It was the Church, Yolanthe insisted, that perverted their trade to serve their own derision of women. It was the Church, she claimed, who erased Saint Amourna’s true past.
When I arrived at the convent, the nuns did not shame me for my mother’s profession. To them, all of us who arrived on their doorstep had our own unique set of tools that could be used in serving Mortain. Besides, if Mortain had seen fit to lie with our mothers, who were they to shame us—or Him—for His choice?
Margot is wrong, I think as my feet carry me down the hallway. I have just as many choices in my life as she did. I could marry. A tanner, a guildsman, a blacksmith, any number of men in the trades would be glad of me as a wife. In truth noblewomen, for all their privilege, have fewer options than I do—they may marry or go into a convent. But their alternatives provide them with food and shelter and clothing, while not all mine guarantee me even that.
Indeed, that is why so many of us found our way to the convent—it gave us some measure of freedom. While we swore an oath to serve Mortain, within that oath was a variety of ways in which to serve.
That is why I still keep my contract with the convent. Once I walk away from that, my opportunities are greatly reduced.
Although, I must admit, the choices and autonomy promised by the convent have not materialized like I’d hoped.
Margot is right about one thing. I have always cared more than she did. But not for the reason she thinks. It was never because I had no place else to go or no other options. It was because I wanted to prove to the world that I did have a choice. That was what allowed—allows me still—to keep believing they will call me into service. If not, I will have wasted ten years and been sent away from those I loved for nothing.
I am not willing to accept that.
When I reach my room, I let myself in and bolt the door behind me. It is a small chamber, given to Margot and me. It is too hot in summer and too cold in winter, but it was ours and ours alone. It was here that Margot and I would test each other on our convent lessons. Where we would practice the moves Sister Thomine had drilled into us, praying no one would hear the thumping that ensued as one of us inevitably hit the floor.
It was here that I waited in vain as Margot joined me less and less until she finally stopped coming at all.
I stride over to the two trunks shoved up against the far wall. I have never looked through Margot’s trunk. Not once. Not in Amboise when she first began to avoid my company, nor in Cognac when she finally cut me out of her life.
But today I must know if the convent ordered her to have an affair with Count Angoulême. Margot saves every small scrap of her life. If she received a letter from the convent, she would not have burned it. It would be in this trunk.
But it is locked. I reach for the small sewing kit in my pocket and unfold the leather flaps to pull out a large sturdy needle. Beneath my careful coaxing, the lock quickly gives way.
The trunk is nearly bursting with scraps of fabric, coils of ribbon, velvet pouches, and old gloves. There are dried flowers, small silver charms, a gold bracelet, and a jeweled stiletto I stole for her off a young, arrogant Italian ambassador. I paw through it all, looking for letters or parchment. My knuckles graze something hard—a rough wooden practice dagger. The sight of it nearly guts me. I made it for her when we first arrived at court and we were desperate for something with which to practice our skills. Was that a lie too?
I push the dagger aside and resume rifling. I find one of the silver powder boxes given to each of us by the convent. Instead of powder, it contains night whispers, a poison that kills when inhaled into the lungs. My hand closes around it, and I set it aside. I can still use it, even if Margot no longer has reason to.
Next to the box is a hairnet of gold thread and white pearls. Only they are not pearls at all, but cunningly designed wax beads that hold poison. The wax has shriveled somewhat, but the poison might still be usable.
It is not until I reach the bottom of the trunk that my hand meets parchment and my heart skips a beat. But there is no black wax seal, and when I glance at the words, I see it is a love note from her first lover in Amboise. There are two more letters from admirers but no other correspondence.
I slam the lid of the trunk shut. Would she truly have burned instructions from the convent? She who kept every note and small gift sent by her admirers? Any one of those would have gotten her in serious trouble with the regent. Far more so than correspondence from the convent would have endangered her with the count.
Unless it was instructing her to seduce him for the convent’s own ends. He might not take kindly to such orders.
I shove to my feet, stride over to the hearth, and grab the poker. Even though she hasn’t been up here in months, I sift through the ashes, hoping some scrap of the burned letter might still be there. After I have stirred every trace of ash at least twice, I toss the poker aside.
There is nothing. Nothing to indicate whether Margot lied or was telling the truth.
Nothing to subdue the trembling in my hands her spitefulness has caused.
Nothing to punch or kick or fight with. Nothing to pummel or beat or drive away.
I take two steps toward the door. I want to march back to Margot’s room and demand she tell me the truth. But that has never worked with her. The more I wanted something—her cooperation, her approval, her affection—the more she withheld it.
But she will never have that kind of power over me again.
Anger and frustration crackle through my limbs, and the walls themselves feel as if they are closing in, crowding me until I can scarcely breathe.
I retrieve my wooden practice dagger from my own trunk, then shove it into my belt. I cannot stay here a moment longer.
* * *
The deepest floor of the castle is as dark and empty as always. I grab the lone lit torch and make my way to the chamber I have used since we first arrived at Cognac. Margot came with me exactly twice, quickly giving up our practice sparring sessions for the other entertainment Cognac had to offer.
But for me, these sessions have been as necessary as air—connecting me to the convent and who I truly am, what I am meant to be. They were my best—and only—defense against despair.
With the chamber lit only by my single torch, I take up the position Sister Thomine drilled into us. Within moments I am moving in old familiar rhythms: lift, strike, kick, again. It is as calming as the lullaby my mother sang over my cradle.
I continue until my muscles burn with fatigue and my skin no longer itches. I continue until sweat trickles down my neck and along my ribs and the question about Margot’s letter no longer burns like a branding iron.
Only then do I allow myself to lean against the wall to catch my breath. I dread returning to the castle. Perhaps I will sleep here tonight and skip dinner altogether. My stomach protests by gurgling loudly. Grimacing, I rub my hand across my hollow belly. I am too hungry to miss supper.