It had become a ritual at this point. Barely a blip on the emotional radar. Sister Sophie thought this was probably a good thing, as she brought down the cleaver with a thunk, separating a new chunk of meat from Harriet’s left arm. The freshly-thawed flesh parted easily, and the bone didn’t even splinter as it split into two.

“Here you go, cupcake.” A slither of meat was passed down to the waiting cat as it brushed itself against her legs in a quiver-tailed display of feline supplication.

The Lydia issue had sorted itself out, much to her relief. though it was a shame to see such good meat go to waste. The newly born crystal giant had not released Lydia for one moment since squashing her head like a grape. She still hung from its jaws, even as it slept. It had taken her to the patch of laurel bushes in the gardens and curled up to rest, so far expressing no further intent to attack the abbey further. The wall, however, was beyond saving, and the damaged section had fallen in the night, leaving a clear path for anyone - and anything - to make its way inside.

There wasn’t much of her left now. This arm would be the last of it. The venison has been good, yes, but Harriet herself had been the one to plant the idea.

“We need more protein.” She had said, as she and Abigail had poured over the itinerary in the summer. “Our daily fare is lacking, if Inka can’t bring us more game then we’re going to need an alternative source. Beans, perhaps?”

“We only have dried beans. They may grow, but it’s not likely.” Sophie had replied. It was true, the rehydrated bean stock didn’t take over the summer, the soil was too marshy for a decent yield, and so she began to look at other choices. At first it was rats. Ever present, the larder thieves went from pest to provender with the help of a few traps. Doves, too, weren’t so hard to procure. But when elderly Sister Amy died of her illness on midsummer’s day it wasn’t hard to gain access to the body. It is a myth, oft repeated, that older flesh is sinewy and tough, but Sophie discovered that this was not the case. A long and slow broil made even the toughest of meats tender, plus the flavour was exceptionally strong, and the leftover bones made for a delicious broth.

The larder looked overflowing to anyone not directly involved, but as Abigail was very fond of telling her: Stocks were falling rapidly. Time had seen the more popular ingredients fall into shortage. Meat had to be used within a year before it spoiled, and as the hunts were turning up more meagre fare there was less to go around. Even in the last two weeks some strange variety of insect had burrowed it’s way into the flour sacks, rendering half of them inedible and littered with small cocoons. Sister Harriet was being of great service to her fellow acolytes, even from beyond the grave. Sophie was sure she would have wanted it that way. She only hoped that there would be enough left of Lydia to salvage.

When the meat had been placed in the smoker she turned to the second chore of the morning. Pre-cured strips of prime thigh jerky were wrapped in wax paper and placed in a woven hand basket. A boule of white rye flecked with peppercorns shortly joined it, as well as a small jar of butter, some dried pears and a flask of apple brandy.

“You’re late.”

“Am I?” Sophie looked down at her apron as though the shapes and stains could tell her the time. “So I am. Apologies my dear. Here, take this.”

Elizabeth took the basket with thanks. The rest of her belongings were securely fastened in a travellers knapsack across her back. She had left her habit and wimple neatly folded upon the bed in her old cell. Her clothes now were a simple farmer’s smock, kerchief and stockings. Basket in one hand, walking stick in the other, she set off towards the gaggle of girls guarding the front door.

“Elizabeth, please. Why won't you reconsider?”

“Out of my way, Hazel.” The librarian had spread her arms out across the entryway, a plaintive look on her face.

“Lydia, she… She was delirious. You know that, Bellemorde said it herself. Her wounds had been festering, she hadn’t been taking care of them properly.”

“That’s not like her.”

“Even so.”

“It’s not, I tell you! I know her. I… knew her. She told me to leave, and I’m leaving. You can’t stop me, I’ve already renounced my vows.”

“Elizabeth…”

“It’s not like I haven’t been out before, you know.”

“I know.” It was Inka who chimed in this time. “I have the key for the main door, but before-”

“Give it to me!”

