The hem of her habit billowed around her ankles as she paced up and down outside the abbey, not heeding the chill mist that was beginning to seep into her bones. The sun had dipped beneath the western hills a good hour ago, leaving them only with the deep blue gloaming of an early winter’s night.

“Where are they…”

“Do not fret so, Hazel. They will be back soon.” Alana put a reassuring arm out to stop the Etude’s anxious march. She had been following her with a blanket, and finally caught her in its warm embrace. “Put this on, there you go. They may have had to shelter somewhere until morning.”

“Something’s happened to them, I know it.”

“No, you don’t. I don’t see any Gol stirring yet, they are probably fine wherever they are.”

“I just…” Tears formed at the sides of her eyes, thick and fast. “I just don’t want to wake up in the morning and see them all h-hanging there, not again.”

Before she could say another word she was wrapped in warmth by the astrologer, her arms strong but gentle as they enveloped her in kindness.

“That isn’t going to happen. I know it.”

...We’re almost home, look! There’s the gate...

Sometimes, just sometimes, it wasn’t so bad to hear the voices. It wasn’t often they brought good news, or in fact any decipherable news at all, but as Elizabeth’s familiar voice filtered through her subconscious she felt a deep relief come over her. It was only a moment after the two of them sank into the silence of the embrace that the sound of distant creaking came from the road. Beatrice gesticulated silently at them both, waving her lantern.

“See? Here they come now.”

But as the cart drew closer so did the mood. Hearts beating firmly in chests wrapped tight against the cold, a nervousness shared with the nuns in the convent.

“What is it, what happened? Oh my Lord, Freya! Quick! Get her inside, we can unload the lime tomorrow.”

“No.” Freya, feverish, waved her hand weakly as she was pulled off the cart. “We have to bring it in now. That thing will eat it.”

“Eat it?” Alana was puzzled, but as one the nuns turned to the road and saw, nestled far away in the fog, what could have been the figure of a person, if they did not already know that no human could cast such a monstrous silhouette.

Years of training took over, and in absolute silence save for the creaking of the cartwheels the nuns pushed the cart inside, doused their lanterns and locked the gate. Only once they were all inside did they dare to make more sound than the shallowest of breaths, even Freya seemed to hold her moans until the door was safely locked and barred.

“Come, Isidore. I don’t feel comfortable returning you to the guest house with that… thing… out there. We will find you somewhere to stay in the dormitory for tonight.” Lydia said, in a whisper barely audible.

“Thank you, Sister.”

The two of them walked out into the darkness and disappeared. There was scarcely any light filtering through the cracks in the shuttered windows, certainly not enough for someone unfamiliar with the place to find their way around comfortably, but the inhabitants knew every twist and turn of the endless corridors and so it was little issue for Elizabeth and Lin to escort the injured Freya to the infirmary. When the Gol were abroad, the darkness was only ever their friend.

“I see. I see. What an unfortunate business indeed.” These were Sister Bellemorde’s first words when she was woken by the imploring hands of the terrified Sisters, their hurried explanations that tripped and turned over each other somehow making sense to the doctor.

“Isidore said that once you get bit, there’s no hope, that you might as well die.” Lin said, smoothing her hair over and over with anxious fingers.

“Isidore is not a doctor,” was all that Belle would say in return as she ran her slender hands over the wound. Her tall frame bore down around her patient, bent double with a willowy flexibility that betrayed many years of stooping over the production of delicate tinctures, as though her entire body was an infusion of wispy wood in water.

“Tea?”

Lin jumped. She hadn’t noticed the doctor’s assistant, Sister Grace, as she approached them both with steaming cups. Grace was the living opposite of Belle. Where her mentor was tall and full of arboreal movement, Grace was short, stubby, and with a delicate quality not unlike a plucked petal. She spoke little, moved little, and smiled little owing to the scar tissue that ran across her lower jaw. Lin was very fond of her own floor-length black hair, which she kept untethered and brushed for one hour every morning. Belle’s hair had a pinkish tinge, product of many years of chemical tinkering, whereas Grace’s hair was a thin and raggedy brown. Overall, Lin thought she was a rather unlikeable character. She had no art in her, no spark to drive forth life and creativity, no alluring qualities that would unmask any original thought. She merely did what Belle told her to do, which to Lin was no real life at all. She took the cup, and passed the other to Elizabeth, and before she had taken the first sip Grace had disappeared back to wherever she had been before. Out of the picture, out of mind.

“She will be fine, perhaps.” Sister Belle said, as she pulled the last of the gauze over the wound. The room smelled strongly of comfrey and bergamot, the oils of which the bandages had previously been soaked in.

“Perhaps?” Elizabeth asked. The tea had emboldened her.

“Bone knitter.”

“I’m sorry?”

“This.” Belle gestured around the room. “The smell. It’s the bone knitter plant.”

“Oh? What does that do?”

