The abbey of Palus Somni stood, tall and proud, atop the surrounding marshland. It was a crown, with the thick purple heather as its mantle, studded with shards of jagged, grey rock as though adorned with jewels and gemstones. These stones were ancient, but the kind of ancient that had been lovingly maintained over time. There were no ruins, and yet some of the structures were prehistoric, painstakingly restored and used in much the same way now as they were then. These early walls were constructed upon the ruins of yet an older site of worship, where weathered carvings unearthed by later inhabitants betrayed the presence of primordial humanoid ancestors.

In short, it was a hodgepodge of towers rendered in various architectural styles. Roman pillars supported gothic arches, while lichen-encrusted standing stones sat amongst the bricks of the boundary wall, staring outwards with carven faces contorted into grimaces of some unknown but intense emotion. When some previous owner had wanted a new chapel built it had often been erected on top of the ruins of the older church, and so many ornate facades were left behind, a sprawling labyrinth of bricked up windows and doors to nowhere. Most of it was crafted from an imposing strain of dark basalt, though various ages could be identified by the differing materials used throughout its construction.

It had not always been an abbey. Almost one hundred and fifty years ago it had been a country manor. Lord Aloysius Mallory, having died without heir after the disappearance of his only son, had entrusted his estate to the use and good fortune of the Alucinari religious order.

His death was met with a sigh of relief from the local population, who had complained vocally and often about his policies during his lifetime. Intent merely upon his own insular projects, he had let much of the surrounding farmland go to fallow, with much of the area eventually being reclaimed by the marsh. Livelihoods were lost and families went hungry, but the future looked bright as Mallory began to invest in the creation and operation of a new lime quarry. He did not, however, employ the locals, preferring instead to import his workers from elsewhere. These new faces did not speak the local dialect and kept to themselves, preferring to stay on site than spend time in the nearby inns. This was some relief to the villagers, who had seen how these strangers worked tirelessly into the night, seemingly with infinite energy and with no need to stop and rest. When any of them did wander into town, they appeared lost and confused and there were some instances where they were reported to have lashed out at inquisitive folks who offered them a word of welcome. The consensus of the local folk was that the ways of foreigners were a mystery, and they were entitled to their customs but by the Gods they were not letting their children anywhere near them.

When Aloysius Mallory died, work in the mine ceased, and the mysterious miners disappeared overnight. Nonetheless, by now the damage had been done and most villages on Mallory lands had been abandoned for better, and less unusual, pastures. In just a single generation an entire community had fled, the culture lost. And for what? The unknown obsession of a dying man.

Then the Gol came, and everything changed.

Bellemorde thought about this as she sliced her way through the tough sinew that held Harriet’s intercostal muscles to her ribcage. If the Gol were so intent on eating humans, she thought, why come out all this way to the middle of nowhere? Why come to an empty land to feed?

She stopped sawing to wipe her face, leaving a streak of blood across her forehead.

She knew why. It was obvious, really. The amount of Gol they saw here were merely remnants, the dregs. Pitiable leftovers. The great cities must be teeming with them, with every street packed full of Gol bodies, pressed square against the walls.

But that just lead to more questions. How could a single city feed so many? Surely it wasn’t sustainable to have so many predators in one place.

Besides, did the cities still even exist?

I suppose, she thought, that they would eventually have to eat each other. Her face, hidden behind a surgical mask, cracked into a smile as she extracted her hands from Harriet’s chest cavity. Eat each other! Now that would surely solve all our problems.

Belle examined the tooth that she had extracted from the young nun’s wound. It was a tooth, she could tell, because it had several smaller teeth growing on it. Geometric circles of tumorous growths arranged consecutively but not neatly, with some teeth splitting open to allow new teeth to emerge.

She wondered if this meant the Gol, too, were growing.

The infirmary was one of the larger buildings of the abbey, situated in a hall almost as large as the main chapel. A mezzanine floor held further rooms, enough for the convalescent members of the original cohort of almost one thousand sisters, but they were rarely needed these days and the upper level had fallen into disrepair. There was space enough for their needs on the ground floor and several canopy beds occupied the hall. Privacy was found behind the wispy curtains, though at the moment the infirmary only had one resident patient.

