‘Fire and blood! Oh, she’s done it now,’ murmured Noon. ‘She’s fucking well done it.’
There were cries from the other cells, a bellowed shout from below, and someone somewhere must have pulled the lever, because one of the huge water tanks clustered above them tipped to one side. A great sheet of water, black and silver in the poor light, crashed down through the cells on the opposite side, churning and rushing through the iron grids so that every fell-witch on that side of the Winnowry was abruptly dripping wet. The women screamed – the water was icy cold – and the winnowfire that was just out of sight blinked out of existence. Noon shivered as a fine mist of water droplets gusted towards them, and took a few steps back. In the outraged cacophony of fifty suddenly soaked women, she didn’t hear what happened to Fell-Anya, but she heard the clanging of a cell door from somewhere down below.
‘It’ll be a week before they get that tank filled up again,’ said Marian, her voice low. ‘It’s so difficult to refill, they hate to use it. But it seems they’re getting more difficult to please lately.’
‘Touchy bastards,’ agreed Noon. She stepped back up to the bars again. ‘Bastards!’ But her lone shout was lost in the echoes of dripping water. Noon stared out at the cells opposite, and the soaking, miserable women. She pressed her hand to her mouth, biting at a loose shred of skin on her thumb. It would likely take as long for the women on the far side to dry off as it would for them to refill the tank. They would be given no dry clothes, and the Winnowry was ever damp and cold, the tall black stones of its towers facing out to a cold and violent sea. The island it had been built on had been cleared of all trees, all grass – even the top layer of soil had been scraped away. Say anything about the sisters, say they were careful.
‘How did she do it?’ whispered Marian. Her voice was safely hidden under the moans of the other fell-witches, the constant dripping a quiet rain as the water worked its way through their cells.
‘The sister must have been stupid enough to get within reach of the bars.’
They both knew that was unlikely. The wardens of the Winnowry wore long gloves and sleeves, with thick hoods holding their hair back. Over their faces they wore smooth silver masks, with narrow holes for their eyes and mouths. To let a fell-witch touch their bare skin would be a disaster, although Noon often wondered what good it would do the witch who took their life energy. You could take enough to drag them down into unconsciousness – kill them, a voice inside her whispered – but then what? Unless you were outside of your cell already, unless you were close to the way out . . .
Noon sat down on the grill floor, pushing her fingers between the gaps. Marian reached up to her, but as ever the grid was too deep for them to reach each other. It was simply a way of acknowledging that they weren’t alone.
‘She did it somehow,’ Noon said quietly. ‘Got close enough to take what she needed.’ Her heart was still hammering in her chest. ‘What do you think happened to her? Do you think she got out?’
Marian didn’t answer immediately. When she did, she sounded worried. ‘Of course not. You know that, Noon. They doused her and then they took her away. There’s no way out of here. You know that.’
‘I know that,’ agreed Noon. She gnawed at her thumb again. ‘I know that.’
‘Fell-Noon. Off the floor, please.’
Noon scrambled to her feet. She recognised the voice of Sister Owain and looked up to see a tall figure at her cell door. The woman’s mask caught the subdued light of the cell, and not for the first time Noon half wondered if the sisters were real people at all, or just ghosts of metal and wool. Sister Owain’s robes were the traditional dark blue of the Winnowry Sisters, and a heavy wooden cudgel hung at her belt, capped with dull metal.
‘What?’
Sister Owain tipped her head, and all at once it was quite possible to see her eyes behind the metal mask. Not a ghost after all. ‘It’s time for your purging, Fell-Noon, as well you know. I hope you are not going to give us any trouble this morning, or perhaps you would like south block to have an early shower too?’
When Noon didn’t reply, Sister Owain bent and pushed a tray through the slot near the bottom of the bars.
‘Prepare yourself, witch.’
On the tray was a shallow bowl filled with pale grey ash, and next to it a length of sea-green silk and a pair of long grey gloves. Noon curled her hands into fists as her face flushed hot. Always this: a mixture of anticipation, and shame. Sister Owain tapped on the bars.
‘Hurry up, witch. We do not delay purging, you know that.’
Noon knelt and picked up the silk scarf. She ran it through her fingers briefly, as she always did – there was nothing else this soft within the Winnowry – and then swept back her short black hair and covered it over with the scarf, winding it around her bare neck and tying a simple knot at the back. Then she pushed her hands into the powdery ash, getting a good coating on her palms and fingers; it looked almost white against her olive skin. Carefully, so that she wouldn’t breathe it in and make herself cough, she patted the ash onto her face. Three times she repeated the process, until the fine grey powder covered her cheeks, her nose and lips. There was even a fine layer on her eyelids, and the mark of the Winnowry that was seared onto her forehead – the single bat’s wing – was almost obliterated.
‘Another layer, if you please, Fell-Noon. I am not in the mood for half-measures this morning.’
‘Why? What’s the point? What’s it for?’
Sister Owain shook her head slightly. It was clear she knew Noon was being deliberately difficult, but even so, she couldn’t quite resist trotting out the standard Winnowry tract.
‘Penance, witch. We daub you with ashes to mark you for what you are, we cover your skin so that you should not come into contact with the world.’
Noon sighed, and patted more of the ash onto her face, feeling clumps of it falling away where it was already too thick. The smell of it in her nostrils was dry and strange, tickling at her throat. Not waiting to see if that was good enough for Sister Owain, she slipped on the long grey gloves.
‘That’s good,’ said Sister Owain. ‘Very good. Now, when I open your door, step outside. I know you’re not foolish enough to try to ruin my day, Fell-Noon.’