by Kerstin Hall
Millie affirmed her grip and dragged me onwards with grim determination. “The merchants were always going to find a way. But if anyone here realises you’re a Sister, there’s going to be trouble. Your wrist isn’t even covered.”
“Why should I always have to hide what I am?”
“What you are is an idiot.”
“Say that again when Aytrium is starving.”
“El, your friend got murdered barely three blocks from here.”
“I’m well aware of where Zenza died,” I snapped. “But that doesn’t mean I plan to cower away in my room every time the sun goes down. Ceyrun is my home too.”
“Your ‘home’ will stick a knife in your ribs, toss you into a gutter, and spit on your corpse. You are not safe.” Millie emphasized each word while glaring at me, and for the first time I realised how deeply afraid she felt. Millie never chastised me; she never lost patience when it came to my bad habits, when I was stupid or callous. But right at that moment, she looked ready to kill me herself.
The realisation cut through my defiance, and I was suddenly left lost and uncertain.
“It’s … it’s important.” I dropped my gaze. “I’ve spent months trying to find new ways to stretch Aytrium’s resources, but it won’t be enough, not if the embargos are failing too. We’ll never be able to feed everyone.”
Millie exhaled.
“I get it,” she said. “I know how hard you work, and I know the crisis is real. But you’ve got to be smarter about this.”
“They think the Order is lying.”
“They think there’s still profit to be made, and they aren’t wrong.” Her hold on my arm loosened. She took my hand instead. “Let me walk you home. Please.”
I felt impossibly tired. What was the point? I had nearly died last night, I devoted my life to serving and protecting Aytrium, and in return its people trampled my efforts to save them into the mud. What did anything matter? I would live, briefly, and then this place would cut me to pieces and devour me.
And I missed my mother.
“El?”
“I just wanted Finn,” I said quietly. “You asked what I was doing here. I wanted to find Finn.”
Her expression softened. “Oh. He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Millie squeezed my hand.
“Finn left Ceyrun this morning,” she said. “That’s why I was here; he asked me to look after his place. I’m sorry, El.”
I shook my head. “Where was he going?”
“He said it was for temp work, a job in Fort Sirus. A couple of weeks, maybe longer. It came up suddenly.”
So that was what he had wanted to tell me. I should have been glad to hear he was leaving the city. Maybe if he got away from the Resistance, he could begin to build a real life. Something better, something more stable, maybe with someone capable of making him happy. My throat closed up.
“Good,” I said. “Good for him.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE SANATORIUM SMELLED of lavender soap and boiled cabbage, of slightly stale air and starched sheets and milky tea. During my stay, I had occupied a room on the ground floor, two doors down from the kitchens. I knew every inch of that room, every stain on the curtains, every detail of the wallpaper. For a month, I had been confined to the facility, and that period was scored indelibly into my memory.
My problems had all started with meat. Not that unusual—after their induction, many Sisters were known to turn vegetarian. But in my case, that preference became a fixation. Soon, I could not eat anything that had come into contact with meat, or even anything that resembled it. Red fruits, berries, I saw blood everywhere. I shied away from kitchens where meat was cooked, from any place where I could smell it, from any utensils that might have touched it.
And then I began to see that I had no way of knowing, for certain, that my food had not been contaminated. So, really, I could not safely eat anything at all.
I got away with this for a surprisingly long time, up until I fainted during my orientation at Food Management. That mistake led to the Sanatorium, and once the nurses realised why I was refusing to touch any of the meals they prepared, they resorted to drastic measures. They were just doing their job; if they had not force-fed me during those weeks, I probably would have starved. That would have been a terrible waste of a Sister.
But Eater help me, I hated this place.
The foyer was a cheerful hive of activity; Public Health Sisters bustled around with files and stacks of clean towels, clean sheets. Sunshine poured through the windows, casting yellow rectangles over the polished floor. A heavily pregnant Acolyte sat on a cushioned chair in the waiting area and stared into space. She absentmindedly ran her hands over her swollen belly, forming little circles with her fingertips.
Here I am, I thought. Back in this place of my own volition.
The Herald at the front desk did not look up as I approached. A heavy book lay open in front of her, some sort of medical reference guide. She traced her pen across the text as she read.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I want to visit someone.”
Her black eyes flicked up.
“You are?” she asked.
“Acolyte Elfreda Raughn. Food Management.”
“And the patient?”
“Herald Rhyanon Hayder. She was injured at Geise’s Crown.”
A pause. The Herald returned to her reading.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said. “Herald Hayder is no longer with us.”
I felt as if a bucket of ice had been overturned above my head. “She … what?”
The woman looked up again and saw my distress. She grimaced and quickly shook her head.
“No, you misunderstand,” she said. “I just meant that the Herald has been removed to another facility. We expect that she will recover, but she’s no longer at the Sanatorium.”
“Oh!” I sagged. “Hah, that was … Well. That’s a relief.”
The Herald smiled slightly. She made a note in the margin of the book.
“I’m sorry for alarming you,” she said. She tapped her pen against the book. Loudly. And glanced down. I followed her gaze and saw what she had written in the margin.
