Clara pulled back from the gap and pressed herself against the crates, praying she hadn’t given herself away.
She’s blind. She can’t see me. All I need to do is stay quiet and wait for her to leave.
“I smell honey. Is that you skulking about, Aemilia?” Mother Radegund’s papery voice echoed. “I’ve told you before, if you want to check whether I’ve been rearranging the files, you can simply ask.”
Fuck. She knows someone’s here.
Clara didn’t move.
“Hmm. You’re not Aemilia, are you? Aemilia can never resist answering—I’ve never seen that woman fail to put her grubby hands on a question.” There was a shuffle of fabric, then the sound of more sniffing. “No, Aemilia’s scent has a tinge of resentment, which yours doesn’t. You have the same honey on you, but also…” Another sniff. “Fear. Har har har!”
The laughter bounced off the filing cabinets, and it felt as if the entire room were rattling. Then the chair creaked, and Mother Radegund began to move.
Tap. Shuffle. Tap. Each one closer than the last.
“You shouldn’t be here, dearie. That’s very naughty,” said Mother Radegund. “The sisters put out traps, you know. To catch the little mice who nibble at the Ministry’s papers. Terrible things, those traps.” Radegund went quiet, then clapped her hands together, and Clara’s whole body jolted. “Snap! Har har har. Just like that. Very thorough, the sisters. And very tidy. Really, it’s the tidy ones that you have to watch out for, not the wicked ones.”
Shuffle. Tap. Shuffle.
Radegund had reached the back of the room, and now stood directly over the crates.
“Nothing to say, dearie?”
Definitely not. The first thing a lawyer needs to know is the value of keeping a mouth shut.
Radegund waited. Then she cackled, drawing it out until Clara’s ears hurt.
“Smart mouse. But not very bright.” Radegund shuffled away, and Clara leaned toward the gap between the crates again and watched her lower herself back onto the chair. “It’s not often I get to enjoy this. Just because I’m getting a little old, nobody’s frightened of me anymore. Do you know how tiresome that is?”
Clara still didn’t answer.
“I’m so glad you agree! I’ve been here for sixty-one years, you know? I used to be powerful. Respected. But now, nobody takes me seriously. ‘She’s crazy,’ they say. ‘She can’t even see anything, she won’t care about the ceremony. It’ll be just like the prince’s baptism.’ Well, I do care. And I see everything. I’ve been waiting for this for a very long time.” Mother Radegund’s voice was bright with delight. “The Goddess is patient, and the council finally counted the years properly. I shall be in the front row.”
The woman hummed a few notes of something that might’ve been either a hymn or a tavern song. “So go on, dearie. Shoo. You’re young, it’s late, and I’m just an old lady who enjoys playing with vermin who venture where they shouldn’t.”
Clara hesitated, weighing her options.
Mother Radegund raised her hand and pointed a bony finger straight at Clara. “Don’t be tiresome, now. I’m waiting for someone, and I wouldn’t count on that one being so nice. And if anyone should ask me—” Radegund leaned forward and whispered, “I shall tell them, with my hand on the scriptures and my lips wet with wine, that I saw nothing at all. Which is true, of course. I haven’t seen anything in thirty years. Har!”
Clara didn’t know how she heard the whisper. Mother Radegund was on the other side of the room, yet her words creaked clearly inside Clara’s head. She rose from behind the crates, crossing the room without opening her mouth or looking back, though she felt Radegund watching her every move.
“No need to close the door behind you, dearie. I’ll be leaving soon. And mind the stairs—they get restless at this time of night,” Radegund called after her. “Do give my regards to the little one across from you. She needs to eat more.”
Clara left the room and watched the staircases drift between the landings, charting her path out of the archives as fast as she could. Her hands were shaking and her heart was hammering in her ears as she rushed down.
As if I needed further proof that I’m not cut out for espionage. I plead guilty, Your Honor.
She’d made it four flights down when the Goddess decided that yes, further evidence was required: Clara tripped, sending her satchel tumbling down the steps. Fortunately, the clasp remained closed, though a few sharp clinks against stone told her some coins had spilled out through the gap on the flap.
She got back to her feet and retrieved her satchel, then considered whether to stop and search for the money. On the one hand, even if coins were hardly suspicious objects by themselves, she didn’t want to leave any traces that she’d been here, and besides, it’d be a shame if she left behind something like a full mark and not just a penny. On the other, the shaft was dark, the coins were small, she had no idea how far they’d rolled.
That was when she heard footsteps coming from below—heavier and more methodical than Mother Radegund’s.
Clara ducked, hiding herself behind a railing as the unknown person climbed past on a parallel flight. Presumably, it was whoever Mother Radegund had been waiting for.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
When the footsteps receded, Clara continued her trek through the shaft, unwilling to spend any longer in here than she absolutely needed to.
