Thread of Frost

Ch. 12: Isolde

Isolde crept through the convent, a broom clutched in one hand. Winter sunshine streamed through the cloister, wrapping around pillars in armfuls of golden silk. A bird sang in the highest tree. In a few hours, the girls would wake and begin their morning prayers, but for now, it was quiet. Nobody else was awake yet.

And thank gods for that.

She took a left. Her wooden leg clicked against the tile. A damn shame, Isolde thought; most of the time, she could keep from dragging it, but she was tired today. Too many romance novels until late in the evening.

She adjusted her fur throw, stepping into the parlor. The small room was dusty and dim, shadowed like the contents of a desk drawer. But Isolde knew exactly where the kindling was, and she knelt by the grate, coaxing the flames to life. She swept the room. Opened the curtains. Plumped the pillows.

She rose, her bad leg aching slightly.

On to the next.

Isolde followed her usual circuit, sweeping the aisles and nave, the galleries and vault. By the time she'd doubled back to the entrance hall, the sound of hymns filled the corridors. She scrambled to untie her apron.

Someone knocked on the door.

Isolde paused. Dust motes drifted through the air, settling on a painting of the Goddess Lestia. Who in the seven burning hells was knocking at this time of day? It was far too early for morning service. And it was also a Holy Day. Deliveries never came on a Holy Day.

The knock sounded again.

Isolde glanced behind her. Should she fetch one of the nuns? They'd told her to never open the door. But they'd also, Isolde reflected, told her to never interrupt morning hymns. Bit of a pickle, really.

The knock came again, louder this time.

"Open the door!" The voice was irritated. "In the name of His Imperial Highness Emperor Halson Dolphenberg, open the—"

Isolde opened the door.

A middle-aged man lurched forward. He was dressed in a pale blue jacket and silver gloves — the colours of the royal house — and there was a large bag strapped to his back. Several scrolls peeked out the top. His hair was dusted with a fine layer of snow, like icing on a Yulemas pudding.

His gaze was wary. "Are you in charge of this residence?"

"No."

"May I speak with whoever's in charge?"

"Oh," Isolde said, "I wouldn't recommend that." She leaned against the doorframe. "The nuns become very cross when you interrupt them at prayer. They once chased a messenger boy with a baguette."

The man shifted his sac. "May I speak with the caretaker, then?"

"He resides elsewhere."

"The owner?"

"You can try," Isolde said. "But I must warn you that the nuns have been trying for years with limited success." She gestured at the painting, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "She's a minx, that one."

The man looked unimpressed. "So it's only you."

"It's only me," Isolde said. "I'd be happy to pass on a message."

His eyes roamed over her. Isolde held his gaze. She was used to strangers staring; she was tall for a woman, and she had a wooden leg. But it was her eyes that startled people. "Like a starless night," she'd heard a nun whisper. "So dark that it's like gazing into hell itself." As a child, Isolde used to trace the outline of her pupil in a mirror, just to reassure herself that it was still there. That she was human.