Chương 89: Book 2, Chapter 28: A Line on You

The next morning, her seventh at Mont Sainte-Michelle, was the first one in which Clara wasn't part of the task rotation. Instead, after breakfast (which was, of course, more porridge), a senior member of the Sacred Ministry led a group of acolytes in communal prayers, and they recited the liturgy until Clara's throat was raw and her voice hoarse. Who would've guessed prayer was worse than chores.

But the good news was that, after the prayers finished, she was allowed to spend the rest of the day 'resting her spirit' before the next phase of her education could begin. She'd gotten a basic understanding of the main abbey building, but Mont Sainte-Michelle's intertwining towers and hallways were so complex that she still had no idea where most things were, if they weren't tied to her chores.

So she approached a sister and asked about the library, hoping the answer would differ from when she'd asked Mother Cornelia.

"You are the vessel under Mother Cornelia's care, are you not? You ought not to be spending your time on books, but on inner thoughts and contemplation of the Goddess's miracle." Clara clicked her tongue, then tried asking another sister, thinking that maybe the first one was unusually strict. Alas, the result was the same. I'm sure they wouldn't have brushed Warren off like this, and not just because he's a noble. Goddess, I'll never admit it to him, but I'm envious of his finesse. She bit her lip.

Are they really going to make me spend the day alone with nothing to do? I'd almost take more prayer over this. And so she was left to wander around the main courtyard. The stone towers were hard to tell apart from each other, and she couldn't even guess what was inside each one. How do I even start searching this place? She was leaning on a parapet overlooking a lower courtyard, planning where to go next, when she heard it. Hoo. Hoo. Clara's eyelid twitched, and she turned to the sound.

An ashen-feathered owl sat on a tree branch a few paces away, tilting its head to the side while looking at Clara." You. Do you have any idea how much sleep I've lost because of you?" The owl hooted again, unbothered. Clara walked toward it, waving her arms.

"Shoo. Go be a nuisance somewhere else." The owl spread its wings and coasted to a buttress further along the terrace, then looked back at her.

"Are you—are you mocking me?" Clara pressed her palm to her forehead.

"Great, I'm going crazy from sleep deprivation." She advanced on the owl. It waited until Clara was nearly close enough to swat it, then glided to a railing just out of her reach, hooting. Clara followed, and every time she closed the distance, the owl drifted ahead. The chase led her along a colonnade and down to a lower tier she hadn't explored yet. She passed by a cluster of acolytes sitting on a bench and giggling about something, hands over their mouths.

Clara followed their gaze, and it led straight into a laundry room, with rows of stone basins and lines heavy with clerical habits. Helena Rosewood stood inside in long brown robes, working through an enormous pile of clothes by herself. Her light hair had darkened where the sweat soaked through. Clara frowned. Hang on. Are they making her do all of it? Isn't this a bit much? The owl hooted and flew further away, but she ignored it, entering the laundry room instead.

A wave of damp air hit her, the acrid steam of boiling soap stinging her nose.

"Lady Helena." Clara kept her voice light.

"Are you okay?" Helena looked at her with a bright smile.

"Miss Clara! It's nice to see you here. I'm doing well, thank you for asking! Isn't Mont Sainte-Michelle wonderful?" She didn't stop working while she spoke.

"Ah, yes. It's beautiful. Why don't you let me help with that laundry? That's a lot for just one person." Clara reached for the nearest basket, and Helena's hand shot out and caught hers.

"No." The rejection was firm and immediate. For a second, Helena's cheerful smile faded, but it came back as quickly as it went.

"I mean, thank you, Miss Clara, but please don't worry about it. I couldn't possibly burden you." Clara raised an eyebrow.

"I don't think it's fair for you to do multiple people's chores on your own. I really don't mind, Lady Helena."

"But I do. I'm grateful for your offer, but I like the work. I'm quite happy."

"If you say so." The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

"I do!" Helena settled back into her rhythm of wringing and hanging the wet robes with clear joy on her face.

"How are you finding it here, Miss Clara? Isn't it such a privilege to be at the heart of the Sacred Ministry? I missed this place terribly while at Claves. The sisters are so nice!" You have a strange definition of nice.

"It reminds me of my days at House von Rhenia," said Clara, trying the diplomatic approach.

"What do you mean by 'missed'? Have you been here before?" Helena nodded.

"Yes, Mont Sainte-Michelle is like a second home to me. I was very sickly as a child, you see, and the Church took special care of me. I'm actually really glad you're here, too. I never got to share the joys of this place with anyone from Claves, or really anyone outside the Church, but now that you're here, I feel like maybe someone else could understand it." She grasped Clara's hands, much less briskly this time.

"We should be friends, Miss Clara!" A second home? Is that why she has a golden key, because she's spent a lot of time here?

"Friends, you say." Iris definitely won't like it, but… with all the mystery surrounding her, being closer might be useful.

"Of course, Lady Helena. Let us be friends." Helena almost jumped for joy.

