The morning stillness was broken by the echoing sound of the Central Tower bell. Deep and mournful, it carpeted the landscape with a sonorous sadness. The wandering gol had returned to their rest, sleeping wherever they happened to have been standing when the sun rose, and none of them stirred as the sorrowful tone swept over them. The sun’s rays were warm and bright, casting away the misty morning shadows and thawing the dew-soaked stones of the spire. This particular bell was rung only for death knells, and it’s muffled toll was considered necessary to quieten any restless new spirits.

This was how Wille discovered that the rookery was located in the Central Tower, immediately below the belfry. The sudden noise set fire to her eardrums and she sat bolt upright on Harriet’s old carpet bed, clutching her ears. She had slept for only a couple of hours, having been engrossed in diaries and letters, and so reality shuddered around her in tune with the reverberating chime. A rope she hadn’t noticed before was bobbing slowly up and down; someone far below was performing their morning duties admirably. At that moment, she hated them.

“Damn.”

It was also how she remembered, with a jolt of panic, what day it was. She staggered out into the attic, bringing with her a selection of papers from Harriet’s collection. A spider crawled along her sleeve. The bell tolled again, but quieter this time now there was some distance between them.

“Damn!”

The hidden panel was harder to remove from this side with the bed in the way. Luckily, the Etudes had already emptied out into the courtyard for the occasion. Wille hurtled down the attic, threw herself down the stairs and did not stop as she passed by her own quarters in her effort to be as minimally late as possible. She almost collided with Sister Jenny and Sister Beatrice, heading up the stairs.

“Ah! Sorry, Sisters.” Her voice trailed away with her footsteps, leaving them dazed by the encounter. Jenny had made it to the top of the stairs, at last, though her legs weren’t what they used to be. Her walking cane tapped firmly on the floorboards as she walked towards the Orison dorterhouse, with Beatrice supporting her arm in silence.

Ever since she had discovered Harriet’s corpse, her body had not been the same. First came the fits, the conniptions that wracked her brain and sent her crying hysterically to the infirmary over and over. Sister Bellemorde was good to her, a kind doctor who despite her quirks had wanted to help her. She had given her a concoction so bitter it made her scrunch her eyes up and shiver whenever she had to take the red and sticky liquid, but it worked. Her nerves had calmed, and her breathing returned to normal. But things were still not right. something inside her had broken, and now sometimes her legs would give way and her hands would shake when she tried to grip anything tighter than a spoon. She had always had a frail disposition, and had used a cane since childhood, but this insipid weakness left her feeling drained and listless. Bellemorde had prescribed even more bitter medicine and had exhorted the benefits of exercise. To that end, when there was a layabed sister missing from the funeral preparations, she volunteered to fetch her. It’s not like there was anything else she could do to help.

“Sister Claudia, are you awake?” She knocked softly on the bedroom door, trembling hands attempting feebly to make a clear sound. Her voice had lost that lilting, songlike quality she always used to have. Now, she was just tired. Beatrice said nothing. She took her vow of silence seriously, making no noise except the quiet rustle of cloth as she shifted Jenny’s weight from one arm to the other.

“Sister? Are you there?”

No response.

Jenny stepped closer to put her ear to the wood, and gasped as her shoe touched something wet seeping out from beneath the bottom of the door. Bubbles popped when her foot distrubed them. There was a faint sound, like a wet and thorough scratching, coming from inside the room.

“Claudia, are you okay? I’m coming in.” Beatrice helped her open the door, and both nuns gasped as it swung open to reveal the room’s single occupant.

“Oh! Sisters! I’m sorry I didn’t hear you there, I was in my own little world.” It was Claudia, her sleeves rolled up and her long skirts tied up around her waist, exposing bloomers. There was water all over the floor, and from the rafters dripped yesterday’s habit, smock and headscarves. Sunlight streamed in through the open window.

“I just needed to do a little spring cleaning before it started, what time is it?” She got back down on her hands and knees and resumed scrubbing the floorboards with a large, wiry brush. The scratching resumed, and bubbles popped on the bristles.

“Oh, Sister!” Jenny cried. “We were all worried about you. The funeral has already started, the service is over.”

Claudia sat up and looked out of the window. Sure enough, she could just about see a procession of sisters in their finest habits carrying a coffin over to the small graveyard at the edge of the easterly wall. A short-haired figure was running after them, out of breath. She smiled to think of what Wille would say when she found out she wasn’t the only one late today.

“Oh dear, what happened to your dress?” Jenny’s hand pulled out the corner of the hanging skirt, exposing the rips and tears all across the garment. Claudia smiled wider and turned to the two Sisters. The light glinted from stray bubbles floating near her face and her curly locks shined like the sun, an unexpected radiance of pure joy on a day of mourning.

“I met so many new friends last night. It was wonderful! A dream! Oh you should have seen them Jenny, so many bright new faces.” She grabbed her hands and pulled her close, hot breath against the sickly woman’s ear as she whispered.

“I’m free, Sister. Free as a bird. There is no more fear for me.”

Beyond the window came the sound of someone wailing and the dull thuds of earth hitting casket.