Jenny had curled herself up into the smallest of balls, curtains closed and covers high over her head. Nothing she tried could block out that scene from her mind. The dark, the rain, the slow creak of rope-flung trees. There were not nearly enough layers between her and the outside world.

She had woken up here that morning. She didn’t remember how she got to the infirmary, though she could barely remember what day it was. The only thing that she knew was that there were monsters outside and that if you appeared to be sleeping, they left you alone. She shivered under the blankets, the chill reaching her even under all her layers. The physician, Sister Belle, had come with porridge that morning, but she had been too scared to move. Too scared to be awake. Every time she closed her eyes she saw Harriet, hanging, and every time she opened them she knew that it had really happened.

She was trapped between two worlds, two different kinds of hell. And now she could hear them laughing at her, those Gol with their twisted faces and too many bones, she could hear their mirth at having finally taken one of the flock. Her flock, her family.

She held back her sobs, lest they hear that she was awake.

-

Outside of the safety and the blankets of Jenny’s four poster the hall was mostly empty, except for the stoic presence of two sisters. Seated on a hard bench near the surgery door, Lydia and Hazel sat trapped in uncomfortable silence. From their left, the small, rustling sobs of Sister Jennifer echoed around the hall. From their right, they heard muffled laughter through the heavy wooden door as Sister Belle utilised her own, unique, coping mechanisms. Caught between the tears and the mirth they sat listening as the discordant sounds filled the room with the emotions of loss and life.

At long last the hinges of the surgery door creaked, and the source of the laughter came to meet them. Sister Bellemorde was a Quodlibet, an Alucinari acolyte who did not adhere to any major sect. Sometimes it was because they followed more than one path or were practising a peculiar form of asceticism. In this case, it was because the additional daily duties would interfere with her role as abbey surgeon and, as of today, coroner.

She was a tall, wilting figure of a woman, her body bowing under the weight of countless storms like the twisting trunk of an old tree. This was the most striking thing about her that those who met her noticed first, which was extremely telling as her hair was pink. Not bright pink, exactly, but a pale sort of flush which masked any original colouring. A result of too many years stooped over chemicals, she told anyone curious enough to ask. In all respects, her personality matched her meandering physique, twisting every which way and never in line with what is expected, or desired.

In other words, Belle was not the sort of woman who let propriety stand in the way of direct communication.

“Well, if she wasn’t dead before, she definitely is now.” The smear of blood stood out on her forehead like a streak of guilty conscience. “Where do I sign?”

A pause.

“Oh. Sign.” Hazel said in a monotone and began to rummage around in her satchel for the appropriate documents. It took her longer than usual to find what she needed, her fingers brushing against paper listlessly as her brain refused to associate with a reality in which her best friend was dead.

They had lived together, worked together, and even ate together. They had sung together, hands clasped beneath the morning sun. Hazel was more of a reader, whereas Harriet was a born writer. Every major abbey event went through Harriet’s pen, every new conversion and old tradition. If she were still alive, she would be the one scribing the death certificate and updating the register, not her. That thought alone made Hazel falter as she handed over the sheaf of papers into Belle’s open hand.

“Done, and… done!” She signed the bottom with a flourish.

“So what happens now?” Asked Lydia, who was here in her self-appointed role as head of abbey affairs while Mother superior was away. It was not a job anyone begrudged her, because it was not as essential as she thought it was. In times such as these, however, her ability to remain calm and organise was received with gratitude.

“Now? Now, you leave her with me. I have much work, you know, preparing her.” Belle gestured at the coffin that had been placed covertly at the side of the hall.

“In that case, we shall not keep you. Thank you for your time, Sister Belle.” Lydia got up to leave, but Hazel stayed sitting, her fingers gripping white against the bundle of papers that declared her friend dead.

“Um.”

“Yes?” Belle inclined her head, and it was like watching a tree bend in the wind.

“Sister, please don’t take her to the catacombs. She spent so much time down there with her work, she grew to hate it. Can we please bury her in the grounds, under the sun?”

Bellemorde shrugged, but not cold-heartedly.

“There is no rule about that as far as I know, she can be buried in the sky if she so wishes.”

“Well, that’s not entirely true, now, is it?” Lydia began, finding some ground on which she was well versed. Canon law was her specialty. “There are entire chapters about care for the dead in the Summer Charters.”

