“Where do we start, neighbor?”
Helena’s transformation had been seamless—a minute ago she’d been on her knees crying over the death of someone she’d clearly cared about deeply, and now she had the sunny disposition of a first-day junior associate who hadn’t yet become jaded and overworked.
Clara pondered the question. She doubted Aemilia would have a reason to lie about the cause of death, so it seemed likely that it had been a fall. But a fall wasn’t necessarily an accident. Considering her age, Radegund could easily have been pushed.
If procedurals taught her anything, it was that the best place to begin an investigation was the scene of the incident: in this case, the clock tower’s main shaft. Clara had concluded that the room atop the stairs needed a gold key, but the shaft itself only checked for silver, so her list of potential culprits—for now, she decided to assume there was one—would need to include anyone with a silver or gold key.
She also couldn’t exclude the possibility of a stolen or hidden key. Mother Radegund herself had always worn silver, except for last night, when she’d had gold. I’d like to ask Helena about that, but it’s not like I can do that without revealing what I saw.
And then there was the matter of the body. It was another potential avenue, but Mother Radegund was being prepared for burial. It wasn’t as if they could just stroll up and see her corpse.
As for a motive, the obvious one was the gambling ring. Maybe someone stood to lose a lot of money if Mother Radegund sat in the front row, and took matters into their own hands.
When Clara thought of gamblers with a silver key, there was one who came to mind, though part of her didn’t want to consider it.
No, Clara. The first theory is just the first. A great lawyer isn’t boxed in by it, no matter how convincing it appears. Go back to the fundamentals before making a conclusion.
“It would be good if we could have a look at the body, if they’ll let us.” Clara kept her voice low, even though the great hall was nearly empty. “I also think we should talk to people who were close to her. Who knew her routine and who she interacted with regularly. We should find out if there was anything unusual about the past few days.”
“That would be Sister Beth,” said Helena. “She’s looked after Mother Radegund for six years now. Or maybe seven? Mother Radegund didn’t mind her, which is rare. Was rare.”
Clara nodded. “Sister Beth it is.” But just as she stood up, she remembered what she was supposed to be doing. “Ah, wait. I need to talk to Father Anchieta before we get started.”
“Father Anchieta? Do you think he knows something?”
Maybe. But that’s not why.
“He’s expecting me back upstairs soon. I still have lessons the Cardinal Primate wanted me to take before my departure in the evening. If I just vanish for the day, he’ll either come looking for me or report it to someone who will.” Clara sighed. “I’ll need to find out where he is, then convince him to let me go.” And hope he doesn’t ask too many questions about why.
Helena pressed a finger to her lips, and her eyes went distant. Then she brightened, took Clara’s hand, and pulled her down toward the corridor.
“Lady Helena, where—”
“To the Cardinal Primate, of course. It’s still early, and today is a Friday, so I think I know where she is.”
So she wants to skip the middle manager and go straight to the top? I suppose it makes sense, since Father Anchieta would probably have to go to the Cardinal Primate anyway.
Clara followed Helena, who led her briskly down a staircase, then through an arched corridor. It didn’t look like the way to any sort of office, but Clara wasn’t about to second-guess someone far more familiar with this place.
Eventually, they reached the lower kitchens, where a group of acolytes were busy chopping vegetables and hauling pots for lunch. And, near the back of the room, Cardinal Primate Aemilia was kneeling next to a scorched cauldron and scrubbing it with a brush, her sleeves rolled up to the elbow.
Definitely not how I expected to find her. But there was something admirable about seeing someone so high up live by the principles of the organization she was a part of. It was more than Clara could say for the partners of Caine, Polis & Smith.
Helena cautiously approached Aemilia.
“If you’ve come to pester me about the flower arrangements for the ceremony, the answer is that the Ecumenical Council is deliberating,” said Aemilia without looking up. “It turns out that Her Holiness and the cardinals have strong feelings about lilies versus carnations.”
“Your Eminence, it’s me.” Helena’s chin dropped, her shoulders curled inward, and she knotted her hands in front of her, the bandaged one cradled by the other.