"I'm so glad! Thank you, Miss Clara. And now that we're friends, we don't need 'Miss' this and 'Lady' that. You should just call me Helena." Clara hesitated. Helena's enthusiasm seemed genuine, but something about this had her instincts on alert. Ah. It's 'that' scene. It was a common trope of villainess stories—a cunning noble lady graciously allowed someone of lower standing to refer to her by her name, and then it led to public shaming later. Clara could hear the mocking whispers already: ' Did you hear that?

That fool thinks she can call Lady Flawless Marysue by her name! She has no manners!'

"While that's very generous of you, Lady Helena, it wouldn't be proper for me to do that. You can call me Clara if you want, though."

"Oh." Helena deflated, looking down.

"Alright, Clara." Clara felt guilty, but it was too late to go back on it now, so she pivoted to a different topic.

"Lady Helena, since you're so familiar with this place, do you happen to know where the library is? I've been bored in my free time, so I wanted to get something to read."

"Of course I do! The library here is wonderful. I've been spending a lot of time there, looking up records to try to come up with the perfect ordained name for myself. I'll make some time to show you on my next free day—I can't go right now since I have to finish all this."

"Thank you. I look forward to it. And let me know if you change your mind about wanting help." Clara was about to leave the girl be, yet… There was one quick thing she wanted to do before that.

"By the way, speaking of the library, do you know if they have books in Latin?" Helena tilted her head.

"What's Latin?"

"Oh, nothing. Just something I heard mentioned at Istantinople. I think it's a type of food and I was wondering how to make it." Really? A 'type of food'? Truly masterful spycraft there, Casewell. Clara sighed and left the Saintess-to-be to her work. Even if she wasn't going to the library today, Clara still wanted to make the most of her rest day. She explored at random, trying to ignore the hooting in her ears as she went up and down the staircases in the main building.

Unfortunately, all she came across were mundane places like candle stores, pantries, and prayer rooms. That is, until she tried following a sister with an iron key into the entrance of a side tower. Though the sister went inside without issue, as soon as Clara touched the door handle, she was hit by what felt like an electric shock.

"Ow!" She jerked back, wringing her hand.

"Iron for that one, dearie. Wood won't do." The papery voice came from behind her, and Clara turned. An old woman with a silver key around her neck leaned on a cane. She was thin and bent, and her dry, wrinkly skin resembled a raisin. Clara guessed she was at least eighty, and her gray habit was so faded that it appeared close to white. The woman's clouded eyes were aimed squarely at Clara's left shoulder. Blind, I'm guessing. And going by what she just said, my theory about the necklace keys was right.

"Forgive me, I didn't mean to intrude," said Clara. The old woman cackled.

"You couldn't intrude even if you wanted to."

"I—""Don't worry, I'd be curious too. That door leads to the reliquary. Or so they claim," she said, leaning closer to Clara.

"The inquisition doesn't want you to know it, but I can smell it." Smell it…? The woman sniffed twice.

"The 'relics' inside aren't real. They were all replaced by forgeries, you see—they aren't the true relics the Saintesses left behind. The relic keeper hates me for saying it, but what can he do? Kill me?" She cackled again, delighted with herself.

"And you. I take it you're the one they're calling vessel?"

"I'm Clara Casewell. You are?"

"Just a resident of Mont Sainte-Michelle." She flapped a hand.

"The sisters will tell you I'm the eldest here, which is true, and that it means nothing, which is debatable. Then they'll call me a mad old crone, which is something you should form your own opinion on. Har har har!" Clara had no idea how to respond to that.

"Mother Radegund!" A sister came hurrying toward them, her face caught between exasperation and embarrassment.

"Mother, you're wanted at the tide bell." The woman turned to the sister.

"Ah, is it that time already?"

"Yes, Mother Radegund."

"You know, ever since the last Elowensday, the tide bell has been ringing seven minutes early. They must be hiding something."

"Yes, Mother."

"You are humoring me, Sister Beth."

"Yes, Mother." Radegund cackled again.

"Good girl. Very well, I shall attend to it shortly. Now, you go on ahead and tell the west dormitory that I'll be making rounds there tomorrow."

"Yes, Mother." The sister gave Clara an apologetic nod.

"Pay her no mind. She's been… out of her wits for a few years now, but she's quite harmless." Then she scurried away.

"Now, back to you. Let me take a good look at you, dearie." Mother Radegund's eyes were still fixed on nothing, but she moved her head to Clara, then paced around her.

"You have a line on you."

"A line?"

"Yes, a line. Are you deaf, dearie? Har har har!" Mother Radegund reached out and tapped Clara's neck, dead center, without groping for it even once.

"It comes out of here, then it goes all the way up. Can't tell where it ends—too far for even me to see." Clara's mind immediately went to the golden particles falling into Iris when the memory magic took over her.

"What does it mean?"

"Haven't the foggiest. The only time I've seen something like this was on the box that holds Saintess Winifred's finger." She put her mouth next to Clara's ear and whispered.

"Or what they say is her finger. I reckon it's goat bone."

"You're saying the Saintess's finger is actually a goat bone?" I'm starting to see why people think she's crazy.

"Shh." Mother Radegund's thin hand came over Clara's lips.

"If you say it out loud, they will come for you. They don't want anyone to know. That's why they call me mad."