Chapter 27: White Lily

"Hope on a prayer."

​

It looks as if your room has been tidied in your absence. The myriad boxes of imported goods have been straightened. That's it. You're such a neat individual, nothing else needed to be attended to.

The broad leather bindings in your hands are set on a clean table. Ray politely settles back on the bear skin rug, after walking about the room a few more times in a show of protection. You look to him gratefully, give him a few words of reassurance, and command him to stay put.

He's asleep before you take out the bookmark Sister Cardew left in your care.

She is sharper than even I would have expected.

Grasping the thin white thread, you cross the room, close the curtains, and put out the last of the dying hearth. Every candle is snuffed, up to and including the one in hand.

Kneeling down on an open expanse of the stone floor, your voice drops to a whisper. "Nothing before me need be seen. Through darkness I have endured. You have shown me— more than any other— not to trust what lies before my mortal eyes. Spirit, Goddess of the Mind, hear me."

If you weren't mistaken, you might imagine the soot and smoke from the extinguished fire smells of white lilies. The familiar scent usually makes you feel sick, but in the halls of the Church of Flesh, it's an immediate comfort. This is no invocation. You have nothing to fear. Nothing is infecting your mind, or intruding in on your thoughts.

The only divinity working through you is devotion, reverence, and love. You close your eyes, and look inward to yourself. The prayer is informal, but you feel as if your connection to the Goddess has never been stronger.

"Thank you, Spirit. Thank you for granting me the wisdom to seek my own truths. May no temptation lead me astray. You are the immaculate teacher, the divine mentor. Grant me your counsel. Permit me to search alongside you. I seek a righteous path. I seek your love. I seek your guidance."

You can feel and see beyond what is directly in front of you.

"I walk now not through a valley of death. The halls of my own life are far more perilous. Far more winding. I only wish to understand. Permit me to best serve you. I am listening, Spirit."

You remain on your knees for a few minutes, in the dark and quiet, with the scent of white lilies.

"I am more than your vessel. I am your student. The immaterial must be known."

The gentle sound of Ray's breathing is all you hear. A soft breeze from the window at the far end of your room kicks up the curtains from time to time, though you cannot see their crimson.

There is no need for a further response. There's the smell of flowers, and calm at the back of your mind.

You know She is listening.

Rising to your feet, you cross the room (taking care to not trip). Opening the drapes is an immediate necessity. Light from the afternoon sun pours into the room, stirring Ray right out of his slumber. He lazily remains on the bearskin rug, looking to you as you gather your things once again.

"We've got our work cut out for us, don't we, boy?"

Unamused, he draws out a yawn.

"My thoughts exactly."

The fire at the hearth remains extinguished. You don't intend to return to your quarters for some time today.

Shoving down as much food as you can stand, you stash a small bag of marzipan and dried meat on your person. Looking to your flask, you murmur, "energy? Vitality? Something... exotic?"

Steam filters out of the top of the unopened cap. The liquid is dark as night, and smells unlike anything you've had before. Invigorating, roasted notes of vanilla puts a spark in your eyes. A sip confirms its unusual nature. The drink is bright, crisp, and terribly bitter. There are undercurrents of caramel, along with something woody. Its bitterness persists for long moments after you pull away.

You're a masochist, and absolutely love it.

It feels as if someone's put a shock to the back of your skull for how much livelier you feel after a few minutes. Stashing the book under your arm, you resolve at the last possible moment to simply go straight to Sister Cardew's quarters.

Calling Ray back to your side, you head out. Your prior examination of the exterior ward was far from thorough, but you locate your quarry quickly enough.

Down the hall (at the eastern wing, adjacent to the least of the ill) is a single sign. It's hand-written, in the same ornate text that is adorning the book in your hands.

'Keep out. Don't knock. I don't care if the building is literally on fire (again).'

The corner of the cleanest sheet of parchment you have goes towards writing a note. You are a gentleman, articulate, and have a bad habit of talking in circles. The message rapidly becomes longer than you initially intended.