Aemilia looked up, and the lines of her face softened. “Lady Helena. My condolences, child. I know you and Radegund were close.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence.” Helena’s eyes welled up. “I… she was so important to me. It was only thanks to her that I became who I am today. I keep thinking about her, and I… I just don’t want to be alone today. Clara is my friend, and I know she leaves at sundown and still has some lessons, but I was hoping she could stay with me instead? I’d feel so much better with her company. Maybe she could even have an extra day or two here?”
Clara tried to keep her face neutral.
Aemilia set down the brush, dried her hands on her robes, and looked at Helena. Clara had seen that look before, across the negotiating table, when the Cardinal Primate was computing leverage and deciding on her bargaining positions.
But whatever calculation the woman had just run, it came out in Helena’s favor.
“The Goddess teaches that grief shared is grief halved, and I would not want undue strain on you at such a delicate time,” said Aemilia. “Your friend may keep you company for the rest of today, though it won’t be possible to delay her departure.” She turned to Clara. “I shall notify Father Anchieta that you are excused, Dame Casewell, and have him prepare reading material for you to take with you. I trust you will actually read it, given what I’ve paid for you.”
Clara curtsied. “Of course, Your Eminence. Thank you.”
“Yes, yes.” Aemilia returned to her scrubbing. “Go on, you two, get some rest. And if either of you passes by the mailroom, tell them I am aware of the backlog and that I shall attend to it when I am able.”
Helena took a step back, but instead of making her way out, she lingered by the cauldron for a while longer, twisting the edge of her sleeve. “Your Eminence. One more thing.”
“Hm?”
“Might we see her? I’d like to say goodbye properly. I know there’ll be the funeral, but… I think I’ll be very sad, and it wouldn’t do for a Saintess-to-be to cry in front of everyone. It would help me to have a private moment with her.”
Aemilia didn’t stop scrubbing. “You make a fair point. The sisters are preparing her in the eastern chapel. You may go, but do not disturb their work for long. I trust Dame Casewell will see to it that you don’t overstay your welcome.”
“Of course, Your Eminence,” said Clara.
“Thank you again, Cardinal Primate.” Helena curtsied.
They withdrew from the kitchen, and Clara made it as far as the corridor outside before she stopped and turned to Helena.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“Lady Helena, why did you lie to her?”
Helena looked back with mild puzzlement, the tears already gone from her face. “I didn’t lie. I’m very sad about Mother Radegund, and I do want your company.”
“You know that’s not what I mean. You made her believe we’d be grieving together, not investigating how Mother Radegund died.”
“If I’d told her what we wanted to do, she’d have to think about whether to allow it, maybe consult other people, and it would all take far too long, considering you leave at sundown.” Helena’s angelic smile widened. “This way, she got to be kind and virtuous, and we got the whole day off. Isn’t it wonderful when things work out for everyone?”
Clara didn’t answer.
She didn’t know what to answer.
Helena tilted her head. “Did I do something wrong?”
Goddess save me, was Iris right about her?
“Let’s go see Mother Radegund, Lady Helena.”
Mother Radegund lay on a bier at the center of the small chapel, dressed in a pure white habit and surrounded by candles. The two sisters who’d cleaned her were now arranging flowers around her, and they made themselves scarce when Helena asked for privacy to say goodbye.
Most of Radegund’s body, including half her face, was covered by cloth, but the sisters had done a good job of making her look presentable, given the gruesome circumstances of her fall. The uncovered section of her face looked pale and serene, and one corner of her mouth was still turned up, as if she’d gotten one last har on her way out.
She has a silver key again. Where did the gold one go?
“She looks like she’s sleeping,” said Helena. “She used to nap in the strangest places. Once, I found her asleep in the bell tower, right next to the bell, and even when it rang, she didn’t—she didn’t…”
The girl faltered, and then the tears came, and they were much less discreet than the ones from earlier. Helena bent forward over the bier, her bandaged hand clutching Radegund’s sleeve.
