Pale moonlight spills in from the two windows, illuminating the enormous cupboard that covers most of the wall behind the desk. It might well take me all night to search each of its hidden drawers and shelves. I push away from the door, eager to get to work. Although there is only a quarter-moon, it is bright enough for me to see by, so I do not need to risk lighting a candle.
The intricate scrollwork of the cabinet is carved with strange wild beasts cavorting among curves and arches, their polished wooden eyes watching me as I try to open one of the doors. It is locked. I cast about for a likely hiding place for the key. Hopefully it is not dangling from the ring Sister Eonette wears at her waist.
My luck holds and it is in the first place I look, the drawer of the abbess’s desk, for who would dare breach the abbess’s inner sanctum without invitation?
Me, that’s who, and I will dare much more than that before I am done.
There are four keys, and one by one I try them. The third unlocks it. The first drawer coughs up nothing but bills and receipts for goods sold to the convent: bolts of dark blue samite for new habits and white wool for the midwinter cloaks, leather for shoes and grain from the local miller. In the second drawer is correspondence with Church officials about local matters, such as the leasing of fields on the mainland, and the letter from the abbess of Saint Mer just before she sent Melusine.
I turn my attention to the bottom cabinet. This one contains a number of small drawers and cubbies stuffed with more letters and old correspondence, some small coins, and half-used sticks of sealing wax. At the very bottom is a large drawer. I take a deep breath as I open the drawer, letting it out when I finally see the prize I have been looking for—the large leather-bound ledger that contains the record of every one of Mortain’s handmaidens as far back as the first days of the convent.
I grasp the book with both hands, carry it over to the window, and set it on the sill.
The pages are old and yellowed and some so fragile I fear they will come apart under my fingers. Gingerly, I turn each page, marveling at the old script, so ornate as to be nearly unreadable.
I keep turning the pages, looking for dates that correspond to my arrival at the convent. Finally, nearly three-quarters of the way through, I see July 1472 scrawled atop a page. I run my finger down, past entries for July, August, and September, then quickly turn the page, but the next one is dated January of 1473. That cannot be correct. I arrived in the fall of 1472, toward the end of October. I turn back a page, but the last date is still September 1472.
How can that be? According to the ledger, I have never existed at all.
Perhaps the dates are out of order. I bring the heavy book up closer to my face and tilt it toward the moonlight. A leaf is missing. It appears that the page that holds all the answers I seek has been carefully torn from the book.
My pulse quickens, for is not the fact that the page is missing a sort of answer in itself?
To be certain, I hurry back to the drawer, thinking perhaps the page had simply come loose and fallen out, but no, the drawer is empty except for a large flat box. It is of some dark, glossy black wood, and I turn it over and over in my hands but can find no lid, no seam, no catch, no way of opening it. But it is heavy, and something inside moves when I shake it.
My hands tingle with excitement, for it must be something truly important to be enclosed in a box that cannot be opened. As enticing as that is, the box likely does not hold the answers that I seek, so I put it aside and resume my search for some record of my arrival.
I move to the bottom right cupboard and give a small gasp of delight when I find a neat row of small, calfskin-bound black books. I pull one out, flip it open, and am pleased to see the abbess’s elegant writing covering the vellum. As my eye moves across the words, I realize that it is a recording of the day-to-day operations of the convent. I turn a few more pages, and when my eye is caught by the name Melusine, I quickly read the abbess’s summary of her arrival. Surely that means all our arrivals would be noted in these journals as well as in the main convent ledger.
I pluck the fifth one from the end, and when I open it I see that the handwriting is not that of the current abbess but a bolder, more precise script. I glance at the dates: 1470 to 1475. With trembling hands I turn the pages, skimming the words until my own name jumps out at me. Clutching the journal to my chest as if the words might disappear before I can read them, I hasten back to the window so I may have the full light of the moon.
1472
Today the night rower delivered a small babe, a tiny wrinkled thing that cannot be but a handful of days old. According to the hedge priest and the herbwife who delivered the child, the girl was sired by Mortain, but the priest and the herbwife did not know who the mother was or could even name her. The night rower’s son’s wife has recently lost a babe and will be glad for the work as wet nurse. Thus does our Lord Mortain provide for even the least and smallest of His creatures.
1474
The child called Annith grows apace and is apparently healthy. At two years of age, it is not too early to begin her training. Indeed, she will be most fortunate among us, for few are given the opportunity to begin walking in Mortain’s path at such a tender age. Besides, the novice mistress coddles her too much and will make her soft. Best to train any softness out of her as early as possible so she may be as perfect for Mortain’s service as we can make her.
1475
The child cried and sobbed and made a terrible fuss over being parted from Sister Etienne. As punishment, she has been locked in the cellar until she is willing to sleep in her own bed in the dormitory with the other girls without fussing. I will show her that she does not need anyone to survive and that it is unwise to form such attachments. I shall have to think of some punishment for Sister Etienne as well, for she is almost as distraught as the child.
1475
It took three days to break the child, which, were it not so inconvenient for us all, would speak admirably of her will and spirit. We will take that raw stuff and mold it into a truly remarkable weapon for Mortain’s use.
1475
The child cried inconsolably when two of the barn cat’s kittens died. We explained to her that death was nothing to be afraid of, but when she would not listen to reason, more extreme measures were called for. She was locked in the wine cellar again, with the two dead kittens, in order to prove to her that she had nothing to fear from death. When she was finally quiet, she was let out. Sister Etienne said she did not speak for two entire days. Let us hope that means this lesson has been fully impressed upon her.