I stare stupidly at the flask. The nun looks at Annith. “Was her hearing affected, do you think?”
“No, Sister.” Annith’s face is solemn, the picture of dutiful respect, and yet I am sure I can sense a faint spark of humor.
Sister Serafina turns back to me. “Piss,” she says, a little loudly in case Annith is wrong about my hearing. “I need you to piss into the flask so I can tell if you have any internal injuries.”
Mortification fills me at this request, but Annith gives me an encouraging nudge. I hurry over to the privacy of the screen and find a chamber pot. I lift my skirts, position myself, and pray I will hit the flask.
The nun speaks again. Her voice is low, but my hearing is sharp from so many years spent listening for my father’s moods.
“Did the reverend mother test her?”
“Yes,” Annith tells her. “With the wine.”
“Praise Mortain!” She sounds well and truly grateful, and I cannot for a moment imagine why. When I emerge from behind the screen, there is a look of exultation on her plain face. As she takes the flask from me, admiration shines in her eyes, as if she’s just discovered I am not simply a plow horse, but a finely blooded mare. “Annith will settle you in one of the beds while I mix a tisane to hasten your healing.” She is still smiling as she turns back to her worktable.
“Over here.” Annith’s hand is gentle on my elbow as she guides me to one of the beds. It is covered in clean white linen, and I am terrified of sullying it. “Take off your clothes,” Annith orders. “I’ll get you a clean shift.”
I remember the reverend mother’s command for obedience, but I find I cannot bring myself to do what she asks. Just as the dust from my ragged gown will mar the clean linens, I am sure the sight of my hideous scar will mar Annith’s view of me. I have known her for mere minutes, but already I am afraid to lose her affection.
She returns to my side holding a shift that bears the clean, crisp scent of lavender. Seeing me still clothed, her face softens. “Do you need help?”
“No.” I wrap my arms around myself. “It is just . . . I . . . my flesh is scarred and ugly and I don’t wish to offend.”
“Nonsense,” she says, and pats my arm. “Here at the convent of St. Mortain, we all have scars.” As she turns away to give me a moment of privacy, I cannot help but wonder what her scars might be.
I slip out of my old, torn chemise, certain I can still smell the reek of pigs where Guillo touched it.
“Matrona’s curse, was it?”
I flinch at Sister Serafina’s voice. Desperate to cover myself, I yank the new shift over my head so quickly that I become dizzy. I wait for the sensation to pass before turning to the nun. “Pardon me?”
She gestures to my back. “What your mother used, child. When you were in her womb.”
“I do not know the name of the herbwitch’s poison.”
“I do.” Her eyes are full of compassion. “Only Matrona’s curse would leave such a scar. Now, into bed with you.”
Annith hovers as I climb into bed, then leans over and tucks the covers around me. When she is done, Sister Serafina hands me a small cup of foul liquid she swears will make me feel better. I drink the tisane—which tastes of rotten berries and old hay—then hand the cup back. This feeling of being fussed over is new and I cannot tell if I like it or not.
Annith settles herself on the stool next to my bed, then glances over her shoulder to assure herself the nun has returned to her worktable. “You may not be able to tell,” she says in a low voice. “But Sister Serafina is delighted by your arrival. Other than herself, no one here is immune to the effects of poison, and she can scarce keep up with supplying the convent. It will most likely be one of your primary duties when you are healed, helping her in the workroom.”
“With poisons?” I ask, not sure I understand her correctly.
Annith nods, and I glance back at the nun, who is busy once again at the worktable. My head is full of more questions, but as I turn back to ask one, I realize that the bed against the farthest window is occupied.
At first, I am glad, glad I’m not the only one for them to fret over. And then I see that the other girl’s wrists are tied to the bed.
Panic rises in my chest, sharp and hot. It must show on my face because Annith turns and follows my gaze. “It is only so she won’t hurt herself,” she hurries to explain. “She was brought here three nights ago, thrashing and screaming. It took four nuns to restrain her.”
My eyes are drawn back to the girl. “Is she mad?”
“Mayhap. Certainly those that brought her here thought so.”
“Was she given the same test as I was?”
“She isn’t well enough to be tested yet, but she will be once she is better.”
When I look back at the girl, I see her eyes are open and she is staring at us. Slowly, she smiles. It is even more disturbing than her bound wrists.
Chapter Four
I awake sometime later to a hand stroking my hair. The touch is gentle and comforting and I marvel at the sensation, a touch that doesn’t hurt. Clearly the tisane has worked.
“Poor poppet,” a low, throaty voice croons. Because I am half asleep, it takes me a moment to realize the voice is not Annith’s nor even Sister Serafina’s. I come fully awake then. The far bed is empty, the wrist ties dangling loose to the floor.
“Poor poppet,” the girl kneeling by my bed murmurs again, and fear stirs in my breast.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
She leans in closer. “Your sister,” she whispers back. Her words sear away the last dregs of sleep. Her hair is a wild tangle of midnight black falling down her back and shoulders. The faint moonlight reveals a bruise high on her cheek and a cut on her lip. I wonder if she got those from the nuns or if she had them when she arrived.
“Do you mean you were sired by Saint Mortain as well?”
She laughs softly, a terrifying sound that sends goose bumps scuttling across my skin. “No, I mean we have been sired by the very devil himself. So says my lord father.”
It is exactly what the villagers have claimed about me all my life, but I find the words no longer ring true. The reverend mother’s revelation has altered something deep inside me, awakened some hope that slumbered hidden all these years. Suddenly, I am eager to convince the girl that she is wrong, just as the reverend mother has convinced me. I push myself up so that I am sitting rather than lying. Her hand falls from my hair.
“Your lord father is wrong.” My whisper is so fierce it scratches my throat. “We have been sired by Mortain. Chosen by Him to do His bidding. Your father, the Church, they all lied.” As I stare into her haunted, broken face, I grow desperate to convince her, to take this small flame of promise from my chest and light it in hers.
A spark of interest flares in her eyes, then is quickly quenched. She cocks her head toward the door. “They are making the rounds. Farewell.” She jumps to her feet, then onto the bed next to me, and begins leaping her way down the row.
“Stop!” Sister Serafina cries from the doorway. The note of command freezes the blood in my veins, but the girl does not even pause. She leaps gracefully as a young deer, making her way to the open window, an almost playful glint in her eye.