“...But before I do so, you and me need to take a little walk. Girls, give us some privacy.” Hazel was practically dragged away by the other blue-robed Etudes, but she allowed herself to be dragged. When it was just Inka and Elizabeth, the old nun handed her a small, smooth and grey object.

“It’s a stone? What for?”

“Look at it again.”

She did, and as she turned it in her fingers she saw that it was a hagstone. A hole ran straight through the middle, naturally formed from the boring lives of little molluscs.

“When they come for you - and they will - use this stone to set your mind adrift. They are attracted to thought. If you know yourself, they will know you too. Focus on the hole, fill it with Elizabeth. Fill it with her fear, her sadness, her aches and woes. If you do not, they will fill themselves with you instead.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You will. Or, you won't, and then you won’t care. Practice during the daylight, while you walk. Push your mind away from you until you are nothing but road and trees and clouds,” She closed Elizabeth’s fingers over the stone with her own, holding it there for a long moment. “You are leaving us and our order, so you go now not as my sister, but as a friend nonetheless. Goodbye, Elizabeth.”

“Thank you, Sister Inka. Goodbye.”

She took the proffered key and unlocked the ancient door, stepping out into the rainy haze.

For a long time, Isidore watched her walk down the straight road towards Ystre, her figure slowly becoming more and more indistinct as the drizzle obscured the fens.

“You can come in, you know.”

The door to their chamber opened, and Claudia stepped into the room.

“How did you know I was there?”

“I know every creak and groan of these old walls. Or at least, I used to.” They turned away from the window, gesturing for the nun to sit. The room had no partitions and lounge, kitchen and sleeping quarters all rolled themselves into one. Beneath the floor lay the large iron gate that separated them from the profane world. Isidore’s garret was filled with the type of furniture that had no use anywhere else, which also happened to include those chairs which were from mismatched sets, but also the comfiest. Claudia carefully sank herself in a burgundy armchair seemingly made of an endless amount of stuffing and cushions. “With the wall in its current state, I don’t know anymore. God, Claudia, your hair. You look such a state. Weren’t you scared coming out here?”

“No.”

“I thought the sisters had shut themselves inside while that beast walks the grounds.”

“I didn’t tell them I was coming to visit.”

“Ah.”

“The truth is,” Claudia sat forward in her chair, a pained expression on her face. “I need to find where they’ve hidden Wille. It’s urgent.”

“And you thought, if I knew, that I would just tell you?”

Claudia nodded.

“Well, it’s true I have little love for Cesca. She focuses far too much on internal affairs, when her talents are better off put to use against the Gol. Heresy? Bah! She would have more luck looking for the real heretics, the ones who set this scourge upon us. She needs to speak to the Nocturnes. They know something about all this, I’m sure of it.” Isidore had walked the length of the long, rectangular room and was rummaging around in a dresser near their bed.

Claudia nodded again, patiently.

“I’m sorry, I got carried away. She’s not here.”

Claudia sighed and flung herself back into the cushions.

“Isidore, I’ve looked everywhere. Every single nook and cranny. Even the hidden places they think I don’t know about. I know she’s in trouble, so I thought maybe she was sent somewhere outside the abbey proper.”

“She’s probably not far off. Have you tried asking Cesca? Head up, please.” They had returned from the dresser with a silver-handled hairbrush, and began attempting to tame the tangled head of hair which Claudia had been neglecting now for quite some time.

“One cannot simply ask Cesca. She will have you flogged for speaking to her at the wrong time of day, then flogged again for daring to suppose an answer. Besides, it was Lydia who detained Wille, and Lydia’s dead.”

“Poor Lydia.” Isidore said, their sincerity falling away like water on a swan’s wing. There was a pause, broken only by the swift sound of the brush. It ran smoothly through her hair now that the major knots had been detangled, and Isidore’s deft fingers began separating out strands ready for plaiting.

“Are you feeling any better now? You were throwing up an entire lake back in Ystre.”