“Knits bones. And flesh. Teeth, too, if you’re lucky. But if you’re unlucky, it kills you. This one,” She gestured to Freya, who was already dozing soundly, “needs to knit back her skin swiftly. We can’t afford to wait for the wound to close. So, yes; perhaps.”

“But surely,” began Lin, “If it were a fox bite, she would not need it to close up so quickly? Is there something about the Gol which is contagious?”

“If there were, this would not be how I would want to find out. Off with you now, my patients are sleeping.”

The two of them hadn’t noticed before now, but the infirmary was not empty. On a bed at the end of the hall, draped in sheer curtains, was Jenny. Her face almost unrecognizable in sleep, deep lines creasing sunken cheeks with shadows. Without her wimple to cover it they caught a glimpse of silver-white hair before Belle steered them outside with a chiding hand.

In the shadows, Grace watched them leave. Out of the picture, out of mind.

---

Everything felt normal inside, so simply ordinary that Isidore half thought that they might have hallucinated the events of the trip altogether. Between their fingers they could still feel the chalky grit of the limestone powder, anchoring them back to reality. Their whole body moved with the weary slowness that could only come from a day of hard toil. Each step was leaden with a keen exhaustion that had previously been ignored, but now the adrenaline was fading and with it any resilience that had been keeping them going.

“You can sleep here for the night, there should be fresh linen on the table.” Lydia pointed them to a small room at the end of the Orison wing before shutting the door gently. As she turned back to the corridor she noticed one of the doors stood ajar. The door to Wille’s room.

Lydia swooped into the chamber and her thoughts became an angry hiss, boiling and roiling in her head as plumes of hot kettle-steam. The day had dragged her from road to rock and back again, and there was to be no respite for the weary this night.

Where is she? That girl, I swear…

She barely heard the march of her shoes on the stone as she took her umbrage with her down the stairs in short, sharp steps. The Gol be damned, she thought with her chin held high, let them hear all they like. She snatched a lantern from its alcove. Let them see. It wasn’t her fault if she needed the light to bring back a lost Sister. If anything, it was Wille’s for not following the rules in the first place.

The first place she checked was the main bathroom. Silent save for the dripping of a leaky tap, the lamplight cast a greenish glow from the tiles. Empty. It was the same in the refectory, no furtive hands prepared midnight snacks or stole sips of summer spirits from ice-cooled urns. As she took herself on a tour of the abbey her anger eased, her body lost it’s tension and her steps lightened. It was just a game, hide-and-seek through all the halls and landings and secret hidden stairs. She began looking in more unlikely places; cupboards, the gaps behind curtains and the hollow spaces under trestle tables. Concealed doors were rediscovered, behind grand bookshelves or moveable wooden panels. She felt herself revitalise, her girlishness restored, indulging in a youthful playfulness she hadn’t allowed herself to feel since the Ystre lynching. Her responsibilities turned to amusement, and any worry that Wille might actually be missing dissipated.

She was in the main chapel when she saw it. A shadow, barely more than a wisp in the gloom, had flitted across the stained glass window panes from outside. Inside, the glass paintings of eminent saints filled the floor with a motley of red and purple patterns, spread by the faint moonlight. Ancient deeds of long-dead anchorites played out once more on the tiles and warped themselves across the wooden pews. Lydia had been watching the faces on the floor when the hue was interrupted by a silhouette passing the window.

“Well now, someone’s in trouble.” She grinned to herself as she made her way to the side entrance. She couldn’t help but look towards the iron gate, and sure enough, the rock-chewing Gol was standing there in the distance. It’s eyes were upon her, and she took a moment to rummage in her pocket for the last piece of pearl iron and hold it up. Its eyes widened along with its smile as the rock glinted red in the moonlight.

“You want this, hmm? Well, fetch!” With a single swing she threw the stone away, deeper into the grounds where it landed with a thud among the laurels. The Gol did not move, only it’s eyes turned to stare at the place where it landed with a look of such longing, Lydia had to laugh. She followed it’s gaze and saw beyond the bushes a dark figure. One with short hair and an oversized habit, bending down over something at the very edge of the garden, beneath the wall.

“Found you!” She said playfully, not yet returned to her normal Wille-hating self, as she marched up behind her.

“What do you have to say for yourself? There’s no getting out of it this time, you’ll be on latrine duty for-” But her sentence was left unfinished. Her mouth fell open with pure shock, and she forgot to breath.

It was Wille, standing there, up to her elbows in grave dirt. She had turned to face her, wiping her sweaty brow with one arm. Lydia’s gaze travelled down, taking in her muddy smock and her hands stained black with soil. Behind her lay an abyss where there should have been earth, a mound of which lay to one side. A pointy-tipped shovel stood at the bottom of the hole next to a dirty, six-by-two wooden casket.

“Lydia, I can explain.”

Lydia’s hand whipped up almost beyond her control, slapping her hard around the face and sending her sprawling backwards into the grave. She hit the casket with a hollow thud.

