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The wool factor untwisted the skein and ran the yarn through his smooth, slim fingers. “It’s good,” he said slowly. “But there’s a lot now coming down the Trahern that’s just as good.” He sat back in his creaking wooden chair and gave her an avuncular grin. “Now, I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the contract, but we have this one clause that—”
“I’m familiar with the contract,” said Morwen firmly. She had spent the journey from Keneburg to Severn studying it, and she could probably have recited it from memory now. “I assume you’re referring to clause eight, which says the abbey has to match the price of another seller.” He started to speak, but she held up her hand. “The operative part of that clause, Mr. Symonds, is that it must be a seller of wool that is of equal or better quality.” She looked around. “By all means, if you have a sample of this wool that you think you can buy more cheaply than ours, then produce it. We can go to the guildhall and let them judge.”
She had called his bluff, and he knew it. He gave in, but in the most obnoxious possible way, acting as if he was doing the abbey a great favor out of the kindness of his heart, because of all the years he’d done business with them and his desire to support a good cause.
“He certainly did seem to argue a great deal,” said Lillian, when they had left the factor’s office. “If he’s always like that, it’s no wonder Mrs. Gillerman didn’t want to deal with him this year.”
“I don’t blame her,” said Morwen.
Mrs. Gillerman was a lay sister and the cellarer of the abbey. She normally handled business in the outside world, but this summer, since the civil war had begun to heat up again, she had said she was too frightened to go into “enemy territory.” So the abbess had been obliged to find someone else to handle things. Morwen had a sneaking suspicion that this was the real reason why she had been given permission to attend Lauren’s wedding.
“One more thing,” the abbess had said, as Morwen was at the door. “While you’re out there in the world, I’ve got a couple little errands for you to run.”
That was why Morwen was here in Severn on a sweltering August afternoon, suffering in the smells of the fetid canals and wishing for the cool shade of the convent cloister. It was a little less clear why Sister Lillian was there. She had only taken her final vows a few weeks earlier. Normally, the rule was that when one of the nuns had work outside the abbey grounds for more than a day, she had to travel with an older, wiser sister.
It suddenly occurred to Morwen that after nine years at the abbey, she was now the older, wiser one. She found this flattering, but also a little worrisome.
Four days after Lauren’s wedding, Lillian was still talking about the ceremony. She had talked about it on the boat ride down from Keneburg. She had talked about it while they sat at an army camp and waited for a very suspicious old baron to agree to let them into Severn. And now, once she had exhausted the topic of wool factors, she went right back to talking about the wedding again, while she and Morwen took a low, black boat down the thick, brown canal toward the cathedral.
Morwen let her blather on. Earstien willing, she would have it out of her system by the time they got back to the abbey. Otherwise, Sister Dervila, the circuitor, would probably make Lillian clean the latrines for a week to remind her to focus on the simple things in life.
Their boat arrived at the edge of Valamir Square, a wide expanse of yellow flagstones, framed by the palace and the cathedral, and open to the river on a third side. Merchants and burghers rushed purposefully back and forth through the square, and little stalls crowded around the edges, selling everything from flowers to tinware.
Morwen spared a quick look to her left, toward the duke’s palace. It was a rigid block of white marble and red tile, separated from the square by a moat that was fed from the river. She had visited there several times as a girl. But now it served as headquarters of an enemy army and the home of Duke Lukas Ostensen, the captain general of the Gramiren king.
“No, not the enemy,” Morwen reminded herself, with a little prayer for her forgetfulness. “Not my enemy, anyway.” Morwen wasn’t really a Byrne anymore. The Leofine Sisters of the Convent of the Blessed Fenne were her family now.
She looked around and saw that Lillian had stopped to throw crumbs to some fat pigeons near the dock. “Look how tame these birds are!” she said. “Do you think I could get one to perch on my hand?”
“Come along, Sister Lillian,” sighed Morwen. Under her breath, she added, “There’s one in every family.” Then she led the way through the square and up the steps of Valamir Cathedral.
A preost on duty in the portico found the Dean of the Cathedral, who met them among the forest of red granite pillars in the nave. And when he heard they were there on behalf of Abbess Alberta Orrick, he immediately bowed and ran to see if the bishop was available. Lillian wandered up and down the aisle, humming hymns under her breath and admiring the bronzes. Ignoring her, Morwen took a deep breath and tried to decide how to approach the negotiations.
