Cesca quickly cemented herself as leader, judge and spiritual head of the convent. Her promotion from distant face in the tower to acting Mother Superior came as a surprise to all, but nothing was half as shocking as learning about Wille’s trespass. The presence of the daytime Gol, too, was no comfort. No attempt was made by Cesca to control the information, as she seemed to thrive on the discord and chaos that now whirled around the inquisition, her vulpine smile the eye of the storm.

She had moved from the tower into Mother Superior’s quarters, forsaking her place of previous confinement but taking with her the various potted plants, some drapes, tea sets and a red velvet chaise lounge. Though surrounded with more opulence than the previous spartan tenant, Cesca demanded that everyone only call her by name, and never call her ‘Saint’ or ‘Inquisitor’. Only Judith used the latter, and the former was generally considered a source of great confusion. None had ever met a living Saint before, and yet the process was not unheard of. The question on every lip was what did she do to come beautified, but none dared to ask it.

Cesca listened. She cared. She was attentive and kind and seemed genuinely interested in the personal affairs and woes of the individual Sisters who came to her for help. Though despite these attempts to ingratiate her way into the hearts of all, there still remained a barrier between herself and the others. A barrier born of disparity, and power.

“But I don’t understand!”

“You will understand. That’s what the lashes are for, to help you learn.” Cesca stirred her tea idly before tapping the spoon on the saucer as Morgan, crying, is led away by Judith towards the main quad. Cesca had been adamant that none of her punishments would occur behind closed doors, “for accountability’s sake” she’d said.

“Could you explain your rationale? I thought that, though she was indeed a little lax that perhaps… I mean, twenty lashes…” Lydia put emphasis on the twenty, her hand pulling at an errant bandage, but try as she might she had not been able to sway any of Cesca’s rulings for the entire evening. She was an immovable rock, and even Lydia’s best-laid plans were merely pebbles clattering against the solid stone. She sat to her left-hand side, mostly in silence, to all appearances the eager pupil as the inquisitors taught her the law though her intent had been to sway their decisions towards clemency. But Cesca was a rock, and it didn’t take long before whispers began regarding Lydia’s involvement.

“My dear, she was a teacher. Her job was to teach, and to teach correctly. She was not merely lax, she was derelict in her duty. None of you are aware of the true extent of the arm, nor of the function of the foot. In all this, there must be order, and in order; justice.” The creak of the door hinge indicated they were no longer alone.

“You wanted to see me, Sisters?” Inka stepped into the room, her grey hair loose around her shoulders and her hem still damp from her latest journey. Behind her, Judith slipped inside and took up her position once more as scribe.

“Ah, yes. Sister Inka, is that so? Tell me, in your wanderings - very brave, might I add - when was the last time you successfully hunted deer?”

Lydia’s ears pricked up. She shifted in her seat to face the elder nun, but winced as a twinge of pain shot through her torso. Wrapped in gauze, she had still been able to dress herself immaculately and not a single wrapping could be seen peeking out from beneath the high necked habit she had chosen.

“Deer? Let’s see… I brought one back not three weeks ago. A fine girl, not a touch of Gol about her.”

“I see. And what then did you do with it?”

“I took it straight to the kitchen. Sophie was over the moon, and Abigail took it for salting. It came out well, with a fine and woody taste.”

“Ah, so, you ate the saltmeat? Judith, write this down.” Cesca motioned to her amanuensis, whose quill filled the room with brisk and nimble scratches.

“You may go, Sister, thank you. Next we have the delicate matter of the friends and aids of our own little pretender. Judith, be a dear and fetch Sister Elizabeth.”

“Wait.” Lydia called out before she could stop herself. “Leave Elizabeth out of this.”

The smirk on Cesca’s face was almost dancing with delight as she turned to her latest conquest, eager to see her slip up and land herself with even more punishment.

“Whatever is mete out for Elizabeth, give it to me. I will take her place.”

“Really, you? And what makes you think you have the authority to order such a thing, hmm?”

“Sister Cesca, I am an Orison. Canon law is my specialty. The Summer Charters clearly state that a single adherent, if they are ordained, can stand in place of a follower from the same sect. It’s a little-known charter, but one every Sister here knows: It was written by our own Mother Superior.”

Cesca’s brow furrowed and she made a simple, curt motion with her fingers that made Judith rummage around in her books with great intensity, pages flicking with well-practised speed, before giving her mentor a solemn nod. Cesca drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair in agitation.

“You would do all that, just to protect your friend?”

“She’s not my friend. She’s my lover.” Lydia knew one thing for certain; she would cede no further ground to Cesca.

The inquisitor’s ruby lip curled into the faintest hint of a sneer and she turned her eyes to Judith, who met her gaze without comment. When she turned back to Lydia, she was smiling again.

“Very well, our little painted magpie. Fetch us tea and meet us in the courtyard. There we will decide what new burdens you will carry upon your shoulders.”