Clara put a hand on her shoulder and said nothing. Whatever performances Helena Rosewood may or may not have been capable of, Clara didn’t doubt for a second that this was real.
It took a while for the sobs to turn into silence. Helena wiped her face with her robe and let out a shaky laugh.
It was a laugh that Clara knew well. She’d used it herself, and at around the same age, too. It was part of the song and dance of pretending that you were fine, that you hadn’t lost someone who anchored you to the world, so that people wouldn’t try to pry too deeply.
Clara stayed beside Helena without looking at her, giving the girl the comfort of time and space.
After Helena finished composing herself, Clara turned her attention to the body. She took Radegund’s forearm and pulled the sleeve up.
A bitter chill crawled up her spine.
Scars, pale and thin. Layered one over another, just like Helena’s, though fainter from time.
“Oh, did I not tell you?” Helena asked gently. “Mother Radegund once suffered from the same affliction I did, when she was much younger, and she was cured in the same way. That’s part of why we got so close, I think—she understood what it was like.”
The explanation didn’t quell Clara’s suspicions, and every instinct inside her told her that there was something wrong about all this. “Lady Helena, what illness did you have, exactly?”
“I’d rather not dwell on those days, Clara. Especially now.”
“But what if it’s relevant to—”
“It isn’t.”
There was nothing Clara could say to that.
So she nodded, then laid the arm back down and walked to the other side, lifting the second sleeve. There were the same scars, but also something else on top—a dark bruise going around Radegund’s thin wrist.
“Falling down the stairs doesn’t do that, does it?” Helena leaned closer.
“No, my lady. I think someone grabbed her.”
The girl stared down at the bruise for a long moment. When she finally raised her head, her smile was back in place. “Then it’s up to us to find them, isn’t it?”
After they left the chapel, it didn’t take long to find Sister Beth folding linens on the lower terrace, as Helena had apparently memorized the schedules of everyone in Mont Sainte-Michelle. When they approached, the brown-haired woman set down the sheet in her hands and curtsied, her eyes red.
“Lady Helena. And you must be the ves—no, Dame Casewell. Forgive me. The custodial ledgers all refer to you as ‘vessel’, but that’s no way to address a person, if you ask me.”
“Sister Beth.” Helena took both of the woman’s hands in hers. “We’re sorry for your loss. I know you cared for Mother Radegund longer than anyone.”
“It’d have been seven years next Elowensday. But the Goddess giveth, and the Goddess taketh.” Beth wavered on the last part. “I used to moan about having to chase her around, but now I’d give anything to hear her complain about the tide bell again. You must be even more devastated, my lady.”
“I suppose I am.” Helena sniffled. “I don’t understand how she… Why she… You know, she was always so wise, underneath the surface. I can’t help but wonder if something was going through her mind, making her distracted or careless. Was she acting strangely lately?”
Smooth. Clara’s impression of Helena had flip-flopped a dozen times during the past few days, and she was still no closer to knowing what to make of the girl. But one thing’s for sure: I pity any lawyer who has to put her on the stand. And knowing Iris, that might be me one day.
Beth’s shoulders eased. “Well, you know her, my lady. She was never ordinary, so there’s always something strange. Since last month, she’d been obsessed with theories about the porridge and refused to eat it. The month before that, she was convinced that the clock tower was slowly tilting a little to the left every night.”
“Any changes in her habits or her mood? Anything different that stood out?” Clara asked.
“Hmm. She seemed happier of late,” said Beth. “Ever since Lady Helena came back to Mont Sainte-Michelle.”
“What about the people around her? Did she have anyone she quarreled with? Anyone who disliked her?”
“She was here for sixty-one years. Half the sisters in this abbey were taught their letters by her. Everyone knew her mind was… going, but people were still fond of her. You know, the way you’re fond of the rickety room you grew up in. Most people liked to humor her when they could.”
“And the ones who didn’t?”
Beth hesitated. “Why are you asking me this?”
“My friend Clara is prone to asking odd questions, Sister. She can’t help it; it’s just her nature as an advocate.” Helena’s voice was warm and soothing. “I’d really appreciate it if you could humor her.”