"Sister Cardew,

I have returned with your report and bookmark the very first moment I was able. These records— and our mutual desire to be rid of this place— could easily be amended over lunch. Please correct me if I am mistaken, but I have reason to believe your desire to escape these halls eclipses even my own. Would you accompany me this afternoon, that we might attend to our work in a fairer surroundings?

Your efforts are sincerely appreciated, regardless of your reply. The thoroughness of your study is worthy of praise, and you were right: I was able to give proper devotion to Spirit this afternoon, all thanks to your generosity. Enclosed is your holy symbol.

The immaterial must be known,

Father Anscham"

Slipping the letter under Sister Cardew's door, you step back and wait a few more minutes. Nervous energy has you picking at the edges of your sleeves, adjusting your robes, and attentively looking anywhere but down the hall.

Rustling can be heard from the other side of the door, as the slip of paper is picked up, and had to have been read with inhuman speed (surely it wasn't glossed over entirely).

The door quickly opens. A slender, short, and wide-eyed woman is standing in a room you don't get to look at. She closes the door rapidly behind her, nearly catching some of the white fabric about her sleeves in the frame.

Flustered, Sister Cardew looks up to you through wide lenses. "Yes."

"Yes?"

The note is in her hand, and she doesn't seem to want to let go of it. "Yes. Give me just a moment."

A swirl of fabric disappears back inside of the door, which is promptly closed again. You hear a scatter of papers, and some very wholesome swears on things like "by all of the paper cuts" and "dog-eared, water-stained, good-for-nothing inkblots."

After several moments, the priestess reemerges looking utterly identical. The door behind her is shut firmly, and the note is gone, though she appears to have acquired a small bag. The bleached, embroidered purse is thrust at you to carry. It weighs almost nothing. You suspect it has a little coin, and more writing supplies.

Harriet's back is turned to you as she fusses with the lock. "Where are we going, then?"

Why was I not given a key for my quarters?

"I know just the man to ask."

"You—" She could not sound any more irritated. "You have no idea where—"

"Right this way, Sister."

She has the discipline and good breeding to not sigh as you both take leave of the door. "Do you take your dog out to all of your lunch arrangements?"

"Yes."

There's whistling down the hall your room is located in. You follow it straight to the sight of a slender ponytail, and exposed arms behind a crimson robe.

Cyril is leaning against the wall opposite your door, his shoulders slouched as he finishes his own lunch. The man is trying to whistle in between mouthfuls. It's absolutely terrible. You have to stop him at all costs.

"Cyril!"

"Father Anscham!" The blonde nearly drops everything in his hands for his eagerness to wave you down. There is a very broad grin across his face as he sees who's in your company. "And who might this be?"

The woman at your side is happy to point out the obvious. "We spoke only two days ago, Cyril."

Cyril pretends as if he didn't hear her. He could not be any more smug. "Father Anscham?"

While you cross over to him, Sister Cardew lingers several feet back. Murmuring is fine. Asking for Mercy is fine. "Sister Cardew and I have some business to attend to today in Beorward. She will be the one supervising me this afternoon. Do you understand me, Brother Trebbeck?"

He snaps upright, laughing at full volume. "Sir! Loud and clear, Father, sir!"

It's hard to not smile back at him. "Do you know of anywhere in the city befitting of a lady of the cloth? For lunch. Preferably somewhere more discreet."

This is coming out all wrong, and you're punched on the shoulder. Cyril might be hurting his face, for how hard he's smiling. "Father, I never would have thought—"

"Do not start thinking now." Smirk. "A recommendation will suffice, Cyril."

"Hope on a prayer."

"Pardon me?"

"The bar, 'Hope.' It's on the second story of the tavern, 'A Prayer.'"

Sister Cardew giggles.

You whip your head around, stunned.

She's terribly amused. "That is horrible. It's not clever at all."

"Don't look at me!" Cyril puts his hands up, almost spilling the contents of the bowl in hand. You get a peek of a fish head that threatens to drop. It's of one of the perch he caught last night. "They're a respectable enough place. A little pricey—" He grins at your hair, your ring, your eyes, and the locket over your heart. "—but I don't suppose that's a problem for you, is it?"

"Thank you, Cyril." You murmur, trying to dismiss the comment, "how might we get there...?"