---

The day was warm and bright but, being a marsh, this meant little to the grounds of the nunnery. The moss stayed wet no matter the weather, though some areas were more cultivated than others. One of these places was the hillock on the lawn. A popular picnic spot, the moss here was less spongy and more grassy, and did not sink into mud when you sat on it.

Morgan thought to herself that this was probably going to be the last sunny day of the year, and so they should make the most of it. She had led the class outside, and now everyone was busy erecting poles and arranging the canopy for the marquee. It wasn’t the most airy of structures, it’s intended purpose was as an awning for solemn liturgical events and so the fabric was a heavy crimson velvet, faded pink over time, and barely any light was able to seep in under the shade. It smelled of stale incense and the fluttering lives of moths. Morgan was not sure if moths had a smell, but if they did this would be it. As though someone had sprinkled a fine dust over the night sky, mixed with the metallic tang of electric lighting.

Every great institution of higher theological learning must, by its nature, have great teachers who understand higher theology. Morgan was one such teacher. In a past life she had been a house tutor by trade, travelling from manor to manor teaching the offspring of the wealthy how to speak dead languages, but the problem with tutoring was you generally had time only to recite the books and none to read them. Not content with such nonsense she had packed her bags, said goodbye to her children, and moved herself to the monastery to live a life of celibate bliss. Life, however, was hard to escape.

“Mama, what about this one?”

Morgan sighed and turned her attention away from setting up the blackboard.

“Rosie, darling, I told you not to call me that here. Yes, that will do.” She pointed to the blanket the young madrigal held out.

“But Ma-, uh, it just doesn’t feel right calling you a Sister.”

No matter how far you ran from life’s responsibilities, they always caught up. Those, like Morgan, who thought that monastic life would be somehow free of worldly cares are time and again proved wrong by the vast amount of friars who care more about proper mead-making than contemplating the nature of the heavens. Who would have thought that all those years of parenting would have turned her into a role model? Even here, in this world-beyond-worlds, she remained a mother and a teacher, and books still retained their elusive qualities.

The class sat in small semi-circles under the awning, rose-tinted sunlight filtering in through the fabric. Across the lawn came a running figure.

“Thank you all for coming, we are here today to discuss the nature of death under the gaze of the Dreamer in their glory.” Morgan gestured to the blackboard. “There are no wrong answers, but maybe together we can synthesise some core beliefs we can all agree on. I am only here to facilitate, really this class will be led by yourselves. so may I suggest that for starters, we split into pairs and discuss?”

The running figure descended upon the gathering, panting hard.

“Claudia!”

“Sorry we’re late!” She gestured at two slower figures, one with a cane, trailing behind her. Her words came with pauses as she caught her breath. “I slept in… missed the funeral.” Her normally neat and tidy outfit was a mess, apron hastily slipped on and tied roughly at the side.

“Are you alright? You look rather bedraggled. Are you ill?” Morgan was looking at her askance.

“No no, I’m fine, really! Better than ever!” Her smile was intense, and she sat herself down on a free cushion. When Beatrice and Jenny caught up Morgan gave them a questioning look, but neither could do more than shrug. None of them knew what had gotten Claudia, usually so demure and punctual, into such a mania.

“Well,” Morgan clapped her hands together. “now we are all here let’s discuss the topic at hand.”

Rosie turned to her partner, a tall and angular Sister called Lin who had draped herself and her long black hair carefully over several cushions.

“You know, I don’t think much of death.”

“Oh?” The Etude looked genuinely interested in her partner’s indifferent attitude towards mortality.

“Well, you paint, right?”

Lin nodded. She was indeed the resident artist.

“You create something out of nothing, you can change the form of shapes and colours. That’s like planting, and watching the flowers grow and bloom. The bluebells and the daffodils, all different shades under the sun. They really do not stay for long, but the end of the flower is not the end of the plant. The roots remain, deep and undisturbed and ready to sprout again. I feel like we humans have these roots.”

She paused, thinking to herself and tapping her finger on her cheek.

“Maybe communion within our dreams to the Godhead is a connection to these primordial roots.”

Lin looked over the young gardener. Her hair was golden, kept up in bunches on either side of her face. Rosy cheeks betrayed her name, and on each knee was a green grass stain. She smiled and shook her head.

“Rosie, I do not paint to change reality, but to embrace it. There is no difference between the canvas and the final painting, the only distinction is time and effort. This is what makes us human, our desires enacted. The rest is merely circumstances.” Lin had transitioned into a woman, and later into a nun, at a very early age and regretted nothing.

Rosie nodded eagerly.

“Then you’re a mushroom!”

Lin blinked, slowly, and stared at the girl.

“Come again?”

“A mushroom, you know? Kinda chewy and tasty…”

“I know what a mushroom is.”

“Right. Right! You’re like… a mycelial network. To any short-lived onlooker, you sprout and change just like any other creature. But you are older, much older, and you will most certainly outlive them, because there’s no real way to kill you.”

Lin nodded along to this suggestion of immortality, and Rosie continued.

“This is maybe what I mean by roots, human roots. Decay is merely perceived as such from the vantage point of our tiny lifespans.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps you think about mushrooms just a little too much?”

