The Girl Who Drank the Moon(21)

And oh, my stars, why must this continue? Why is there no one to stop it?

Sister Ignatia smiled. “Liar,” she said, and Antain hung his head. She gave his knee an affectionate squeeze. “Don’t be ashamed, poor thing,” she soothed. “You’re not the only one who wishes to gawk and gape at our resident caged animal. I am considering charging admission.”

“Oh,” Antain protested. “No, I—”

She waved him off. “No need. I completely understand. She is a rare bird. And a bit of a puzzle. A fountain of sorrow.” She gave a bit of a sigh, and the corners of her lips quivered, like the very tip of a snake’s tongue. Antain wrinkled his brow.

“Can she be cured?” he asked.

Sister Ignatia laughed. “Oh, sweet Antain! There is no cure for sorrow.” Her lips unfurled into a wide smile, as though this was most excellent news.

“Surely, though,” Antain persisted. “It can’t last forever. So many of our people have lost their children. And not everyone’s sorrow is like this.”

She pressed her lips together. “No. No, it is not. Her sorrow is amplified by madness. Or her madness stems from her sorrow. Or perhaps it is something else entirely. This makes her an interesting study. I do appreciate her presence in our dear Tower. We are making good use of the knowledge we are gaining from the observation of her mind. Knowledge, after all, is a precious commodity.” Antain noticed that the Head Sister’s cheeks were a bit rosier than they had been the last time he was in the Tower. “But honestly, dear boy, while this old lady appreciates the attention of such a handsome young man, you don’t need to stand on ceremony with me. You’re to be a full member of the Council one day, dear. You need only ask the boy at the door and he has to show you to any prisoner you wish to see. That’s the law.” There was ice in her eyes. But only for a moment. She gave Antain a warm smile. “Come, my little Elderling.”

She stood and walked to the door without making a sound. Antain followed her, his boots clomping heavily on the floorboards.

Though the prison cells were only one floor above them, it took four staircases to get there. Antain peeked hopefully from room to room, on the off chance that he might catch sight of Ethyne, the girl from school. He saw many members of the novitiate, but he didn’t see her. He tried not to feel disappointed.

The stairs swung left and right and pulled down into a tight spiral into the edge of the central room of the prison floor. The central room was a circular, windowless space, with three Sisters sitting in chairs at the very middle with their backs facing one another in a tight triangle, each with a crossbow resting across her lap.

Sister Ignatia gave an imperious glance at the nearest Sister. She flicked her chin toward one of the doors.

“Let him in to see number five. He’ll knock when he’s ready to leave. Mind you don’t accidentally shoot him.”

And then with a smile, she returned her gaze to Antain and embraced him.

“Well, I’m off,” she said brightly, and she went back up the spiral stair as the closest Sister rose and unlocked the door marked “5.”

She met Antain’s eyes and she shrugged.

“She won’t do much for you. We had to give her special potions to keep her calm. And we had to cut off her pretty hair, because she kept trying to pull it out.” She looked him up and down. “You haven’t got any paper on you, have you?”

Antain wrinkled his brow. “Paper? No. Why?”

The Sister pressed her lips into a thin line. “She’s not permitted to have paper,” she said.

“Why not?”

The Sister’s face became a blank. As expressionless as a hand in a glove. “You’ll see,” she said.

And she opened the door.

The cell was a riot of paper. The prisoner had folded and torn and twisted and fringed paper into thousands and thousands of paper birds, of all shapes and sizes. There were paper swans in the corner, paper herons on the chair, and tiny paper hummingbirds suspended from the ceiling. Paper ducks; paper robins; paper swallows; paper doves.

Antain’s first instinct was to be scandalized. Paper was expensive. Enormously expensive. There were paper makers in the town who made fine sheaves of writing stock from a combination of wood pulp and cattails and wild flax and Zirin flowers, but most of that was sold to the traders, who took it to the other side of the forest. Whenever anyone in the Protectorate wrote anything down, it was only after much thought and consideration and planning.

And here was this lunatic. Wasting it. Antain could hardly contain his shock.

And yet.

The birds were incredibly intricate and detailed. They crowded the floor; they heaped on the bed; they peeked out of the two small drawers of the nightstand. And they were, he couldn’t deny it, beautiful. They were so beautiful. Antain pressed his hand on his heart.

“Oh, my,” he whispered.

The prisoner lay on the bed, fast asleep, but she stirred at the sound of his voice. Very slowly, she stretched. Very slowly, she pulled her elbows under her body and inched her way to a small incline.

Antain hardly recognized her. That beautiful black hair was gone, shaved to the skin, and so were the fire in her eyes and the flush of her cheeks. Her lips were flat and drooping, as though they were too heavy to hold up, and her cheeks were sallow and dull. Even the crescent moon birthmark on her forehead was a shadow of its former self—like a smudge of ashes on her brow. Her small, clever hands were covered with tiny cuts—Paper, probably, Antain thought—and dark smudges of ink stained each fingertip.