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.
Isolde swept her blonde hair forward. "Or you can wait here. Prayer will end in..." She glanced at the clock. "Three hours?"
The man sighed. "There's really nobody else here?"
"No."
"Just you?"
Or the cat, Isolde thought. "Just me."
The man shrugged off his sac, plucking a scroll from the top of it. He hesitated, pulling it close to his chest.
"This is very important." His voice was a warning. "By law, the document must be delivered directly into safe hands. I cannot stress that enough."
"Noted," Isolde said.
She took the document. The man held it for a beat too long before releasing it, hoisting his sac back over his shoulder. She watched as the stranger picked his way back down the snow-covered slope, disappearing among the skeleton trees.
She shut the door.
"What's that?" a voice called.
Isolde stilled.
Tilda and Sendra rushed through the corridor, their white skirts whispering over the tile floor. Both girls had braided their hair into crowns, and their cheeks were flushed pink. From the cold? The ceremonial wine? The prospect of a new target? It was, Isolde reflected, always difficult to say.
She stuffed the note into her pocket. "Aren't you meant to be in morning prayer?"
Tilda shrugged. "Didn't fancy it."
"So boring," Sendra said. "Not even the fun hymns today."
Tilda plucked the note from her pocket. Isolde made a swipe for it, but the other girl was faster, darting up several stairs. She strode forward, and her wooden peg buckled. A rush of humiliation filled her.
"Give it back," Isolde said.
Tilda raised an eyebrow. "Or what?"
Tilda looked pointedly at her wooden leg. Blood rushed to Isolde's cheeks, and she took a wobbly step forward.
"Tilda." Isolde held out a hand. "I'm serious."
The other girl smiled. "Say that you'll do my washing for a month."
"What?" Isolde blinked. "No."
Tilda shrugged. "Then I guess it's not that important to you. In fact..."
Tilda crossed to the fireplace, dangling the letter above the fire. The flames climbed higher, licking at the parchment with eager tongues, and a rush of fear filled her. If Isolde lost an important letter... if the nuns discovered that she'd lost the letter...
No.
She couldn't risk it.
Tilda's wrist dropped an inch. A spike of panic filled her.
"Don't!"
"Touchy, touchy." Tilda tutted. "Two months."
"No," Isolde said.
"Three."
Her throat was raw. "Stop it."
"Do my washing for four months," Tilda said, "or the letter turns to ash."
She lowered her hand again, and Sendra gave a gleeful clap. Isolde clasped her hands to stop them from shaking. A pulse beat in her throat. Even if she managed to lunge for the letter... even if her leg miraculously didn't give out...
There was no chance.
None.
"Fine," Isolde said. "Fine!" She stuck out a hand. "Now give it here."
Tilda's smile grew. "Oh, no. I just wanted to see if you'd agree to it." She crumpled up the scroll. "Sendra, catch!"
She pitched the letter across the room. Isolde jumped instinctively, wincing as pain spiked through her upper thigh. Sendra let out a whoop, catching the letter with perfect precision. Of course she did, Isolde thought; everything Tilda and Sendra did was perfect. Knitting. Singing. Prayer. And this, too.
Her mouth felt dry. "That letter is important. I'm serious."
"What is it, then?" Sendra shook the parchment. "A love letter?"
"Oh, please." Tilda let out a rather unladylike snort. "As if Mould-uh has a secret lover."
A pulse beat in her ears. "Just give it back."
Sendra cocked her head. "I don't think I will." She turned, a whirl of shiny plaits and pressed skirts. "Tilda?"
She tossed the letter. Tilda caught it, her hand dangling over the fireplace. The flames sent odd shadows skittering across her face, like spiders crawling across a pale floor. Her hands looked almost ghostly.
"It's just so cold in here," Tilda said. "I think the fire needs more kindling."
"Tilda." Blood roared in her eyes. "Please. I'm begging you."
Tilda turned. "Sorry, Mould-uh."
Isolde lunged. "Wait!"
"Girls!"
They jumped. Footsteps thundered down the hall, accompanied by the click-click of heels. All three girls stilled. There was only one person in the convent that was allowed to wear heels, and it was the one person that all three of them didn't want to see.
Sister Tria paused.
"What in the world is going on here?" she demanded.
Tilda clasped her hands in front of her, her eyes downcast. "We're so sorry, sister. We found Isolde hiding a letter and we were worried. It looks like..." Her delicate throat bobbed. "Well. I can't even bring myself to say it."
She held out the crumpled scroll. Sister Tria took it, her thin eyebrows climbing higher.
"A love letter, Isolde?" she asked.
Isolde shook her head. "No."
"Explain yourself."
"A messenger dropped it off," Isolde said. "He asked me to deliver it to you."
Sister Tria studied her. Her thin lips were pressed together, and she was wearing her usual ensemble: white robes with long, billowing sleeves. She wore almost no ornamentation save for the snowflake at her throat: a symbol of the Goddess Lestia.
"You were right to check, girls," Sister Tria said, turning away. "It's so easy for young women to go astray."
Isolde looked at the ground. There was, she had learned, no point in speaking up; it only ended in extra kitchen duties or no supper.
Sister Tria unfurled the scroll. She scanned the lines, her face creasing like a collapsing fan. Then she swiftly refurled it, stuffing it into her pocket. "Girls. Please gather everyone in the nave immediately."
Tilda leaned forward. "What is it, Sister Tria?"
Sister Tria smoothed her skirts. "Emperor Halson has ascended the mountain. He intends to take a wife. By tonight, our Heavenly Goddess will have chosen a new Empress to rule over us." She gripped her necklace. "Goddess keep us safe."
Tilda snatched Sendra's arm. Their heads were bent together, and hushed giggles drifted behind them like flowery perfume. Sister Tria was staring up at the portrait of Lestia, her brow furrowed slightly; one hand toyed with the scroll.
"And me?" Isolde asked.
Her voice was loud in the silent corridor. Slowly, Sister Tria turned.
"And you?"
Isolde refused to look away. "Would you like me to join the assembly, Sister Tria?"
They both knew the answer. Still, Isolde thought, it would be nice to hear her say it for once. Sister Tria dropped her hand.
"There's a leaky roof in the west stable," the nun said. "If you could see to that, I would be most grateful."
Isolde nodded. "Right."
The two women surveyed each other for a moment. For the first time, it struck Isolde that she had no idea how old Sister Tria was. Thirty? Fifty? Eighty? The nun had a timeless quality about her, like the stones of the church. In Isolde's seventeen years at the convent, she couldn't remember Sister Tria looking either older or younger. She simply just was.
"I'll be off then," Isolde said. "Enjoy the assembly."
She limped toward the stairs. A fire began to burn in her leg, spreading through the pit of her stomach. The clock chimed ten o'clock. Outside, the breeze carried the scent of honey-roasted nuts and gutter grime and all things Bardan. Isolde paused at the window, gazing out at the snow-blanketed city.
Today was a Holy Day.
Everyone knew what that meant.
Isolde fished a piece of paper out of her pocket. Scribbled a few words.
I'm coming. Wait for me at the usual place.
She peered into the white sky, waiting for a glimpse of a raven.