“What is this, what are you doing? Heavens, is there no end to your depravity?” If she had stopped a moment - and she didn’t - to feel the full extent of her feelings in all their formidable intensity, she might have noticed - but she didn’t - that her face was drenched in salt-spattered streams, a trickling river delta, branches like an old oak cascading down her cheeks and chin. Something, somewhere, had changed. Inside she knew this, that whatever relationship she had with Wille, even if that relationship was one of cruel intensity and bitter edges, was forever finished. A rivalry returned could be sweeter still than honeycomb, with depths more intoxicating than even the richest of teas brewed from such bitter leaves as love.

“Listen. Listen to me! Lydia, stop!” Wille turned her back to protect herself from the rain of fists and kicks that battered her face and hands. She knelt down besides the wood and placed her shovel in the gap between the lid and the box.

“What are you doing? Oh my good Lord, no.” Lydia stopped her onslaught, stepping back as though polluted by what her eyes were witnessing.

“The Noctunes,” Wille panted, “They told me to seek Harriet’s mortal remains. They called her an Angol. Trust me, Lydia, for once in your life. I’m begging you, listen to me. Mischa said that all will become clear if we just examine the body.” These last few words came out in gasps as the lid came free with one final, determined heave.

Both Orisons stood in silence for a moment as the dust cleared. They might have expected some cloud of gaseous grave smog, or a cloud of flies to rise a whirl around them, but none of these things happened. The lid swung open as though it was the most natural thing in the world for it to do, revealing the body within.

Two antlers sat astride it’s head, big doe eyes gazing, death-stuck, into realms unknown. Its body was not bloated, the meat had been gone for some time. Apart from the head, which seemed almost preserved in lifelike taxidermy, only the bones remained. It was a deer corpse. Pristine. Not even Gol-touched. Wille tried to remember the last time they ate venison, confusion and fear rising as she realised: Harriet isn’t here. She was, even after death, still missing.

Before she could say anything, do anything, a hand grabbed her by the hair - not too unkindly, but firmly - and pulled her backwards in such a way that she could not help but follow, clambering back up the incline to the surface.

“Lydia, where are you…” But one look on her face told her she would not get an answer. Only the smarting of her cheek and the grip of firm fingers in her hair made her feel anything beyond the numbing truths that rattled in her skull. Harriet was still missing. She didn’t even protest when Lydia led her down through the undercroft hall where they kept the moth-eaten altar cloths, through the vats of sanctified wine towards a wall of stout, cobweb-covered barrels.

“What are we doing here?” Wille didn’t even feel like resisting, so sure was she that the presence of the deer carcass only served to prove her actions justified.

Lydia knocked once, twice, upon a casket to the left and the lid of it opened outwards, hinged and handled like a door. Beyond it lay a short, sharp drop and an ice-block floor dusted with rime. Wille found herself shoved inside, her knees hitting the ice with a jolt of fresh pain.

“H-hey, Lydia!”

The barrel door was closed once more, high enough that she couldn’t quite reach it without standing, though as her knees were still recovering from the shock this kept her from trying. She simply laid there in the dark, pain throbbing through her entire body, as the force of the impact kept her sliding ever so slightly across the ice.

“You will wait here until the Inquisition deigns to speak with you, or your trial is convened.”

“The Inquisition? Trial? What are you babbling about? They don’t come out of their tower for nothing.”

Lydia’s muffled voice became shrill.

“Nothing? A Sister is killed, and one of our own digs up and desecrates her body. Is this a game to you? This is not nothing.”

“Lydia, I didn’t put that there! Don’t you see? I was right about-”

“Enough of this. I wash my hands of you, Willow. The Inquisition will deal with you from now on.” Wille heard footsteps turning away from the barrel.

“Oh, and one more thing. Don’t stray too far from the door.”

Wille had only just managed to stand, hoping to batter her hands raw at the wood of the cask, when her heel slipped from under her. She fell down in a tumble of skirts, grasping at the blocks which were, thankfully, uneven and jutting out into several easy handholds. The warmth of her hand made them slippery with fresh melt, and with greatest of care she felt around with the foot that had failed her. Nothing, only a sheer edge where the ice suddenly stopped. It was the same across that entire side of the cell. What had once been a small insulated room for storing ice throughout the summer, perhaps so some long-dead Lordling could have chilled wine as his whims demanded, had fallen through into the caverns below. With a chill that sent a shiver down her spine, not entirely due to the frost, Wille remembered the lake of blood.

“Lydia?”

No response. She made her way painstakingly to the entrance, her hands only reaching the bottom of the wood, and tapped.

“Lydia, are you there?”

She slammed her hand into the timber with such strength she was sure she was waking the whole abbey.

“Lydia!”

No response. In the gloom of the undercroft, where her muffled shouts mingled only with dust, a single insect crawled up the side of the barrel. Half legs, half flesh. Slithering, like a tongue across the wood.