A few moments later, Mother Radegund’s rickety voice drifted down, muffled only slightly by distance. “Ah, you’re here. You must be disappointed, young one. Har har!”
If there was more after that, Clara couldn’t hear it. She descended the remaining tiers as fast as the shifting staircases allowed, slipped out through the door, and did not stop moving until the clock tower was far behind her.
Clara woke to gray light coming in through the slit window in her chambers. Her head was heavy, and her mind groggy, which was no surprise given how little she’d slept.
She had returned the golden key to Helena’s nightstand the night before, and retrieved her own iron one from beside it. Making it back to her room unscathed had been a relief, but not enough of one to lull her to sleep, her own thoughts proving a greater foe than any hooting.
A second high inquisitor involved in the conspiracy, executed in secret. The Veiled Keys, pointed at House von Rhenia over something called a Warden’s Anchor. Franz von Rhenia, convicted of treason, heresy, and corrosion, thirty years dead and never once mentioned, not even in Stella’s memories.
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She wished she could talk this through with someone—Warren, even. Maybe over lunch; treating him to a meal would be a good way to pay him back for securing her a knighthood. And she’d always done her best work when she was challenging and being challenged, which was something Warren did in spades.
In any case, she hoped to get some answers from Duke von Rhenia soon. She planned to head straight to the estate when they released her from Mont Sainte-Michelle in the afternoon.
Clara washed, dressed, choked down her last bowl of porridge, then presented her key to the assistant custodian on duty for re-incantation. After that, she made her way up the back tower for her final lesson.
Yet the chamber was empty.
She sat and waited, pouring herself a cup of coffee. Ten minutes, then twenty. Clara checked the door twice to make sure she hadn’t misremembered the room, because throughout all their lectures, Father Anchieta had never been late.
When he finally dragged himself into the room, she almost didn’t recognize him. His hair was rumpled; there were dark shadows under his eyes, and his gaze was about as focused as Mother Radegund’s.
“Good morning, Father.”
He didn’t reply, lowering himself into his chair like a man twice his age and staring at the coffee pot without touching it.
Clara poured him a cup.
“Are you unwell? Do you want me to fetch someone?”
He sighed, then finally took a sip. “No, Dame Casewell. I am in perfect health, at least as far as my body is concerned.”
She waited. Sometimes, it was better to let a witness get there on their own.
“The Goddess has withdrawn Her hand from me,” he said at last. “Despite a life of service, preaching in fishing villages in the rain, giving last rites on a burning deck, She has, in Her wisdom, chosen to abandon this servant.”
Clara raised an eyebrow. Melodramatic today, are we?
“What makes you say so?”
“I was so certain. The signs all pointed to it. Custodian is the highest-ranked post at all of Mont Sainte-Michelle, working directly with the Cardinal Primate. Why wouldn’t she sit in front? That’s what all the rumors claimed.” He covered his face with his hands. “Six months’ wages, Dame Casewell. Gone in an instant.”
Clara thought back to the mess hall, and the acolytes trading whispers about who would sit where at the canonization. Then Mother Radegund’s elation last night, when she’d mentioned ‘front row’.
It seemed he’d bet against Mont Sainte-Michelle’s resident crone getting the front seat, and now he was paying dearly for it.
Oh, Father.
“Perhaps the Goddess is trying to teach you something about games of chance.”
Anchieta let out a chuckle that sounded more like a moan. “If that’s the case, I can only wish She’d chosen a less expensive method. I cannot even begin to imagine how I might get past this.”
“You’ll recover, Father. I don’t think Bel would let her favorite man of the Goddess fall into financial ruin.”
His lips twitched into a small smile. “Ah, yes, the duchess…”
“Perhaps we should begin the lesson,” said Clara. “Maybe that will take your mind off it.”
“I suppose so. It’s your last day, and we have a lot to get through.” He took a book from inside his robe and opened it. “You must be pleased about your early release. Ah, freedom. A sweet word that becomes all the sweeter when it’s out of one’s reach.”
He attempted to explain the East-West schism for about an hour, and it was the worst hour of teaching that Clara had ever been subjected to; the only reason she managed to follow it at all was that she’d already read Professor Baird’s book on Byzottoman history.
Then there was a knock, and a young sister opened the door, breathless.
“Father, Dame Casewell. You’re both to come down to the great hall at once—the Cardinal Primate has summoned everyone.”
Anchieta straightened, some measure of alertness returning to him. “Everyone? What’s happened?”
She shook her head. “At once, Father.”