“Better, thank you. The sickness has passed, and it won't be long now before...” She touched her belly with a gentle hand, still large and bloated beneath her habit. Isidore noticed that the skin on her fingers looked shrivelled and pale.

“Who was it? Elizabeth? No, otherwise you would be much more distraught. Lin?”

Claudia shook her head.

“No, neither of them.” Isidore finished the two long plaits that sat on either side of her head and walked around to kneel in front of the chair.

“You know, Grace collects a variety of herbs, some of which can be used to flush the body of any… Impurities.” They said in a quiet voice. Claudia only shook her head more, plaits bouncing from side to side.

“I should go back.” She said, her face serious.

“I’ll walk you.”

The two of them returned to the monastery in the drizzle, the short walk enough to cake their shoes with mud. When Isidore turned back towards the gatehouse however, they noticed a shadow standing out on the moor.

“Back so soon?” They called, but the figure didn’t respond. “I’ll leave the door on the latch, come up when you’re ready and get warm.”

They went upstairs and threw another log onto the embers, muddy shoes drying on the hearth. It wasn’t long before they heard the creak of boots upon the stairs. The careful steps a person takes when entering a house for the first time.

“Come on in, the water’s hot.”

Isidore didn’t hear the latch, but the old door leaves a scuff upon the boards whenever it opens, the wood long since grooved to accommodate. They heard the scuff, and turned.

“Elizabeth?”

The door stood open, but there was no-one there. The stairwell was narrow and dark but not so dark that it could hide a person. It was, without a doubt, empty.

That night Isidore dreamt of walking.

There was a road, they knew, but not one they could see. An invisible line drawn in the air that they found difficult to deviate from. They followed it over grasslands and over sand, across the sea and through the forests. The wind whipped at their traveller’s cloak and snow sent cold flakes against their skin, leaving droplet dapples against the ruddy red of their cold-bitten cheeks. It was winter, it was spring. How many seasons they journeyed through was unclear, time was only there when it wanted to be.

In the end they sat on the hillside beside the clear waters of the lake, as round and as smooth as a mirror, reflecting the stars and the clouds.

“It’s a bright moon tonight.” The shepherdess said. She had joined them, arm in arm, legs curled to one side as her sheep grazed nearby. Isidore had no way of knowing how long she had been there.

“I don’t see it.”

“I know.” She smiled and kissed their cheek. Her lips were rough and chapped from the wind and her face smelled faintly of sheep fat. The country kiss of a working girl. Isidore kissed her back, their palm fitting smoothly into the groove of her cheek. She tasted sweet, her tongue soft against theirs, leaving them with the lingering scent of cider and strawberries. Isidore was sure that if they let go they would both go tumbling down into the lake, the hillside turned and spun beneath them. They parted - too soon - and looked out together towards the lake. Their chests were rising and falling simultaneously. Rabbit hearted lovers nestled in the grass.

“You know you have to follow the road.”

In their mind the invisible ribbon stretched ahead of them, leading down into the lake.

“But I can’t go any further.”

She didn’t seem to hear them, too busy buttoning up her dress. Isidore couldn’t remember taking off their clothes, but saw shirts and undergarments now strewn at their entangled feet.

“I can’t swim.”

The shepherdess reached out her hands and pushed, gently, but it sent them reeling backwards without purchase. The stars streamed overhead as they turned in the air. Just as they were about to hit the cold water of the lake, they woke.

That morning they saw shapes out on the moor. Squat, pudgy round fleeces soaked in dew. The sheep were grazing their way outward, growing distant with every mouthful. Using a pocket spyglass, Isidore scanned the herd for any sign of a shepherd. Only the flock remained, but they almost dropped the glass with a start when one of the beasts raised its bedraggled head to stare back at the abbey. A sheep with a strangely human face.

From left to right:

Bellemorde, Wille, Beatrice, Alana, Lin

Hazel, Isidore, Inka, Rosie, Claudia

Morgan, Caprimulgus, Magda, Harriet, Lydia, Smigeon the kitchen cat.