The antechamber alone is as big as our chapel and chapter house combined, and it is richly appointed, with bright, colorful tapestries that do much to absorb the chill that comes in through the main doors. The wood paneling is intricately carved, and I long to run my fingers over it to feel the rich texture of the wood.
But even more dizzying is the number of people in the room, which is equal to the population of a small village. Over a dozen sentries and men-at-arms, a handful of pages, and clusters of well-dressed citizens and even more elegantly dressed nobles mingle about. This is the only thing Sister Beatriz did a fair job of preparing us for—the finery these nobles wear, for their garments are as brightly decorated and elaborate as she told us they would be. I also notice that most of them stand with their heads together, absorbed in tense conversation. Have they already heard of the French attack on Vannes? Or is there some other news that has them nervous?
I see the page scampering back to us before the sentry does, his eyes wide, his brows raised. “Her ladyship says to send Annith along immediately. I am to escort her myself.” He says this last bit with no small amount of pride.
The sentry casts a curious glance at me before nodding his head and ushering me on. I hurry to catch up to the page, who apparently does not believe in walking when scampering will do.
Now that I am actually seconds away from facing the abbess, my palms grow clammy. I marvel that I have faced—and survived—the dangers of the hellequin and the French, and yet it is the thought of this conversation that makes my hands sweat. I will not give in to this fear.
I have been blooded in my first battle, and my second and my third.
I have lived now in the real world, with all its mess and turmoil, all its wildness and all its beauty, and I can never unsee what I have seen, I can never unknow what I now know. More importantly, something deep inside me has awakened, and now that I have moved through the world fully aware, it is impossible to let myself be lulled back to sleep. Perhaps that is why the abbess held me back. Perhaps, for some reason I cannot even begin to fathom, she was afraid of this very thing.
After leading me down one main corridor, then another, the page comes to a stop in front of a thick oak door and raps smartly upon it. “It’s the Lady Annith, your ladyship.”
“Send her in.” The abbess’s voice is clear as a bell, even through the door.
“It’s Reverend Mother,” I whisper at him.
He frowns at me. “What?”
“A woman in her position is not called your ladyship, but Reverend Mother.”
His cheeks flare pink for a moment. “Why didn’t anybody tell me?” With a snort of disgust, he shakes his head and trots off down the hall. I take a deep breath, put my hand to the door, and go in.
The abbess is waiting for me in the chair behind her desk, sitting stiff and upright. Her face is pale, her nostrils pinched, the skin drawn tight across her fine features. Indeed, her barely checked fury has the weight and substance of a living thing. “Reverend Mother.” I execute a precise curtsy.
She does not bother with the formalities. “What is the meaning of this, Annith? What are you doing here in Rennes?”
“I have come to inform you that Matelaine is dead.”
The pinched anger in her face does not soften. There is no flicker of surprise or remorse or sorrow. “While I am sorry to hear that, there was no reason for you to bring the news yourself. A message would have sufficed. You are simply using this as an excuse to avoid a duty you do not wish to perform.”
The memory of Matelaine and her cold, still body lying on the hard wooden planks of the bone cart rises up, twisting my heart until it bleeds anew. My hands clench into fists and I shove them into my skirt so she will not see. “No. A simple message would not have sufficed, for I wanted to look you in the face when I accused you of being responsible for her death. It is because of your negligence and stubbornness that she is dead.”
A gasp escapes her lips—one sharp intake of breath that lets me know my words have reached her. “What do you mean?”
As the raw wound of Matelaine’s death reopens, all the hot, bitter pain comes flowing out. “You sent her out before she was ready. You knew it was too soon; Sister Thomine warned you. I warned you, but still you sent—”
“Silence!” Her voice cuts through my words like a knife. She places both hands flat on the desk and pushes herself to her feet. “How dare you? How dare you come in here screeching like a fishwife, berating me!”
I take a step toward the desk, enjoying the way her eyes widen in surprise. “I dare because Matelaine cannot do it herself. You have betrayed her, betrayed the sanctuary and trust between the convent and its novitiates, and I would know the reason why.”
“Trust! Let us speak of trust and how you have disobeyed me outright. You have left the convent and your duties without permission. Have you given no thought to the others whom your actions might place in jeopardy? Have you given any thought at all to leaving the convent with no one to See Mortain’s will? It is I who accuse you of betraying my trust.”
I dismiss her accusations with a curt wave of my hand. “I have no gift for Seeing and you know it. Why did you send Matelaine when she was not ready? What is the true reason you held me back?”
The abbess closes her eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again, she is calmer, less angry. She smiles then, a coaxing, beatific smile. It feels as if she is casting out a sticky net, hoping to entrap me with her beguiling ways. But it is poisoned bait she offers—I recognize that now. “Dear Annith. While I admire your loyalty to those you care about, you must understand that as abbess, I have duties far above any one individual’s safety or comfort. I must use all the resources available in the best way possible to ensure Mortain’s will is done. You know that. It is just your disappointment and envy talking.” Her voice is gentle, sympathetic even, and it wraps itself around me in an attempt to lull me back to sleep.
For a sharp, painful moment, I miss a world where everything made sense. “I was disappointed, envious even, but now that is only a small part of what I feel. By not sending me out when I should have gone, you have given me a role in Matelaine’s death, and to atone for that, I will see you held accountable for your deeds.”
She is the first to look away. She tries to hide it in a gesture—she casts her hand wide, as if in exasperation, but her eyes shift, and I know this small victory is mine. “Do you truly think I treat the novitiates any differently than abbesses throughout the centuries have? Do you think the Dragonette would have flinched from using what tools were at hand?”