Asan has her.
“Oh,” I said again.
“If there’s nothing else?” She turned the page.
“Uh, no. No, that was all.”
“May the Star shine brightly on you.”
I hurried out of the building and down the tree-lined stairs to Pearl Boulevard. My thoughts whirled. It seemed that Asan had overcome her gorge sickness. I had heard the rumours in the dining hall that morning: that she had been secluded in an Enforcement facility overnight, that she had been raving and wild and bloodthirsty. By now everyone in the Order knew about the Haunts, and had some idea of how the Commander had held them at bay.
Of course, only Jesane, Rhyanon, Asan, and I knew exactly what had happened in the basement, that Morwin’s death had not been the Haunt’s doing. There was no solid evidence to suggest otherwise, especially after what Asan had done to the body. Still if the full truth came to light, I suspected matters would get very ugly, very quickly.
That was one of the reasons I wanted to find Rhyanon. If there was an inquiry, we would need to present a consistent version of events. On a personal level, I also just wanted to talk to her for a while. It would be comforting to confirm with my own eyes that she was still alive.
But Asan had somehow already stolen her away.
I glanced back at the Sanatorium. In order to get Rhyanon out of the facility, the Commander must have acted within hours of her own recovery. That would have involved a lot of risk and a lot of resources, especially if she was under scrutiny. It suggested desperation. For whatever reason, Asan must have felt certain that Rhyanon was unsafe in the nurses’ care. I shivered. An uncomfortable idea.
It was an hour before noon, and Ceyrun’s streets were airless and sweltering. People m
oved slowly, their faces damp with perspiration. Everyone seemed a little more aggressive, a little hungrier, and a little quicker to anger. Stray dogs followed the shade, sleeping off the heat.
I took a cab to the stairs of Martyrium Hill and began the long, thirsty climb to the summit. I had put off the rite for too long already, and without lace I was vulnerable. Even so, I almost turned back twice before I reached the plaza. Cicadas hissed from the grass verges, and the fabric of my clothing clung to my skin.
I found the Oblate on duty slumped in the shade below the Star Eater’s plinth. She looked around sixteen, sleepy and irritable. When she saw me, she scrambled to her feet with a start.
“Not many Sisters today, huh?” I said, gesturing for her to relax.
“It’s the heat.” She brushed off her robes, embarrassed. “My apologies, Acolyte. I should be, um, more alert.”
“No harm done. It seems to me that the least Maternal Affairs could have done is offered you a shade cloth.”
She smiled shyly. “Oh, it isn’t so bad. Someone has to keep watch at all times, and I prefer this to the night shifts.”
She took down my name beside the door and ushered me inside. Entering the building was like passing from summer to winter; the air within was mercifully cool. Motes of dust hovered in the rays cut by the skylights.
“I’ll be here if you need anything,” said the Oblate.
After she closed the door, I spent a moment staring up at the tower of alcoves overhead, the glimmering play of light on stone and flowering vines.
I sighed. Waiting would not make this easier.
My mother’s hair was freshly washed and cut. Just above her ear, I could see the half-moon scar left by her martyrdom. A delicate process, so I had been told. I could smell the oil that the nurses had rubbed into her skin.
“It’s me,” I said softly.
I sat beside her and lifted the shroud to find her hand. Her skin was cool, like she had spent a long time submerged in cold water.
“Back again.” I slipped my fingers between hers. They were slack, but I held tight enough for both of us. “And mostly in one piece.”
Morwin’s body flashed through my mind, and I shuddered. No, I could not afford to think of that now. I leaned my forehead against my mother’s shoulder, breathing in her familiar scent. Below, I heard the doors of the Martyrium open and the murmur of the Oblate’s voice.
“Finn’s gone,” I whispered. “Rhyanon’s missing. And it isn’t fair of me to keep running to Millie with my problems. It’s just that I don’t know if I can handle this on my own.”
“Kill me.”
I stumbled to my feet so quickly that I knocked the chair over. For a heart-hammering, terrified second, I was convinced that my mother had spoken. Then I realised that the words had emerged from the Martyrium walls.
“Kill me,” the vision repeated.
The voice was toneless and echoing. I clenched my fist around the handle of the scalpel. Pale globes bulged from the ceiling above me, swelling out of the plaster like raindrops.
“Why is it so dark?” whispered the walls. “Why can’t I move?”
“Elfreda?”
I spun around. Reverend Celane stood in the entrance to the alcove, her head tilted slightly to the side in perplexed concern.
“Is something the matter?” she asked.
I felt like the ground had dropped away beneath my feet. Of all the Sisters in the Order, here stood the woman who scared me the most. Here she stood, blocking my only path of escape from the vision.
“Honoured Councilwoman.” I gestured reverence, trying to conceal the shaking of my hands. “You startled me.”
The globes swelled and dropped from the ceiling, landing on the floor with a wet sound. Eyeballs. Different sizes, but the irises were all the same colour, a brown so dark it could have been black. The long threads of optic nerves trailed behind them, and they pushed themselves along the stones like caterpillars.
“I thought I heard a noise. Is everything all right?” asked Celane.
