Dearest Sister,
I would be lying if I didn’t allow how jealous I was at all your new finery. The entire abbey stitched and sewed, altering the gowns to Sister Beatriz’s exacting measurements so they would fit you and do the convent proud. Although how they will reflect on the convent when your association with us is secret, I know not, and Sister Beatriz only told me to stitch faster when I pointed that out.
I am near to bursting with curiosity to hear how court is, how many you’ve killed since you left, and all the other details. I think Reverend Mother suspects I am sore put out that you have been given this task and not me. She has assigned me to work closely with Sister Arnette so that I will not feel left out, but of course, it does no good.
Write me when you can so I can see with my own eyes how you fare, else I shall surely die of boredom. Still no word from Sybella.
Your sister in Mortain,
Annith
When I finish the letter I ache with homesickness, not for the convent but for Annith and her sharp, clever mind. I would dearly love to put all that I have learned before her and see what she makes of it. I briefly consider writing it all down, then realize Vanth could not possibly carry all the pages it would require.
Instead, I hurry to the cage and see that the crow has a small packet affixed to his left leg. eyeing him warily, I reach into the cage, crooning in a soothing voice — only to wrench my hand back as he snaps at it with his sharp beak.
“Stop that,” I scold. “’Tis my key, not yours.” I try again, this time moving more quickly, and pluck the packet from his ankle. His vicious beak just misses my fingers and jabs futilely against the cage. “Traitor,” I chide.
I unwrap the packet, and a small gold key on a chain falls into the palm of my hand. Grasping it, I hurry over to the trunklet and fit the key into the lock. I lift the lid and bite back a laugh of pure pleasure. The trunk contains daggers of all sizes: a large anlace to wear against my back, a small easily hidden dirk, a long thin stiletto to slip into the top of my stocking, a needle-like stylet for the base of the skull, and a tangle of leather sheaths so that I may keep them all close at hand. There is a plain garrote as well as one hidden in a fancy bracelet. Sister Arnette has also included a small crossbow, no bigger than the palm of my hand. The quarrels are honed to a fine point.
The sharp metallic tang of my weapons is more welcome than the finest perfume.
But the trunk is deep and holds a second compartment. when I remove the top tray, there is the faint tinkle of glass vials. I pick up a small bottle, its contents the color of the cold winter sky. Mortain’s caress, a most pleasant, merciful poison that fills its victims with a sense of euphoria and well-being. I set that bottle on the floor and reach back into the trunklet. There is the deep amber of heretic’s lament, a quick-acting poison for those wishing to avoid the excruciating pain of being burned at the stake. A short, squat bottle of thick glass holds the rust-colored scourge, a poison designed with Mortain’s harshest judgment in mind: it eats away at the victim’s insides and is rumored to be as painful as martyr’s embrace. I recognize the blood red of dark tears, which causes the lungs of the victim to fill with fluid until he drowns, and the muddy green of St. Brigantia’s bane, so named because Brigantia is the goddess of wisdom and this poison does not kill its victims but instead eats all the knowledge from their brains, leaving them babbling simpletons with no memory of who they are.
In the very bottom of the trunk sit three carefully wrapped cream-colored candles, no doubt scented with night whisper. Beside those is a small box filled with white pearls, each one containing enough vengeance to fell a grown man. Last, there is a small earthenware jar of honey-colored paste nestled in the corner: St. Arduinna’s snare, a poison that is used for rubbing on surfaces so it can be absorbed through the skin.
I am now as well stocked as the convent itself. Much relieved, I quickly repack the trunklet and lock it. I slip the thin gold chain around my neck and tuck the key into my bodice, out of sight.
If I hurry, I will be able to write the abbess a letter and dispatch Vanth before I must dress for the evening.
Dear Reverend Mother,
It is exactly as you and Chancellor Crunard said: There is much afoot here at court, and very little of it good. Someone has gone over the duchess’s head and called a meeting of the Estates. The duchess has no choice but to face her barons under the watchful eye of the French ambassador. Anything they decide will be immediately reported back to the French regent.