-

She walked slowly to the refectory, each step a potential agony. The bandages beneath her dress ran from her torso, down her thighs and even around the soles of her feet. She was a walking tapestry, a testament to the miracles of Saint Rediron, scion of the roiling blood. Across her hips stretched the battle where Saint Rediron, then known simply as Sister Angela, drove back the waters by boiling the ground where they stood, thus sinking the ships that contained heretics intent on pillaging the first church. Trailing up and over her stomach was the grand tower where she sequestered herself, never to step foot again upon the ground she loved so much. Each arm boasted a series of cameos depicting her early life and birth. It wasn’t overly detailed work, but Lin’s expertise with a brush lent itself well to the fine-tipped poker.

“Oh my, you smell delicious!” Sophie’s cheerful voice called out when she opened the kitchen door. “What is that, ginger? Garlic?”

“Ginger, mustard, and onion. Sister Grace said it would help keep the inflammation down. She requires refreshments.” Lydia didn’t even want to say her name anymore. Cesca. The very sound brought her some inner distress, a great anger or sadness, she wasn’t sure which.

“Very well, she is keeping me busy that’s for sure. Now, where did I put - ah!” In a twist of skirts and aprons Sophie bounced up a small stepladder, stretching her arm to reach a hanging caddy of dried rose tea.

“Sister…” Lydia began.

“Hmm?”

“Do you have any more of that saltmeat? The venison you sent over for our trip?” Beneath the bandage on her left hand, a thin trail of bloody exudate wept into her lap. She had been clenching her fists without noticing, and relaxed them now.

“Sure thing sweetie, it’s in the barrel by the stairs.”

She twisted off the salt-encrusted lid, the cask reminding her of Wille in the ice house. She would have to go get her, and apologise, but first she needed to see it for herself. The salt lay in waves like snow across the plains, the meat looked like the craggy trunks of fallen trees peeking out of the frost. Each piece she found was examined closely and placed to one side. The salt got into her wounds and made her fingers sting awfully. She found what she was looking for about halfway down the barrel. A sliver of meat, dark and lean, with a small amount of skin still attached. On that skin was a rounded shard of clear keratin. It was, undoubtedly, a human fingernail.

Sophie came into the alcove bearing a steaming cup.

“What’s wrong? You look pale. Have some tea?” The rose-coloured liquid looked bloody in the candlelight, a ferrous concoction bristling with steam and heat. She swatted it away, sending the cup smashing against the floor.

“Wha-” Sophie began, but Lydia pushed past her in a jumble of skirts and trailing bandages. Out in the refectory a few nuns with bowls in hand had already arrived for the evening meal, a rich and meaty borscht with carrots and chunks of pickled beetroot. Lydia ran past the forming line, knocking the ladle from Magda’s hand just as she was about to pour.

“Lydia? What’s with you?”

Before she could finish the sentence the kettle was on the floor, spilling soup the colour of pearl iron across the floorboards, splattering dresses and staining shoes. Nuns leapt aside as the steaming tide advanced across the room.

“Lydia!”

“Don’t eat anything she cooks for you!” There was a manic gleam to her eyes as she pointed the ladle at Sophie, who was standing at the kitchen entrance with a shattered cup in her hands. “Stay away from me, Sophie, don’t take another step!”

Magda went to put a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged her off. Instead, she folded her arms across her chest.

“Lydia, what has gotten into you? You know none of us agreed with what happened, we’re on your side.”

“This isn’t about Cesca, this is about her.” As she spat out the words she felt a stab of pain along her side. Her dressings were starting to unravel, and she must have appeared quite the sight. Her bun had come undone and loose hair fell over her shoulders. She didn’t think anyone had ever seen her with her hair down before. She saw people glance to the bandages trailing in the steaming pink soup, their eyes moving to her own with a look of pity that told her she was not being understood.

“You don’t get it, don’t eat the food! It’s Harriet, she’s here, you’re eating her!”

Only echoes answered her. Someone turned and walked towards a mop standing against a wall in the far corner. Another left, turning right towards the infirmary, sneaking furtive glances back at her which told her everything she needed to know about their motives.

They were not listening to her.

“I’m not mad, I’m not, you have to listen to me - No! No, go away!” Sophie had taken a step into the room, concern written over her face. Was that also a look of triumph, hidden beneath? She couldn’t tell.

Before anyone could return with the doctor, and before Sophie could twist the final knife into her reputation, she fled, trailing borscht across the corridors.

“Lydia! Look at you. Disgraceful. Where is the tea?”

“No.”

“I’m… I’m sorry?”

“No!”