The great hall was already full when they arrived, tables moved aside and replaced with rows of benches facing a pulpit. There were sisters, acolytes, scribes, even assorted workers who must have crossed from the village in the morning. Clara followed Father Anchieta to the front, and Helena soon appeared at her side, bright-eyed and smelling faintly of soap.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Helena whispered. “The Cardinal Primate almost never addresses the whole abbey. Maybe it’s more news about my ceremony! I saw the seating charts they posted last night, and I’m really glad. Even if I’m also a bit sad that you’re leaving so soon, Clara!”
Clara didn’t share in the excitement. In her experience, these sorts of impromptu assemblies were more likely to be bad news.
Cardinal Primate Aemilia stepped up to the pulpit in the same modest charcoal robes she’d worn the night before, though she looked older in daylight. The murmuring in the audience subsided on its own.
“Sisters, Brothers, Children of the Goddess—I thank you for answering my call.” Her voice was level, but in a way that made Clara brace. “It is with sorrow that I must inform you that Mother Radegund was received into the Goddess’s embrace last night.”
Gasps throughout the hall.
Helena put her hand over her mouth. “Wait, what did…”
“She was found this morning in the archives, at the base of the moving stairs. It appears she lost her footing in the night and fell.” Aemilia closed her eyes. “Mother Radegund was eighty-nine years old, and she served the Sacred Ministry for sixty-one. She was the eldest of us, and she will be buried with full honors.”
Somewhere behind Clara, an acolyte whispered, “Moving stairs? Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Hush,” hissed someone older. “Those stairs are a relic from Saintess Minerva. Mother Radegund was blind, you know? It’s hard to fault the stairs if a crazy old woman was reckless.”
At Clara’s shoulder, Father Anchieta let out a long sigh. Helena, on the other side, had fallen to her knees.
Clara stiffened, and whatever words came next passed right by her. She was back in that lamplit room, listening to Mother Radegund. ‘I’m waiting for someone, and I wouldn’t count on that one being so nice’.
After detailing the funeral plans—the Pope was apparently officiating it herself, as a show of respect to Radegund’s long service—Aemilia dismissed the crowd, and the great hall emptied slowly. Father Anchieta was one of the first to leave, telling Clara to meet him back at the lecture room after lunch. She stayed in her seat, going over every interaction she’d had with Radegund.
Yes, on its face, a blind woman falling off moving stairs was eminently plausible.
But this blind woman?
She wrote in the dark. She kept ‘seeing’ things that weren’t there. She pointed a finger straight at Clara through the crates, then told her to mind the stairs.
“Do you think she was awake?” Helena asked, her eyes watery. “At the bottom, I mean. Do you think it took very long for her to go?”
“It sounds like she fell from very high up.” Clara tried to be reassuring. “At her age, I’d say it was probably instantaneous, and she wouldn’t have had a lot of time to feel pain.”
“Oh. That’s a pity.” Helena frowned. “I don’t like to share, but, for Mother Radegund…” Her breath hitched, and then a radiant smile broke across her wet face. “After everything she’s done for me, I hope she felt Her.”
“Lady Helena—”
“She used to bring me bread. Whenever they were done, she used to find me in the dormitory and sit on the end of the bed and make me eat. I didn’t want to, I was so tired, so sometimes I tried just moving my jaw and making chewing sounds, but she could always tell. She was the only one who…”
Clara went cold. “The only one who what?”
Helena looked away. “It doesn’t matter now.” She stood up and smoothed her robe over her knees. “I wish she’d seen my ceremony before she went. She was really looking forward to it. And I was, too. But the Goddess does things in Her own time, and it’s not for us to question it.”
The ceremony. Radegund had been gloating about the front row, and half the abbey had gambled on it. Was it possible her death was tied to that? Did she really fall on her own?
“Clara.” Helena had turned to face her. “What’s on your mind?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen this face before, during Dame Rowena’s trial. You make it when you think something’s wrong. Do you think something’s wrong?”
That is… impressive. And unsettling.
“It’s just…”
“Just what?” Helena caught Clara’s arm with both hands, and her grip was startlingly strong.
It’s just that I heard someone else there last night, after I ‘borrowed’ your key.
“I like to consider things from different angles, even when the answer seems obvious,” said Clara. “You can call it an advocate’s instinct.”
“Are you saying you think it wasn’t an accident?”
“I don’t think anything, Lady Helena. Only that sometimes it’s worth asking questions before coming to a conclusion.”
“Then ask them.”
“I’m really more of an advocate than an investigator, I don’t know if—”
“Please, Clara. It’s… strange to picture her falling. If it was the Goddess, then it was right, and it was beautiful, and I’ll be thankful every day for the rest of my life. But if someone took her before it was time, I want to know. I have to know. Please.”
Clara looked down at Helena’s bandaged hand.
The carriage was to leave at sundown, so Clara had less than twelve hours left at Mont Sainte-Michelle. And she was, presumably, the only one who knew there might be more to Radegund’s death, besides the potential culprit.
“Let’s see what we can do.”