The bishop was technically on the other side of the war; he was in Severn, while her abbey was in Keneshire. And he was known to be a close confidant of Duke Lukas and the Gramiren king. But for all that, he had placed a large order for illuminated hymnals and prayer books with the brothers of the Basington Priory, a small community under the authority of the abbess. The brothers printed the texts on their press, like any sane person would, of course. But the hand-work of the illumination was exhausting and time-consuming, and if the bishop intended to cancel his order for political reasons, then Prior Anthony wanted to know sooner, rather than later.
The dean returned and led Morwen and Lillian across the vast, echoing transepts, past little side chapels aglow with candles and through a quiet green cloister into the bishop’s house.
His grace met them in a downstairs parlor, a plain whitewashed room, simply furnished in sturdy oak furniture. He offered them chilled wine, and Morwen accepted (though not without a quick, admonitory glance at Lillian, to remind the girl that they weren’t to drink too much).
“I suppose this is about the books I’ve ordered from Basington,” he said, smiling. “You needn’t worry. The duke’s chamberlain mentioned it in council, and can you believe what he suggested?”
Morwen shook her head and smiled demurely back. “I can’t imagine, your grace.”
“He wanted me to order them from a press in Hovedby. From those Trofast heretics, if you can believe it! Blast and damn his eyes—pardon me, sister—but the man has no idea what he’s talking about. I’d be surprised if he’s ever read a book in his life.”
When they stood up to take their leave, the bishop remembered they had never given him their names. Morwen introduced Lillian, and then herself.
The corner of his grace’s mouth twisted up. “Ah. Sister Morwen. Of course. I might have known. Morwen Byrne. I remember hearing you’d gone to the abbey there.” He looked out his window. “I suppose you’ve been told you, ah...look like your mother did at your age.”
“It’s been noted, your grace,” said Morwen.
He chuckled to himself. “The abbess is a sharp woman, sending you as her emissary.” He dropped into a low and rather unclerical bow. “Do give your mother my best, next time you might happen to write to her.”
They left the bishop’s house and headed back into the cathedral. “Goodness, it’s fortunate he’s an old friend of your mother’s,” said Lillian.
“Yes, an old...friend,” said Morwen softly, marveling that there were still parts of her mother’s sordid history that she had never heard before.
“Where do we go next?” asked Lillian, when Morwen paused under the giant rose window.
Their next stop was the abbey’s wool factor in Montgomery. To get there, Morwen needed to see about passage up the River Trahern. But Montgomery was days away, and perhaps they should return to the hostel and ready themselves for noontide prayers, instead. They had done a good day’s work, by any measure.
In the corner of her eye, Morwen saw a flash of movement, and she turned to see someone looking at them from behind one of the massive pillars. There were wide blue eyes, and a troubled look on a girlish face.
“Hello?” Morwen called, her voice echoing on and on down the vast nave.
“Hello?” the girl whispered back. She disappeared for a second, then trotted nervously into view. She was tall with flowing blonde hair. Morwen looked the girl up and down for a second. Then she looked back at that face—a simple, pure, novice’s face. Young, but “an early bloomer,” as Morwen’s mother would have said.
This girl’s posture was hunched, almost halfway to prayer. Morwen steadied herself to hear some terrible confession of tawdry lust and tried to think which orphanage was nearest, if the girl should need to give up the child of her tragic love.
To her shock, though, the girl seemed to know her. “Lady Morwen? I...I mean, Sister Morwen? Do you remember me? I was barely five when I met you. But I remember you. I was here praying, over in the Lady Ovida Chapel there,” she pointed, “and I saw you and your friend come through, and I asked the dean, and he told me to wait until you were done with the bishop.” She clasped her hands together so hard her knuckles were white. “I want to ask you about joining a convent. I want to know what I need to do.”
This wasn’t the first time a girl in the outside world had approached Morwen like this. She reminded herself to be kind, compassionate, but also honest about the sort of life the girl would be choosing, if she chose to enter a convent. Religious orders were a self-selecting bunch, and no one would thank you for dragging a girl into the community under false pretenses, only to have her leave two or three years later under a cloud of bitterness.
She smiled. “You seem to know me, but I’m very sorry to say I can’t recall your name. Perhaps you could tell me who you are. And why you wish to choose a religious vocation.”
The girl wrung her hands. “I didn’t suppose you’d remember me.” She looked up, eyes flaring. “I’m Penny Ostensen. And I want to get away from here, and away from my life, forever.”
