trotting to Dart’s side. The healer’s illuminarium was bright with candles and smoky with burning stems of dried herbs. The scent of witchweed and briertail almost made her swoon.
“Come, child.” Matron Grannice led her past the cramped antechamber and into the illuminarium proper.
The room was circular in shape with small cots aligned along the wall like the markings on a sundial. The beds normally comforted the ill, but they had been emptied for this hallowed day. Privacy was necessary to adequately judge the potential servitors to the gods.
In the center of the room, a single bench rested, shaped like a reclining figure, arms and legs spread. Dart had never seen such a bench, but she had heard of it.
Along with the four sacred illuminaria that surrounded it.
Above the bench, a chandelier blazed with fist-sized bulbs; the glass globes held small drizzles of a fire god’s humour, burning brightly. Below, a crystal basin brimmed with water, its surface stirring in a constant whirlpool, blessed by a single tear from a god of water. And to either side rested the remaining two illuminaria: a small glass terrarium containing a full-grown, miniature oak tree, perfect down to its pin-sized acorns, and a lightning box that held a billowing cloud behind glass, flashing and roiling. They represented loam and air respectively. Each aspect was represented to verify the purity of the supplicant.
As Dart stood at the threshold, she sensed her doom. Even if she could somehow hide her shame from mortal eyes, the four illuminaria would reveal her corruption.
“Off with your clothes,” Matron Grannice said with a trace of impatience and boredom. “Pile them on the bed over there, then return to the bench and lie down.”
Dart undid her buttons with shaking fingers. “Mistress…” she began, sensing she might fare better if she revealed all now.
“Shush, Dart. Now is not the time to speak. Here comes Healer Paltry.”
The head of the Conclave’s healing caste entered through a back door. He was dressed in a simple robe of blue silk with a hatching of oak leaves around the collar. He was not a tall man, barely Dart’s own height. His eyes were the deepest blue. His hair, long to the shoulder, was as dark as any raven’s feather. Though barely thirty years past his birth, his skills in the Arts were known throughout Myrillia. It was said he even ministered to Chrism himself at the Grand Castillion. And here at the Conclave, there was many a girl who feigned fever or stomach churns just to be near him.
Even Matron Grannice tugged a loose strand of hair into place behind an ear, smoothing it down as he strode to them.
Though busy, Paltry still offered Dart a tired smile. “Be welcome, child. There is nothing to fear here.”
Nodding despite the lace of terror around her heart, Dart shimmied out of her outers. Then after a moment’s hesitation, she stripped bare of all, even her scuffed slippers. There was no reason for shyness with Healer Paltry. Twice yearly, the man gave the girls their physiques, confirming their intact virginity. He was always gentle, teasing with light words, his hands always warm.
“Onto the bench with you, child,” Matron Grannice said with a nudge, bumping her back to the moment.
But Dart found herself frozen in place, knees locked together. “Mistress…”
Paltry cupped her chin. “This will be quick.”
His calming touch released her from the spell of her fear, and she stumbled stiffly to the bench. With gentle directions, she lay back, spreading her arms out and her legs along the joists. Her hands nearly touched the illuminarias of loam and air. Overhead, the fire globes blazed hotly, and below, unseen, Dart felt the stir of the basin’s waters in her own stomach.
Now it would all end.
Paltry leaned over her, holding four thimble-sized jars. “This unguent is made of the blood of the four aspects. You might feel a little tingle, and the corresponding illuminaria will shine brighter if you are accepted. You must pass all four. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes.” She squeezed closed her eyes. In her ears echoed the cries of ravens.
A finger touched her brow four times: top, bottom, left, and right. The points of a cross. Only if she passed would the marks be connected with blue oils, sealing her purity.
Dart shook, knowing that would never happen.
As the fourth mark blessed her forehead, Paltry spoke near her ear. “Now to judge the purity of your spirit and-”
Glass exploded with a shatter. Dart cried out, curling in a ball. Overhead, shards rained down from the chandelier.
Dart felt impacts rattle the underside of the bench. Slivers cut into her back and arms and thighs, like a thousand bee stings.
Matron Grannice yelped, ducking away. Pupp raced in circles around the bench, eyes ablaze, jumping and leaping, as startled as any of them.
All around light blazed from the four illuminaria, near blinding in their brilliance.
Paltry stood, bleeding from lacerations on his face. His eyes were huge. “By all the gods…” he swore under his breath. The light quickly faded from the four exploded illuminaria. “I’ve never seen such a response.”