“Read them. No rules about it.” Belle waved her hand dismissively, and the conversation was over. Even Lydia held no authority over the physician in their own domain.

“I will be seeing to my patient now.” She gestured to the still sobbing bed meaningfully and turned away without a further word.

-

The reverent silence of the infirmary was broken as they left the ward and several nuns who had been waiting patiently for news surged forwards. Lydia however only had eyes for one.

“You!” She pointed, and the crowd turned to look for her victim.

Wille stared her down, arms crossed.

“What is it now, Lydia? What do you want?”

“You were out and about last night, and now Harriet is dead.” Her words travelled down her finger like the gleam of a brandished sword, stabbing her victim in all the right places.

“How is that my fault? You were there too!”

“Me? I was there to stop you. You were the one drawing their attention, stomping around at night doing heavens knows what!” Her voice quivered with pathos, real or pretend it was hard to tell

“You know what I was doing, I was helping-” But she stopped herself mid-sentence and instead put her energy into scrunching up her fists with powerless rage. She was not going to betray Claudia and air her issues in front of the whole monastery, not while they looked at her with such suspicion. The force of Lydia’s outburst had turned them docile, or perhaps they really did think that it was all her fault. They could believe what they wanted, Wille thought to herself, she harboured no delusions that she could have been even remotely to blame. Harriet was found outside the wall, if anyone was responsible it was… No. It was too soon for such thoughts.

Her accuser faced her down in front of almost the entire abbey. Anyone who wasn’t here would surely hear about it, sooner or later. Faces peeked at her from inside wimples, hoods and hats. Suspicious faces, blank faces. Faces of friends who were no longer sure what to think. It was comforting to find blame in a blameless world. If such tragedy could have a real, discernible cause then it felt more controlled, more preventable, and life felt safer. It made the Gol smaller, and hope swell. It was easy to turn against Wille if doing so offered some small comfort for the living. Even if they knew in their hearts that it was unlikely, even if they found it difficult to meet her gaze, who among them could refuse such an offer of culpability in these cold and callous times?

She did not see Claudia in the crowd. She was spared, at least, the judgement of her last remaining friend.

“Let this be a lesson for everyone, the rules we follow are there for a reason.” Lydia addressed the crowd, grasping her rosary before her in supplication. “We need to stay safe, we must stay safe. We have inherited the wisdom of a hundred years of torment, let us not forget it now. If we fall into the twilight of the final era of sin, we are damned. We have everything we need to see though these cursed times and our Lord will never – Never! - let us drift into despair, if only we should listen.”

The crowded faces looked simultaneously abashed and enthused at these words, and some of the Etudes covered their faces. Many of them had at some point been out of bed at night, or had otherwise broken the rules meant for their safety, and felt now the sting of her words as though they were aimed at them alone.

“Sister Hazel, what further responsibilities do you have remaining of Harriet’s affairs?”

“There is not much left… only the funeral arrangements and organising her belongings.”

Lydia nodded.

“Grace and Bellemorde have volunteered to oversee the funeral.” Sister Grace, the resident alchemist, bowed her head in agreement, letting her hood fall modestly over her face.

“As for Harriet’s outstanding affairs…” Lydia began, but was cut off by a voice from beside her.

“I would be most grateful for the opportunity to make up for any transgression.” Wille began, talking directly to Hazel. “Let me take care of things. You have mourning to do.”

Hazel nodded her thanks, still unsure of her role in the face of so much grief. Everyone knew Lydia to be on edge right now, for understandable reasons, and she harboured no doubts towards Wille’s reliability. We have all broken the law at some point, she thought, Wille just had the bad luck to have been caught at very much the wrong time. She surveyed the Orison through her glasses, noting the short crop of wayward curls and simple, practical robe.

“Thank you, sister. That would be most welcome. If you will follow me, please.”

Lydia was left in the courtyard as around her the crowd dispersed, justice having been served and deserted chores now becoming a more pressing urge. She sat on one of the stone benches, still wet with last night’s rain, and let the water seep into her clothes. She had been abandoned here to wrestle with her thoughts and, God forgive her, the despicable memory of soft, broken teeth grinning outside her window.

