Everyone stopped breathing. All of us knew how the Sorrow had happened, but it was a topic rarely discussed and therefore carried an air of the forbidden. When we were younger, a popular dare had involved sneaking a history book from the scriptorium and reading the passage about the Raven King aloud in the dark by candlelight. For a while, Francine had had Marguerite convinced that speaking his name three times at midnight would summon him.
I was sure Sister Iris knew about all this. She sternly finished over the renewed whispering, “The ritual shattered the gates of Death and reordered the laws of the natural world. It is possible that some souls were uniquely corrupted by this act, resulting in the creation of the revenants. Josephine was correct on so many other accounts”—here she pinned the whispering novices with her gaze—“that I trust we need not fear a recurrence, particularly not while you all proceed in a timely manner to your afternoon chores.”
* * *
Weeks later, I sat watching my breath plume white in the cloister, the chill of the stone bench seeping through my robes and into my thighs. Dozens of other novices my age surrounded me, their nervous chatter filling the predawn gloom like early-morning birdsong. Some of them had traveled from as far away as Montprestre for the evaluation, the straw of wagon beds still clinging to their hair. They gazed around in awe at the cloister and stared at the ruby on Sister Lucinde’s finger, most likely wondering if it was really a relic, as their neighbor had claimed. Most of the northern convents were so small that only their abbesses wore a relic, and then just one; Mother Katherine wore three.
Marguerite sat hunched beside me, shivering. In her effort not to sit too close to me, she was nearly falling off the bench onto the ground. I’d moved over earlier to give her more room, but I didn’t think she’d noticed.
“I’ve never killed anyone,” I offered. That sounded less reassuring out loud than it had in my head, so I added, “Or seriously hurt anyone, either. Not permanently, at least. I assume they’ve all recovered by now.”
She looked up, and for an awful moment I thought she might actually try to talk to me. I wasn’t prepared for that. To my relief, the priest arrived then; brisk footsteps sounded against stone, and our heads craned to watch his dramatic figure striding down the center of the aisle. I glimpsed an imperious sweep of black robes and a flash of golden hair before he disappeared with a swirl of fabric into the evaluation room.
As soon as the door closed, the pious silence that had gripped the cloister dissolved into giggles.
“Girls,” said Sister Lucinde quellingly, but a great deal of stifled noise continued as the first novice was called into the room.
The giggles stopped for good when the girl emerged only a minute or two later, white-faced and bewildered. Sister Lucinde had to take her by the shoulders and steer her in the direction of the refectory, where pallets were being laid out to accommodate the visiting novices. As she stumbled away, she buried her face in her hands and began to cry.
Wide-eyed, everyone watched her go. Marguerite leaned toward Francine, seated on the bench opposite us. “Don’t you think that was fast?”
It was fast. She hadn’t been in there for long enough to answer a few cursory questions, much less take an evaluation. It was as though the priest had been able to judge her aptitude at a mere glance. Out of sight, my hands curled into fists.
Dawn light crept into the cloister as the benches rapidly emptied, its pink glow seeping down the courtyard’s stone walls, flashing from the windows and glaring in my eyes. By the time the light flooded across the tamped-down grass where we practiced our forms, less than a quarter of us remained. The last novices filed out one by one until only Marguerite and I were left. When Sister Lucinde called her name, I tried to think of something encouraging to say to her, but I wasn’t good at that at the best of times. I was still trying to think of what I should have said when the door banged open less than a minute later, and she rushed past me where I stood waiting, her face crimson and streaked with tears.
Sister Lucinde looked after her and sighed. Then she nodded to me. As I stepped over the threshold, my eyes struggled to adjust to the room beyond. It seemed dark indoors now that the sun had risen, even with a fire crackling in the hearth, stiflingly warm, and a few lit tapers scattered around, throwing shivering reflections from mirrors and polished wood.
“Is this the girl?” asked a silhouette in front of the fire.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
The door’s latch clicked. Sister Lucinde had shut me inside.
Now I could see better, well enough to make out the priest. His pale, austere face floated in darkness above the high collar of his severe black robes. He was tall, his posture immaculate, his sharp cheekbones casting his cheeks into shadow. His gaze had already returned to Mother Katherine’s ledger, its worn pages cramped with records of each girl admitted into the convent. Without looking up, he gestured formally at the empty chair in front of the desk. A ring flashed on his hand, set with a large onyx gemstone.
“Sit, my child.”
I obeyed, grateful for my perpetually blank expression. I was used to being called “child” by white-haired Mother Katherine, but the priest couldn’t be any older than twenty, almost of an age with us novices. That explained the giggling.
He looked up. “Is something the matter?” he inquired, in a cold and imperious tone.
“Forgive me, Father. You’re the first man I’ve seen in seven years.” When he only stared at me, I clarified, “The first living man. I’ve seen plenty of dead ones.”
His eyes narrowed, taking me in afresh, as though I were something unidentified that he had just scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “The correct way to address me is ’Your Grace.’ I’m a confessor, not an abbot.” The ledger snapped shut with a clap, sending dust motes swirling through the air. “Artemisia,” he said, disapproval clear in his voice.
“It isn’t my birth name, Your Grace. Mother Katherine chose it for me when I arrived at the convent. It’s the name of—”
“A legendary warrior,” he interrupted, looking slightly annoyed. “Yes, I am aware. Why didn’t you provide your birth name?”
I didn’t want to answer. I wasn’t prepared to tell a stranger that I didn’t want my name because the people who gave it to me hadn’t wanted me. “I wasn’t able to,” I said finally. “I didn’t speak for more than a year after I came here.”
The priest leaned back, studying me unreadably—but to my relief, he didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, he drew a silk handkerchief from his robes, which he used to select a small, intricately carved wooden box from a stack on the side of the desk. He briskly slid it between us, as though wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, and I saw my reflection ripple across the mirrored inlay on its surface: white as a corpse, a draggled-looking black braid draped over one shoulder.
“You may find the evaluation’s format strange at first, but I assure you, it’s a very simple process.” His voice sounded bored, tinged with irritation. “All you must do is hold your hand over the box, like so.” He demonstrated and then withdrew, watching me.