I let my shoulders slump. “But what would you have me do? I am like a fifth wheel on a cart. I am skilled in the use of every weapon in Sister Arnette’s armory; I can best Sister Thomine in a fight as often as she can best me; my archery skills are better than anyone else’s here; and I can ride a horse bareback, backward, or standing up.”
Sister Serafina cocks her head, eyes alight with curiosity. “Standing up? I thought only the followers of Arduinna knew how to do that trick.”
“No. Sister Widona taught me.” I let a plaintive whine creep into my voice. “There is nothing left for me to do. Even Sister Beatriz has taught me every dance, every means of seduction. Why, she has even taught me how to—”
“Enough!” Sister Serafina holds up her hand, halting my words. Surely it was a Mortain-inspired strategy, turning to the one subject that makes her most uncomfortable—the skills of seduction they teach us.
She dumps the handful of herbs she has chopped into the kettle of boiling water. “Very well,” she says. “If you have mastered everything they have to teach you, I have some things you have yet to learn.”
I take an eager step toward her. “You will give me more poison lessons?”
She snorts. “I have already taught you everything I can about poisons. To learn any more, you would have to be immune to them, and you have not acquired that skill, have you?” She turns and looks at me sharply, as if almost hoping it were true.
I shake my head and sigh, fighting down a familiar pang of jealousy at Ismae’s most practical and rare of gifts. “Alas, no.”
“So I will teach you my other skill. Nursing.”
I look at the row of empty beds. “But we have no patient.”
“Ah, but we do. Here.” She shoves the empty metal basin at me, then picks up a tray covered with small pots of salves and piles of herbs. “Follow me.”
Of all the duties the nuns perform here at the convent, those of the seeress are the ones I know the least about. Sister Vereda does not join us at meals, nor participate in our feasts or celebrations. She does not teach us any lessons or train us in any skills. It is as if she does not exist. The only time a handmaiden meets with her is if she is going on assignment and Sister Vereda has Seen it. Since I have not yet been sent out, I have never met with her.
Old Sister Druette, who was seeress before Vereda, was just as mysterious, although far more terrifying. She was known to stand at her door, peeking out into the hallway, ready to grab or pinch a passing novitiate when she wanted something. Most of us did everything we could to avoid walking down that corridor.
I follow Sister Serafina down the hall that leads to the inner recesses of the convent and struggle to keep my footsteps firm and brisk. Dread begins to seep into my bones, an awareness that when I step into Sister Vereda’s chambers, I could be staring into the face of my own fate.
No. Surely as soon as the seeress can See again, the abbess will put away this idea of hers.
Once we reach the thick oaken door that leads to the seeress’s chambers, Sister Serafina shifts the tray she carries, lifts the latch, and slips inside. I try to follow, but my feet will not obey. They are stuck fast, as if they have been entangled in some invisible web.
Sister Serafina turns and frowns at me over her shoulder. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I say, and force myself to step over the threshold.
Sister Vereda’s chamber is dark and dim. The smells of a sickroom hang thick in the air: pungent herbs, a full chamber pot, old fevered sweat. It feels like every breath the seeress has ever drawn still sits here, trapped for all eternity. It is all I can do not to gag and run screaming from the room.
I take slow, deep breaths through my mouth and allow my eyes to grow accustomed to gloom. Once they have, the first thing I see is a pale orange glow from the four charcoal braziers set around the room. As my vision adjusts further, I am able to make out the interior, a small, cramped place with no windows, only the one door, and not even a true fireplace.
Sister Serafina sets down her tray, then takes the basin from my hands. “How is she?” she asks the lay sister who sits by the bed.
“She is well enough, for now,” the lay sister replies. “But she is fretful when awake, and her breathing grows even more shallow and labored.”
“Not for long,” Sister Serafina says with grim determination in her voice.
When the lay sister has left, I trail behind Sister Serafina as she draws near the bed. Even though Vereda is old, her cheeks are as smooth and plump as a babe’s. I cannot help but wonder if this is because it has been years since she set foot outside this room and felt the sun or the wind against her face. She wears no wimple, but a small linen cap covers her hair with only white wisps escaping in a few places. Her body is a lump, obscured by layers of blankets to keep her warm. As I stare down at her, Sister Eonette’s comment that Sister Vereda’s illness hints at some sinister undercurrent comes back to me. “What is wrong with her?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
Sister Serafina sets her little kettle on one of the charcoal braziers in the room. “I do not yet know.”
“I thought we who were born of Mortain did not get sick?”
Sister Serafina purses her lips and motions impatiently. “Bring me the dried coltsfoot, comfrey, and mallow root you have in the dish there.”
I do as she asks and wonder why she will not answer me. Still silent, she takes the herbs and dumps them into the kettle and begins to stir. After a long moment, she finally speaks. “We do not get sick. Or not often, at least. And when we do, we heal quickly. Let us pray that Sister Vereda will heal quickly as well.”
Since it is the prayer I have uttered with every breath I’ve taken since overhearing the abbess’s plans for me, it is easy enough to agree. “Good. Now remove her blankets and unlace her shift. We’re going to put this poultice on her chest and keep it there until the phlegm releases its hold on her lungs.”
In this moment I realize I have no earthly idea what this sort of nursing entails. It sounds most vile. I am torn between laughter and tears. All my life, I have waited in breathless anticipation for my meeting with the seeress. It would be the culmination of seventeen years’ hard work—a triumphant call to serve Mortain. But instead, I am here to empty her chamber pot and wipe up her spittle.
It is almost—almost—enough to make me wish the Dragonette were still alive. And even though she has been dead these seven years, my stomach clenches painfully at the thought.
Chapter Four
IT TAKES NEARLY THREE WEEKS, but just as winter solstice draws near, we are finally able to chase the illness from Sister Vereda’s aging body. She is still weak and frail, but she will live.
I have never nursed anyone as vigorously or fervently as I did the old seeress. I slept on a cot next to hers; spooned rich broth through her thin, wrinkled lips; sponged her fevered brow with cool water mixed with herbs; and applied poultices to her shriveled chest with my own hands, desperate to chase the fever from her lungs.
She was not an easy patient, for though I have helped Sister Serafina with new girls when they arrive, the seeress was far more restless and fussy. Not to mention the unpleasantness of her foul, stale little room. I vow, not a whisper of fresh air has entered that room since she was first sealed in it all those years ago.