-

The library had always been one of Wille’s favourite places. Unlike the stone study desks in the cloister, it was comfy. The seats were upholstered in embroidered fabrics of green, blue and red. The curtains where thick and long, with golden trim and metallic threads worked throughout. A throwback to the days when it was part of a country mansion, and despite being so out of date it was lovingly looked after by Hazel and the other Etudes so well that barely a single moth lasted long enough under their watchful gaze to cause any damage to the ancient fabrics.

This meant that the entire library smelt divine. The musk of old paper and bookbinding glue, the scent of wood varnish and dust, taken as a whole together with the stale scent of threadbare cloth it created a perfume that Wille found intoxicating. The windows were never opened, being so tall as to make opening them a monumental task involving standing on tables and angling at rusted locks with long sticks. It was better in the hot summer to move out into the courtyard and read under the trees or amongst the herbs.

Today was not a hot day, being the middle of autumn the warmer climate of the library shelves was welcome relief from the growing outside chill. Wille had partly volunteered to help because it would mean she could spend the day here, rather than have to deal with Lydia’s scathing comments.

Harriet was a chronicler, which is somewhere between a librarian and a scribe but with the responsibilities of both. She had to maintain a good organisation of the register, and update it when necessary, as well as produce the yearly almanac which collected the wisdom of various parts of the abbey, particularly astrological phenomena and crop rotation for the coming year. Harriet had been by all accounts skilled at her job, though most Etudes only glanced at the mountains of files with dread and assumed that surely she must know what she was doing.

This was what Wille felt now as she stared at the records office, which was through a small door at the back of the library. So small, she had to stoop to get in, but once she was able to pull her head up her jaw dropped at the piles of carefully annotated paperwork, books, guides, maps and etchings.

It seemed that this was more than just a simple task, and that this would become her home for the next few days, maybe weeks.

“If you need anything just call, we generally have someone here until vespers.” Hazel had said before leaving her alone with merely a lamp and a reading-glass.

She rolled up her sleeves, turned up the lamp, and picked up the first bundle of papers. They were marked ‘The effects of lime and gypsum on millet growth; letters in response to brother Edgar’s guide to marling and other fertilizers, circa 1889.”

She put down the bundle and sighed. She had no idea how to categorise this, or where it belonged. Along one side of the room was a cabinet of draws marked with several categories, including; agriculture (home), agriculture (general), letters (home) and one even for lime production (local). She bundled them into the letters (home) draw, and figured that as long as she found somewhere they belonged, all would be well.

She picked up the next bundle from the floor, a flutter of papers that looked like they had been dropped. Leather bound loose scripts spattered with candle wax and simply labelled “Harriet – Dreams.”

As expected, it contained her recorded visions, presumably ones she had shared at Chapter as many of the entries had annotations of a spiritual nature down the margins. As she flipped through the folios a large brown envelope, tied with string and almost bursting, slipped out from the back pages. Curiosity was always a strongpoint for Wille, and when she cut the cords, she found inside a collection of letters that seemed too old to have been recently penned. The ink was faded, and a quick scan of one showed they were dated over two hundred years ago. Even more intriguing was the notes accompanying them in a small, neat hand and dated to this past week.

She held in her hands what was most likely Harriet’s final records. She had been working on these letters when, for some reason, she had decided to leave the abbey grounds during the night of the orphan moon. What possessed her to do such a thing Wille had no idea, but if anyone knew the answer it was Harriet, and perhaps she could still tell her.

And so, she began to read.

Lore: The Alucinari Daily Schedule

4:30 am – Vigils and Lauds: The dawn prayer thanking the light for returning to earth, finishing with the Lauds of the dead

5am – Chapter: The various sects meet for dream confession and discuss any issues of the day

6am – Prime: A time to wash your body and clothes, and to tidy your sleeping quarters

7am – Breakfast

8am until 12 noon – Daily studies: Depending on your sect

12 noon – Midday prayers

12:30 until 6pm – Chores: For community welfare

6pm – Vespers: A time for evensong as the light of the sun recedes

7pm – Supper

8pm – Compline: Silent contemplative meditation, quiet readings

8:30pm until 4:30am – The Great Silence: All unnecessary conversation ceases

Further chores may be given to any sister who is lax with her timekeeping, this can be discussed at Chapter. The acolytes of the Nocturne sect need not follow this, or any, schedule.