“What happened?” Matron Grannice asked, accusation in her voice, her eyes fixed on Dart.
“I didn’t… I couldn’t…” Dart said. “I’m sorry.”
Paltry wiped his face, picking out glass, then did the same for Dart. “It’s not her fault. While normally the illuminaria wax only slightly brighter, I’ve witnessed more brilliant displays over the years. Yet nothing of this magnitude. The strength and clarity of her spirit is without question.” Finished with his ministrations, he glanced up at Grannice. “From this radiant response of the illuminaria, I see no need to perform a physique.”
Dart felt a surge of hope. Without an intimate exam, her terrible secret would remain hidden. Perhaps for another half year, until the next physique.
But such hope was dashed with Matron Grannice’s next words. “You must, Healer Paltry. A supplicant before the Oracles must be cleared spiritually and physically.”
Paltry stared at the ruined illuminarias. “Of course, you’re right. But let’s be quick about this. I must study in more detail what happened here.” He waved for Dart to stretch back on the bench. He examined her with swift efficiency, hurried, with none of his usual gentleness.
Dart trembled under his touch as he checked her body from brow to toe. Lastly, he crouched between her spread legs and reached toward the ache in her loins, probing toward the root of her shame. “She’s been bleeding,” he said.
“Her first menstra,” Grannice explained, arms folded.
By now, tears rolled down Dart’s cheeks. She awaited the end of her life.
With a clearing of his throat, Paltry straightened and gained his feet. “Everything appears fine,” he said, patting her inner thigh. “She can attend the night’s ceremony.”
Dart gasped in shock, struggling to speak.
“Up with you then, child,” Matron Grannice said. “Into your clothes.”
Dart stared between the portly woman and the healer as he marked her forehead in blue oil. “I… I passed?”
She could not keep the incredulity out of her voice. Was she healed? Maybe the attack in the rookery had been just some horrible nightmare. She could almost believe it, wanted to believe it. At times over the past days, it had even felt that way. Or had some Grace secretly blessed her, made her pure again?
“Pure,” she repeated aloud. In her heart, the word also meant home and family.
“Yes, yes,” Matron Grannice scolded, “it’s indeed a blessed miracle. Now get yourself dressed. You’ve much to do before the full moon rises.” The matron turned to Paltry. “What of the other girls? Those still in the hall?”
Paltry shook his head. “I can test no others. It will take some days to acquire another four illuminaria. As such, they will not be able to attend this moon’s ceremony.”
Grannice hurried Dart
into her clothes. “See what you’ve done, child! Ruined it for all the others!”
“But I didn’t mean to-”
“It’s truly not her fault,” Paltry pledged in her defense.
Dart nodded vigorously, tugging on the last of her clothes. She could only imagine the anger of the remaining thirdfloorers. There would not be another choosing until midwinter.
Frowning deeply, Matron Grannice led the way to the door. Dart hopped after her, trying to get her foot into her last slipper. Pupp, thinking it a game, jumped and nipped at her loose footwear. She shooed him away.
The matron reached the door and tugged it open. As Dart pulled into her slipper, she heard the matron’s announcement and the shocked responses that followed. Wincing, she stood in the shadows, sheltered behind the large woman’s bulk.
Healer Paltry placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and leaned to her ear, speaking low and urgently. “I don’t know what you did with Master Willet, but I promise you I’ll find out.”
Dart gasped. Understanding struck her immediately. She had passed the healing wards on the seventh floor on her way to the rookery. The room tilted, and her vision darkened. Paltry was Willet’s partner. The healer had lied about her purity a moment ago. She remembered his fingers… in her, probing… possibly even appreciating his partner’s bloody handiwork.
A shudder passed through her. She felt violated all over again, her momentary hope dashed into ruins. She felt unmoored, terrified, trapped.
“I’ll be watching you, Dart.” His voice was as gentle as ever, but his fingers dug deeper, painful, threatening. “In the meantime, it seems we both have secrets to keep.”
Matron Grannice spoke above the babble of shocked voices from the hall. “Come, Dart. Night won’t wait on you forever.”
With a small cry, Dart fled the healer’s grasp and into the passageway. Forty pairs of eyes narrowed at her in angry rebuke. None came to congratulate her on the blue cross on her forehead. She felt a bone-deep urge to flee to the nearest privy and scrub the mark off. But for now the cross was all that stood between her and banishment.
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