Brum brushed a speck of lint from his coat. “A reasonable question. It may be she had other business there or had simply gone to supervise the sisters.”
Or maybe she got dragged into the next world by my undead minions. Who can say?
“What an inquisitive girl you are,” said the new Wellmother. Her eyes were gray-blue, her brow stern, her mouth hard. Did all Wellmothers emerge from the womb scowling? Or did they just start looking vexed as soon as they took the job?
“Forgive me,” Nina said, with another demure curtsy. “I was not educated at the convent, and I’m afraid my manners show the truth of it.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong, Mila,” said Ylva. “We’re all curious.”
“Regardless of what became of the previous Wellmother,” Brum pushed on, “Enke Bergstrin has taken on her position and is attempting to set the convent to rights after the tragedies at G?fvalle.”
“But what is this about, Papa?” asked Hanne.
“I don’t know,” Brum said, his voice sharp. “The Wellmother has declined to share that without your presence.”
The Wellmother set down her tea. “In the wake of the destruction of the fort and the rise of irreligious elements in G?fvalle, the convent has had to take a sterner hand with our students and extend them less privacy.”
Irreligious elements. Nina savored the words. G?fvalle had been the first step, the first miracle she’d staged, when Leoni and Adrik had saved the village from poison unleashed from the factory. It had been irresponsible, utterly imprudent—and it had worked like a charm. She had learned the practice of deception from Kaz Brekker himself, and there was no greater teacher. Two Grisha—a Fabrikator and an Etherealnik—had saved those villagers. A miracle? No, just good people trained to use their gifts, willing to expose themselves to persecution and worse for the sake of saving a town. Two people who were now worshipped as Saints in the dark corners and candlelit kitchens of G?fvalle. Sankt Adrik the Uneven and Sankta Leoni of the Waters.
“What does this have to do with our daughter?” demanded Brum.
“In the course of searching the convent we came across all manner of contraband, including painted icons and heathen prayer books.”
“Surely they are just young,” said Ylva. “I rebelled too when I was that age. It was how I ended up married to a drüskelle.”
Nina felt an unexpected pang at the warm look Brum and his wife shared. Ylva was Hedjut, considered one of the divine people of the north, from the lost coastline near Kenst Hjerte, the Broken Heart. Had she been like Hanne in her youth—driven by stubborn spirit? Full of love for the land and the open sky? Had Jarl Brum, the military boy from the capital, seemed mysterious and alien? Nina had assumed that Brum had always been a monster, but maybe he’d grown into one.
“We cannot think that way,” said Brum. “These influences must be rooted out before they take hold or all of Fjerda will lose its way.”
The Wellmother nodded. “I couldn’t agree more, Commander Brum. That is why I’m here.”
Ylva sat forward, her face stricken. “Are you saying these items were found in Hanne’s quarters?”
“We found men’s riding clothes stashed beneath the slate tiles in the chapel. Also, prayer beads and an icon of Sankta Vasilka.”
Sankta Vasilka. Patron saint of unwed women. She was a Ravkan Saint, said to have become the first firebird.
“That cannot be,” said Brum, stepping in front of Hanne as if to protect her. “Hanne has had her wilder moments. But she would never give herself over to the worship of abomination.”
“Never,” whispered Hanne fervently, and no one could doubt the look of sincerity on her face.
Nina tried not to smile. Hanne would never worship a Grisha because she damn well was one, a Healer forced to hide her powers but who still found ways to use them to help people.
The Wellmother’s lips pursed. “Then perhaps you think I traveled all this way to tell fanciful tales.”
The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire. Nina could feel the fear radiating off Ylva, the anger that came from Brum—and the uncertainty in both of them too. They knew Hanne had been disobedient in the past. But how far had she gone? Nina wasn’t sure herself.
Hanne took a deep breath. “The riding clothes were mine.”
Damn it, Hanne. What had Nina said? Deny everything.
“Oh Hanne,” Ylva cried, pressing her fingertips to her temples.
Brum’s face flushed red.
But Hanne stepped forward, her chin held high, radiant with the pride and rigid will she’d inherited from her father. “I’m not ashamed.” The sound of her voice was pure and certain. Her eyes met Nina’s, glanced away again. “I didn’t know who I was then or what I wanted. Now I know where I want to be. Here with you.”
Ylva stood and took Hanne’s hand. “And the icons? The prayer beads?”
“I don’t know anything about them,” Hanne said without hesi-tation.
“Were they found with Hanne’s riding clothes?” Nina asked, taking a chance.
“No,” the Wellmother admitted. “They were not.”
Ylva drew Hanne close. “I’m proud of your honesty.”
“Wellmother,” said Brum, his voice icy, “you may have the ear of Djel, but so do the drüskelle. You will think more carefully the next time you come to my home to accuse my daughter.”
The Wellmother rose. She looked indomitable, not remotely chastened by Brum’s words. “I serve the spiritual well-being of this country,” she said. “The Apparat, a heathen priest, is beneath this roof. I have heard tales of heathen worship in this very town. I will not be swayed in my mission. Still,” she said, and smoothed the woolen skirts of her pinafore, “I am glad Hanne has finally found her way. I will hear her confession before I go.”
Hanne curtsied, head bowed, the very picture of obedience. “Yes, Wellmother.”
“And I will hear Mila Jandersdat’s as well.”
Nina couldn’t hide her surprise. “But I was only a guest of the convent. I was never a novitiate.”
“And do you not have a soul, Mila Jandersdat?”
More of a soul than you, you pinch-faced prune pit. But Nina couldn’t protest further, not in front of the Brums. Besides, she was nearly giddy with relief. They hadn’t been found out. And while the idea of Hanne being accused of false worship was no small thing, it was nothing compared to what the Wellmother might have said. So if Madame Prune Pit wanted her to make up a few good sins, she’d be happy to entertain her for a quarter of an hour.
“I’ll go first,” she said to Hanne, and cheerfully followed the Wellmother into the small receiving room that had been selected for her confessional.
It was narrow, with space for little more than a writing desk and a small sofa. The Wellmother took a seat at the desk and lit an oil lamp.
“The water hears and understands,” she murmured.
“The ice does not forgive,” Nina said in traditional reply.
“Close the door.”
Nina did as she was bid and smiled warmly, showing she was eager to please.