Penelope Ostensen. Oh, Earstien. The girl was Duke Lukas’s daughter. Morwen only vaguely recalled her as a tiny little sprite, long blonde hair halfway down her back, running and giggling in the Noon Court garden of Dunharvin Castle. “Oh. Penny. Yes.”
The girl smiled. She had a really disarming smile. “Yes. It’s nice you remember. But I’m so glad I saw you. I was nervous about approaching someone, but then you came through, and the dean told me who you were. Don’t blame him. He’s my old algebra tutor. And I thought...I thought...,” the girl wrung her hands, “here’s someone who might understand what I’m going through.”
Morwen turned to Lillian, hovering a few feet away. “Could you go ask the hostel if they could house us one more night?”
The girl smiled brightly. “Oh, Mrs. Belby said they didn’t have many—”
“Yes, could you go check, anyway?”
Lillian seemed confused, but bless her, she obeyed. Morwen turned back to the Duke of Severn’s young daughter and led her gently into one of the small side chapels off the nave. They sat on simple stone benches under a mosaic of Earstien Enlightening the World.
“Now, why do you think you need to join a cloistered order?”
The girl let out a long, shuddering sigh. “I’m at Atherton now, you see. And this past spring, a boy showed up. And he didn’t seem like he was anyone special, you understand. Just the son of some knight.”
Morwen nodded, though in the back of her mind she noted that it was the true mark of a duke’s daughter to think that the son of a knight was “no one special.”
Aloud, she said, “What happened? You don’t need to tell me everything. But what happened to make you think you should join a convent?” She folded her hands on her lap and prepared herself to hear stories of lust and betrayal. Maybe even worse things.
The girl walked over to the chapel altar and stared at the candles for a second. Then, in a low, broken voice, she said, “He said his name was Henry, and there was, oh, something about him.” She shuddered.
A memory stirred in Morwen’s mind. Something her mother had said once about clandestine missions and the Sigor royal family. Wait...what had happened, exactly?
Penny continued. “I fell in love...no, let’s be honest. I lusted after him. And I wanted to run away with him. And I might have, except that he was too good for that.” Tears started rolling down the girl’s cheeks. “He told me who he really was, Sister Morwen. He’s King Edwin Sigor.” She wiped her eyes, but the tears kept coming. “And he’s my family’s enemy, and he lied to me. But yet, I can’t stop feeling...what I feel.”
Ah, yes. It was true. King Edwin—a weedy little boy barely old enough to hold a sword—had gone to Atherton. Morwen’s mother had written her something about that. What a stupid, pointless endeavor that had been. Except it had left this poor girl with a wounded heart.
Morwen took a deep breath. “Do you understand what it means to join a convent?”
The girl lifted her little chin proudly. “I’ve got a sister who’s a nun. Well, a half-sister. Well...to be honest, I don’t know her that well. Her mother was my father’s first wife....” Her head drooped. “My family is complicated, Sister Morwen.”
“Yes. My family is complicated, too.” Morwen shifted, trying to catch the girl’s glance, but Penny looked away again, wiping her eyes.
Morwen went on. “A religious community is wonderful. But it’s not the solution to romantic problems.” Morwen moved closer and took the girl’s hand. “You need to ask yourself if you want to live in a convent. You need to be sure you want to live in a community of women. You need to be sure you’re ready to give up your life of privilege and abide by decisions made by majority rule, and—”
“Oh! Majority rule,” the girl said. “I’ve always been a republican!”
Morwen patted the girl’s arm. “That’s lovely, dear. But you will have to surrender yourself to Earstien’s service. You must give up your ties to your family and friends. You must forget any ambitions you ever had in this life.” She looked hard at the girl. “Is that what you want?”
“I...I don’t know,” Penny whimpered.
That answer improved Morwen’s opinion of her. A girl who could choose the life of a convent without seeing what she had to give up wasn’t thinking clearly.
“That’s alright, dear. Think on it. If you decide you want to try the life, you can always come live with us as a postulate.”
“My governess says I have to go back to Atherton.”
“Sensible woman,” said Morwen. “Go where Earstien’s Light leads you. But if you need to talk about this, send a message to the Convent of the Blessed Fenne at Erstenwell Abbey. Use my name. I promise I’ll write back immediately.”
“No one ever writes back to me immediately. Not even my friends.”
“Then perhaps you have the wrong sort of friends.”