She had run all the way to the central courtyard, where anyone with more sadistic, or perhaps compassionate, sensibilities had gathered at the sound of the dinner bell instead of in the refectory. Morgan was kneeling on a makeshift scaffold, sobbing quietly and awaiting her lashes with the skin of her back exposed while her daughter looked on. Judith had changed her outfit into an almost stereotypical executioner’s garb of dark, slotted hood and bare chest, a cruel-looking knotted flogger in her gloved hand. Lydia could have laughed at the sight of it all, like something from a history book, if it wasn’t for the situation. Still, she felt a smile tug at her lips when she saw Judith’s legs, manacled together in black iron chains. Her own shuffling gait which made her steps so agonisingly slow was due to some punishment of her own, no doubt something contrived by Cesca to keep her under her thumb, paired with promises of some future release. It was like some cruel tableau, everyone was fixed in their positions as though actor or audience.

And behind it all that ever-present sound, the sound of grinding teeth against the wall.

“Lydia, what has gotten into you? And you were doing so well.” Cesca’s drawl floated over the courtyard as Lydia began walking towards the gate.

“Sister Wille was right about something. I would rather die than stay another moment with you freaks!”

“I beg your pardon? Lydia, come here at once.”

“I said, I would rather die than stay another mo-”

And then the wall broke.

Shrill screams mixed with the sound of bricks hitting the spongy earth as a face appeared in the newly formed hole. The walls were thick, but the creature’s teeth had been filed down almost to nothing, it’s once slab-like smile now only a show of gums and hollow gullet. Lydia turned towards it as the courtyard emptied.

“Everyone, inside!”

Morgan was crying more than she had at the flogging block, and even Judith looked panicked beneath her mask as her hobbling made her the last one to reach sanctuary. Last, but for Lydia.

“You’re all fools, look! Don’t you see?” She turned to the nuns in the doorway and pointed back at the Gol. It stood still on the other side of the wall, lips flapping in rhythmic succession. Slowly, it placed a bloody-red stump of a hand inside the hole, reaching out towards the laurel grove where it’s beloved iron lay. It tried to pull itself through but it’s arms only slapped impotently against the brick.

“It can’t fit through such a small hole.”

“Lydia please, don’t encourage it.” Morgan stammered.

“What, are you scared it’s going to stare you to death? Get some wood, fetch Freya, and let’s board it up.”

“Lydia…”

The gol had been pushing its head through the gap, straining against the brick and mortar until it seemed to bulge outwards. Without teeth to hold it together it seemed like its head was made of mush, no skull to stop it folding over itself in its desperation. With a plop, the head fell into the grounds of Palus Somni, bouncing once before coming to a rest in the grass.

No-one spoke a word. There was a hush so quiet, not even the wind would whisper. Then, with a loud click of the latch closing, Cesca pulled the door closed.

“Cesca!? But she’s still out there!” Morgan put her hand to her mouth.

“We will open it for her, if she wishes.” Cesca said, but she was already turning the key in the lock.

For her part, Lydia did not even look back at the sound of the door closing. She had scooped up a rock from one of the many that lined the path, and hurled it with both hands at the head. A direct hit, the globulous mass wobbled and deflated slightly at the impact.

“You degenerates, you ate her! Sinners, all of you! You lack the faith. I will show you how a real Alucinari behaves.”

“Lydia!” It was Elizabeth, her voice muffled by the glass of the second floor window. She had arrived at supper only to find Abigail angrily scrubbing the floor, while Sophie told her a short account of what Lydia had done. Rushing upstairs, she had only found her cell empty.

“Elizabeth! You have to leave, you have to get out of here. Don’t trust anyone! They are rotten, they are evil.” Her shouts carried to every ear in the monastery and another rock smacked against the decapitated Gol. “Yes, evil. Do you hear me? You ate her, you heathens! Take that! Not so tough now, are you?”

Her third throw must have hit a weak spot, or else the rock she chose had a sharper edge than the others, as the membrane holding the head together ruptured. Bright red pearl iron paste oozed out from the opening, as well as something more solid and twig-like. A skeletal hand, raised to the sky, emerged from the head cavity, pulling itself free of the rusty mucous like a newborn breaking through the amniotic sac. It glistened in the late afternoon light, twinkling and faceted. Each individual bone had been turned to crimson crystal, as though baked to gemstone in a kiln of hot flesh.

“Lydia!” Elizabeth screamed and pounded her fists against the glass.

It was over before she had a chance to call again. The newborn arm snaked across the grass with lightning speed. The trail of fluid left in its wake sprouted more crystals, forming one long bone leading back to the head sack, now deflated as further bones came forth. New, shiny, unbroken teeth came next. The humanoid skull was grossly inflated, a pendulous sphere of knobbled, brittle bone and calcified sinew. It creaked like an old tree, joints popping and snapping as though they were about to break.

I know that face…

The arm had caught her up in its giant hand, pulling her in closer to the rising, gore-dripping jaws. The mouth opened. She batted her fists against the teeth, but this time they did not turn to putty beneath her blows. They remained, shining and strong, as her arms flailed piteously against the crystalline enamel. She could no longer rip and tear and trust her way through the nightmare, and as they closed upon her skull her screams mingled with those of Elizabeth, leaving the Abbey wreathed in sound.