Noon glanced down as the cell door was rattled to one side, and as she stepped outside the sister immediately slapped a pair of thick cuffs on her wrists – a steel loop tied with tough hessian straps. They were jumpier than usual.
Sister Owain urged her swiftly down the walkway, so quickly that Noon didn’t have time to exchange glances with any of the other women imprisoned in south block. They went down several sets of stairs, through three sets of tall, locked doors, all made of thick ebony wood riveted with steel, and then abruptly they were outside. As ever, Noon caught her breath as the icy sea wind cut across her, stealing what little warmth she had gathered to herself inside her cell. The taste of salt on her tongue was like a slap, and her eyes watered with the shock of it. They were leaving behind the main Winnowry building, with its four scalpel-like towers that tore at the sky, and heading towards the circle of white buildings that cupped the Winnowry like a pair of receiving hands. Tall alabaster chimneys sprouted from these buildings, their tops smeared with soot, and underfoot there was stony dirt, streaked here and there with bat guano.
Noon wrenched around to look behind her. It was possible, at just the right moment, to catch a glimpse of the far shore of the mainland, where the city of Mushenska festered and spread. Today, the sea was rough, throwing up mists and spray, but she did see it for a brief second; the harbour lamps had been lit, as had the big beacons over the market place. There was a smudge on the grey sky – the Tarah-hut Mountains – and somewhere below that, thankfully out of sight, the plains where she had been born. Much closer, on the Winnowry beach itself, was a small jetty with a narrow little merchant vessel tied up next to it. Noon caught a glimpse there of tightly caulked barrels being rolled on board, and a man with a salt-and-pepper beard talking to a tall woman wearing a sea-green travel shawl. There was enough time to catch the spiky shape of the bat tattoo on her forehead, and then Sister Owain yanked on Noon’s arm, almost causing her to lose her footing.
‘Was that an agent?’ she asked, nodded towards the figures on the jetty. ‘Selling your drugs on, is that it? A pet fell-witch to do your dirty business?’
‘Keep it up, Fell-Noon, and I will make a special appointment with the Drowned One for you. How about that?’
Noon pursed her lips, feeling the ash crack and flake. She wanted to bite at the skin on her thumb again. The agent and the boat were already out of sight, lost behind the furnace buildings.
‘What is the matter with you lot today?’ Noon muttered. ‘You’ve a face on you like a horse’s arsehole.’
To her surprise, Sister Owain didn’t even turn to glare at her. Instead, she shook her head slightly, as though trying to clear it.
‘Bad dreams,’ she said. ‘No one is sleeping properly.’
Noon found she had nothing to say to that. She didn’t know where the sisters slept, but she was willing to bet it was more comfortable than the bunk in her cell. And then they were there, and Sister Owain was reaching up and yanking the length of rope that hung above the priest door. Somewhere inside, a bell rang. On either side of the door, carved deeply into the white stone, were the two figures of the order’s founder, Tomas. In one depiction, he had his back to the viewer, walking away towards a stylised line that Noon knew was meant to be the sea. In the other, his face was turned outwards, wearing an expression that Noon supposed was meant to be a mixture of terror, awe and righteousness. To her, he mainly looked constipated. He wore garlands of seaweed about his shoulders, and in his hands were seashells.
‘Just do as you’re told,’ muttered Owain. ‘Everything will be fine. The evil in you must be purged. And all will be fine.’
Noon let her arm go slack. The woman was distracted, and they were outside. If she threw herself out of reach and ran, it was possible she could get down to the beach before the alarm was raised, and from there it was even possible that she might survive the swim to Mushenska. If she could get the cuffs off. Suddenly, the grip on her arm was like a vice.
‘Don’t think I can’t see it in your eyes, fell-witch.’ Owain no longer looked distracted. Through the narrow gaps in her mask her eyes were flinty.
‘What happened to Fell-Anya?’ The question was out before Noon knew she was going to ask it. ‘Where is she now?’
Owain was unfazed. ‘We give you a chance to live here, witch. A chance to burn away the evil that is in you.’ She paused, and behind her mask Noon heard her lick her lips. ‘You of all people should know where you belong. Murderer.’
Noon stood unmoving, the chill of her skin at odds with the visions of fire that filled her head. And then the priest door clattered open, and she was passed into the care of the men.
Inside the Furnace it was always hot, in such stark contrast to the damp Winnowry that it made Noon feel faintly dizzy. There was a scratchy, bitter scent, a mixture of smoke and the drug akaris, and a distant roaring as other fell-witches underwent their purging in other parts of the building. She was escorted by Father Wasten, a tall, thin man with a fringe of red hair about his ears and a carroty beard on the end of his chin. The men’s robes were a lighter shade of blue, and the hem was stitched with a series of curling lines meant to represent the sea that had kept Tomas to its bosom for so long. They did not wear masks, but instead carried short, lethal blades on their belts.
‘Why is it “sister” for the women, and “father” for the men?’ Noon asked. The bare white walls shaded into brown at the tops, the result of decades of insidious smoke, and the floor was grey slate, faintly warm through her slippers.
‘Fell-Noon, you ask the same question each time I see you.’
‘Because you’ve never given a good answer.’
Father Wasten cleared his throat. ‘The sisters are your keepers, brave women who dare to live close to the evil you carry. They dare to be close to you, like sisters.’
‘“Close” is a funny word for it.’
‘And Mother Cressin is the head of our family, as you know.’
‘The Drowned One?’
Father Wasten pursed his lips, causing his carroty beard to stick out ahead of him as though it were leading the way. ‘You should show more respect.’
‘I’m evil, remember? And everyone calls her that.’