“Far be it from me to turn down a request from the Saintess-to-be.” Beth furrowed her brow. “There are some who found her… trying. Mother Radegund had a way of simply declining to do things—chapter meetings, the work rotation, prayers, and so on. If she didn’t feel like doing something, she wouldn’t, and when they pressed her, she’d say that they had no authority over her because she was the most senior servant in the abbey, and they could take it up with the Goddess if they wanted to. Some of the stricter Mothers could get quite cross about it, and Inquisitor Roderick, the abbey’s relic keeper, was always up in arms about Mother Radegund telling pilgrims the relics were fake.”
“Did it ever go beyond words?” Clara asked.
Beth shook her head quickly. “Goddess, no. Even when there was conflict, it was forgotten by supper. It was only ever mild irritation.”
“Of course.” Clara kept her tone light. “Just one last thing, Sister. I’ve heard there’s some speculation going on about the seating for the canonization. Wagers, even. Do you know anything about that?”
Beth looked down. “I couldn’t say. I’ve never gambled in my life—that would be against the teachings of the scriptures. If such a thing existed at Mont Sainte-Michelle, it would be very small and very foolish. Certainly not something the Saintess-to-be ought to trouble herself with. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do need to return to my work.” She curtsied and walked off.
“So?” Helena looked up at Clara eagerly. “Do you know what happened?”
“We did get some useful information, but it’s too early to say anything definitive.”
Helena pouted.
Did she really think we’d solve the case in one conversation? Well, she is sixteen. That’s kind of cute.
“Were people really wagering on the seating for my ceremony?” Helena asked.
“Yeah, I think so,” said Clara. “Father Anchieta told me he bet against Mother Radegund sitting in front, and it seems he lost a lot of money.”
“Servants of the Goddess shouldn’t gamble.” Helena put her index finger on her chin and gazed into the distance. Then she turned back to Clara. “Where do we go next?”
“Do you think we could go see Mother Radegund’s room?”
“Her room? What for?”
“Do you remember when we saw her last night, on the way to the library?” Clara waited for Helena to nod. “She was holding a notebook, and she said she had a lot of work to do because it was ‘the day of judgement’. I want to see what that was about.”
“Ooh. You’re very clever, Clara. Come, it’s this way.” Helena grabbed her hand and started moving. “How dramatic! It really feels like a hunt for clues.”
Radegund’s room was on the ground floor, in the oldest wing of the abbey, where the corridors were narrower and the steps were worn. As they walked, Helena shared stories about how she’d visit Mother Radegund here as a child. At one point, Clara thought the girl was about to cry, but instead, Helena took a deep breath and smiled.
When they approached their destination, Helena stopped mid-sentence.
The door was ajar.
And from within came the soft rasp of wood sliding on wood. Are they emptying the room already?
Clara peeked inside.
The place was a mess. The mattress had been lifted and thrown aside, books were scattered across the floor, and the wardrobe’s doors stood open.
Hunched over the writing desk, his back to the door, was a man in priestly robes, going through the drawers one by one in quick succession.
There’s a reasonable explanation. He’s a priest; maybe he’s the one who’s been asked to collect her effects. Just because he’s in the victim’s bedroom the morning after the crime doesn’t make him the murderer.
Helena pushed the door and walked in. “You shouldn’t be here.” The words were eerily devoid of warmth.
Father Anchieta spun around. “Lady Helena!” His face had drained of color. “This is a surprise…”
Helena glanced at the bed, then the floor, then the drawers. “I get it now.”
She raised her uninjured hand, curling her fingers slowly.
The air thickened, pressing against Clara’s eardrums.
Anchieta opened his mouth, but all that came out was a whimper.
Then his body jerked upward, suspended by an unseen force—no chant, no gemstone.
He flailed his legs uselessly, his face darkening and his eyes bulging. His hands clawed at his throat as he choked for air.
Helena stepped closer.
“You were the one who killed her, weren’t you?”