“Oh, I just knocked over the chair.”
The Reverend stepped inside the alcove, and I flinched. She should not be here, she should not be inside my mother’s space. Excepting the Martyrium staff, only the martyr’s daughter was permitted to enter her alcove. Celane coming inside without so much as asking permission constituted a huge breach of propriety. Even through my haze of fear, I felt outraged.
“You were a speaker at the symposium,” she said, still advancing. “Which means you were at Geise’s Crown when the Haunts attacked. What an awful shock that must have been. It’s little wonder you’re on edge.”
“So long in the dark.” The irises contracted and expanded like mouths. “No one can hear me.”
I forced myself to breathe. In and out. No panic, not now, not in front of her.
“I’m fine.” My voice emerged rasping and faint. “I’m here to restore my lace, that’s all.”
“Yes, of course.” Celane nodded sympathetically. “I heard that Commander Asan ran everyone dry trying to keep the Haunts contained.”
“She did what was necessary.”
“Yes, I heard about that too. Shocking, truly shocking.”
The eyes crawled toward one another, tangling and sliding together into a bundle of white, red, and black. Celane’s compulse tightened around my thoughts like a silken noose.
“Elfreda, I have to know,” she said. “What really happened that night?”
Eater help me, I needed to get out of here. My head burned like I had a fever, and it was taking every ounce of self-control I possessed not to betray my panic. The Reverend watched me with those kind, intelligent brown eyes while the force of her lace strangled me.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said.
“I have concerns,” she said gently.
“Concerns?”
“What Commander Asan did, well, it’s unspeakable. Necessary, you said, but even so … I need to hear your account of what occurred that night.”
The eyes drew tighter and started to fuse together, bubbling and melting like metal in a crucible. The sound they made was hideous. I swallowed. Let me not pass out, let me not fall to pieces now.
“Were you there when it happened?” asked Celane.
“The Commander was protecting us,” I said. “She didn’t want to do it. But the Haunt—”
“So you were with her? And the Haunt?” Celane’s voice held a hint of eagerness now. She moved closer, her foot almost touching the twitching mound of the vision. “She shielded you?”
“She … she stopped the Haunt from leaving the basement.” The back of my knee knocked into my mother’s pallet as I tried to keep my distance from Celane. “Reverend, from what I saw, the Commander only acted with the Order’s best interests at heart.”
“Who else was present in the basement?”
“I—I don’t know,” I fumbled. “A Herald was killed, another badly injured. Morwin—”
“Was Herald Olberos with you?” she interrupted.
“Jesane Olberos? Yes, she called for help.”
“You and Olberos, Asan specifically singled the pair of you out to accompany her?”
Someone else has fed her information, I realised. I wasn’t sure what Celane was trying to uncover, but it dawned on me that she had not yet asked a single question about Morwin. As if the death of the Councilwoman was not her concern at all.
“What has been done to me?” asked the vision. With newfound weightlessness, it drifted into the air and slowly revolved, pale and quivering. “I am stretched so thin.”
“Elfreda?”
I strove to keep my gaze on the Reverend. “You know, Commander Asan did say something odd that night. It probably isn’t important, but it confused me.”
“Was this while you were in the basement?”
“No, she was talking to Councilwoman Morwin on the roof of the fort.” My heart thudded. “She asked if Morwin had bought any pigs’ hearts recent
ly. Do you know what that means, Councilwoman?”
It had been a fumbling stab in the dark, but my instincts proved sound. Celane’s mouth hardened, and she grew stiff.
“The question seemed to come out of nowhere,” I continued. “And Reverend Morwin reacted very strongly to it.”
“I have no idea what the Commander might have meant. Did she say anything else?”
“I’m not sure.” I controlled my breathing. Don’t look at the vision, don’t look at the vision. “Maybe. I would have to think about it some more.”
Celane’s expression was inscrutable. “Are you available to visit my house later today? I think we should continue this discussion.”
I nodded. Anything to end this conversation now, anything to get her away from me.
“Tonight, nineteenth bell?” she suggested.
I gestured assent. Behind Celane’s right shoulder, the vision had morphed and reformed into a new shape. A foetus, a half-formed creature with eerie, flat features. I could see its heart beating through the thin membrane of its skin.
“Tonight,” I said.
As Celane turned to leave, she passed through the vision. At her touch, it dissolved in a swirl of fine grey mist.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MILLIE’S FRONT DOOR sat slightly skew in its frame. The wood was worn pale around the lock, and the brass handle had dulled with age.
An old woman in the neighbouring building watched me from her window, lips pursed in suspicion. I could hardly blame her—I had been hovering outside the door for almost ten minutes already. Despite walking halfway across Ceyrun to reach Millie’s flat, I could not seem to bring myself to knock.
She might not even be home. Maybe I was standing outside an empty apartment, skin scorching under the sun, for nothing. I studied her door like the battered wood might provide answers.
Foolish, I thought. Enough of this.
I knocked. For a moment, I heard nothing from inside, and a guilty relief surged through me. This was a sign, she was not here, I should leave—
The door swung open.