At seventeen Seraphina had been crossing the Southlands on bold adventures, stopping a war, summoning giants, modestly demurring when called a Saint, and charming the royal cousins. She couldn’t see how blessed she was. She had no idea what it was like to throw away your future in the blink of an eye, to be relegated either to serving her sister or to serving with a sisterhood.
Seraphina had it easy; she got to live by different rules from everyone else, because she was different. Anytime Tess had protested the unfairness of things—How come Seraphina gets tutors? Why is she allowed to walk to St. Ida’s by herself and I’m not?—Mama had answered, low and fiercely, “Because she’s not like us.”
Envy was such a bitter draft. Tess hated it, but it wasn’t the only part of herself she hated; it could get in line behind everything else. She turned to the table, surreptitiously wiping her eyes, and pretended to take an interest in toast.
Seraphina pushed back her bench and rose like some antique camel, steadying herself against the instrument with one hand. She waddled toward the table. “You may stay here until you’re ready to face the parental wrath,” she said gently, pulling out the chair opposite Tess. “You won’t be in anyone’s way until the baby comes.”
“The baby might come tomorrow,” said Tess, picking the crust off her toast.
Seraphina’s gaze went owlish again, as if she were trying to remember what had happened with Tess’s baby, or trying to gauge the best way to talk about it. Tess smiled mirthlessly. Even Seraphina, for all her brave words, surely had to tiptoe around the subject.
“I never heard what your birthing was like,” said Seraphina, not tiptoeing in the least. “I hope you’ll tell me—”
Tess bristled. “I don’t remember it,” she blurted. Seraphina was right that Tess didn’t want to talk. That didn’t make her right.
Seraphina said, “You don’t have to talk to me. We can avoid each other entirely. Whatever will give you peace and space and time to think. I’ll put off Papa and Anne-Marie; the Little Sisters of St. Loola will wait until you’re ready.”
Tess squirmed. The inevitable was no less inevitable for its postponement. She was getting what she deserved, but she still felt like lashing out: “You know you always hurt Mama’s feelings by calling her Anne-Marie. You’re so quick to underscore that you’re not one of us.”
Tess glanced up from her mangled toast. Seraphina wouldn’t look hurt—she was too much the dragon for that—but she grew preternaturally still.
“You think you’re so superior,” said Tess, hell-bent on being cruel. “Look at you, here in the Queen’s summer palace, ready to bear a bastard’s bastard. You’re no different from me, but nobody would dare to call you whore.”
Seraphina opened her mouth and closed it again. Her brows drew down as if she were considering the merits of Tess’s argument, weighing that final word against her conscience.
“Maybe Blessed Jannoula was right,” said Tess. “Maybe you’re a Saint. I guess we’d better let you do whatever you want, just in case.”
That was below the belt, and Tess knew it. Seraphina’s relationship with St. Jannoula had been painful and complicated, and she hated being called a Saint.
Still she said nothing.
“You know who else was a Saint?” cried Tess, pounding a fist on the table. “St. Vitt. And you know what he said about women like you? ‘In this order shall they enter Heaven: first the virgin, whose purity equals that of the final abode; then the chaste widow, who returns to her pure state after her duty is accomplished; and lastly the faithful wife, who of necessity must stain herself with the repeoplement of the world—’?”
“Repeoplement is quite an astonishing word,” said Seraphina, quirking a tiny smile.
“?‘And who may not enter Heaven?’?” Tess continued bullheadedly. “?‘The faithless wife, the unchaste harlot, the craven, shameless whore. For them are the furnaces prepared, for them the long days contemplating woe.’?”
“Indeed,” said Seraphina, who seemed to relax in the face of Tess spouting scripture. “You do realize that that positively contradicts St. Loola’s credo: ‘Thou mayest reach Heaven only by the mercy of the fallen.’ If you’re to join the Little Sisters, you may require some adjustment to your theology.”
“You always do this!” cried Tess, flailing in frustration. “You divert every argument into some irrelevant side stream. I don’t care if St. Vitt’s diction is archaic, and I don’t care if the Little Sisters of St. Loola contradict him—”
“Yes, yes, you only wanted to call me whore,” said Seraphina, waspishly now. “You’ve done it. Twice. Well done. Are you finished? I have a present for you, but I’m feeling less and less like giving it to you.”
Seraphina strode over to the harpsichord again, pulled a small wooden chest out from under it, and plunked it down at Tess’s feet. “As your fellow ‘fallen’ woman, I know what it’s like to be the one who doesn’t get married,” said Seraphina, hands on her hips. She tapped the trunk with her toe. “I thought Jeanne shouldn’t be the only one getting gifts today.”
Tess glanced warily at her sister’s face, but there was no trace of guile there. There never was, even when Seraphina was lying egregiously.
Tess sighed dramatically, disliking to lean over with her head so achy, but her pregnant sister wasn’t going to bend over the chest again. Tess unfastened the brass clasps and flung open the lid. Inside was a pair of dark leather boots, knee-high and supple, finely tooled, soft as a quigutl hatchling. They smelled delicious.
“I’ve been admiring Countess Marga’s boots since the day I met her,” said Seraphina. “She finally told me who her bootmaker is. Since you and I have about the same-sized feet, I had the boots measured off myself.”
Tess had picked up one of them and cradled it like a child, but this additional narrative from Seraphina soured her on the gift. There was nothing so fine it couldn’t be spoiled by family. Tess let the boot flop out of her hand into the trunk. “Thanks,” she said cuttingly.
Seraphina did not appear cut at all, but one never knew what was going on in the middle of her. She smiled as if choosing to believe Tess liked the gift, and then returned to her instrument.
Tess made a point of leaving the boots behind when she quit the room, but hours later she found they had migrated to her cherub-infested bedroom. “Don’t follow me,” she said, shoving the box under the bed. The boots said nothing in return.
* * *
It is the nature of boots, however, to speak subtly. Tess lay awake that night, thinking about them. They seemed to be a suggestion, tooled in leather.
It’s time to walk away from all this, they said.
“Shut up,” said Tess, and for a while they did.
You dreamed about feet. That means a journey is imminent, said the boots.
“No, I dreamed about cutting off my foot,” said Tess into the darkness. “I’m maimed. Ruined. I can’t go anywhere.”
But that wasn’t quite true. That missed the flavor of the dream entirely. Her dream-foot hadn’t hurt; she’d tied it back onto her leg and walked on it as usual. Hacking it off had been an act of tragic courage, taking all her determination and will.
All her Will. She chuckled, which was absurd because it wasn’t funny.
It’s time to cut ties, said the boots-of-her-heart. That dream was a suggestion, too. It’s going to be hard, but you’re brave enough.
“But do I have the Will?” Tess said, making the joke twice. It was no funnier the second time. William of Affle had brought her nothing but grief; she didn’t want him back. She should not have been laughing—and it’s possible she wasn’t. There’s a line between laughing and crying, and Tess was right on its razor-thin edge, teetering back and forth, expecting any moment to land squarely in one or the other. Tears ran down her face, her diaphragm began to ache, and she couldn’t catch her breath. She buried her face in the pillow and only succeeded in soaking it with tears and giving herself hiccups.
You’ll only avoid the convent by walking away, said the boots sagely.