Their laughter carried over to the table next to them, which was more of a small bench which Sister Jenny was using to support herself while her classmate lounged across the uncovered grass and smoked.

Magda placed her long pipe between her lips and sucked a single stream of skullcap and sage into her lungs. The taste was pleasant, savoury with a touch of mint, and she savoured it for a moment before expelling it in a long stream above her head.

“Sister Belle says that smoke can harm you.” Jenny teased from her bench.

“Sister Belle can say what she likes, she knows nothing.” Magda spoke with a strong southern accent, one that had not dimmed despite all her years at Palus Somni.

“Sister Belle only knows ‘snip, snip’ and ‘stitch, stitch’, she is nothing more than a physician of the body, whereas this...” She curled her fingers around in the trailing smoke. “This is a physician made from embers and ether.”

The smoke wound its way out of the tent and the two of them watched it float over to the buttressed tower on the far side of the abbey.

“Did you know Harriet well?”

“No. Did you?”

“No.”

They gazed out in silence towards the tower as the hanging cloth fluttered, sending it in and out of their vision.

“You know, I think that’s death.” Jenny pointed a shaking finger across the lawn. Magda said nothing, only tapped her pipe.

“Being stuck in there, no light or company. They might even be dead already, how would we know?”

Magda shrugged, her loose robe falling from one shoulder.

“Does it matter? They have their job to do, and we have ours. Perhaps they like it there.”

The tower was home to the inquisitors, a subsect of the faith present at every community. They were ritually sequestered, destined to study legal code in solitude until they were called upon to intercede in a dispute. Then and only then did they emerge, and use their full knowledge of the law to settle matters.

Jenny’s hands were shaking again, and she tipped a vial of medicine into her mouth with great difficulty.

“I’m going to move into the infirmary permanently soon. Belle found me a wheelchair I could use, but this place is not very convenient, what with all the stairs. Stairs everywhere!” She smiled sadly.

“You know, I can read the future in the smoke.” Magda studied the art of augury, mostly with dreams but sometimes with physical objects. Entrails, livers, frogspawn and smoke. Many a young nun with troubles in love and life came to her for advice. Jenny nodded.

Magda took a deep breath of pipesmoke and held it to the count of five, before tossing her head back and opening her mouth to let the curls and wisps escape at their own leisurely pace. She watched the smoke drift up to the tent ceiling. Jenny tried to follow her gaze but she could not see anything in the smoke that seemed like something more than what it was. It was also the case that her eyesight had been fading recently, and she found it difficult to focus.

There was a long silence before Magda spoke again.

“There is nothing. The ether is not talking to me today, alas.”

“Oh, no matter. No news is, as they say, good news.” Jenny smiled, and the two of them went back to staring out across the lawn. Magda always had a look about her which was calm and composed. Her feathers could never be ruffled and her nonchalance was infective, often allowing her companions to feel a deep sense of relaxation in her presence. Though who knew her particularly well however would notice that her normal ease was disturbed. A slight crease beneath her eyes and a stiffness in her jaw, showing the eagle eyed onlooker that, perhaps, there was something unusual in the smoke that day.

Meanwhile, across the tent Claudia was talking excitedly to Beatrice. Her wimple had shifted to one side and her light curls were spilling out over one side of her face.

“Oh Beatrice I feel like I can tell you anything, anything! I feel like I’ve been reborn, my heart, it beats with such jubilation I can barely speak!”

She stopped to catch her breath. Beatrice said nothing. Her vow of silence had not prepared her to deal with an excitable and erratic young woman and she found herself wondering if this was some sort of test.

“Beatrice!” Claudia grabbed her by the shoulders and leant in conspiratorially, her exhilaration fading to a whisper.

“I had such a wonderful dream last night. I don’t really remember it that well, but I was in my room, and I think I was visited by God.”

Beatrice inclined her head questioningly.

“Yes that’s right, God! I don’t really remember much but they gave me some kind of gift…” Her hand fell absent-mindedly to her belly.

“I wish I could remember what it was… No matter. Today I feel like I can do anything, be anyone. And that’s why…”

She let go of the poor nun and clasped her hands together with feverish glee.

“I’m going to tell Wille that I love her.”

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. Trysts were not uncommon in a nunnery, and there was no explicit rule against it. Only the Etudes deferred to a rule of celibacy, due to their belief that societal relationships of all kinds was detrimental to the study and pursuit of academia. But if an Etude were to fall in love they could simply leave the order without scandal. So the prospect was not what surprised her, moreover it was seeing her normally quiet and shy friend become so emboldened. Perhaps it was true, and she had seen the face of God in a dream.

“I’m going to tell her, as soon as I see her next, and if she will have me I will kiss her and kiss her again, until my lips are bruised with kissing.”

Claudia threw herself back upon the grass, hugging her arms tightly and smiling with nervous energy. Her wimple fell off completely and her golden hair spilled out over the ground like a halo.

“Oh dear Dreamer… As you once did for the Saints before us, grant me courage, grant me insight. Fill this vessel with your will, my Lord, and let me be a part of it.”

The sun shone down through the clouds far above the convent, drying away the rain and casting a light on all the dark and lonely places.