Vespertine (Vespertine #1)(41)

Sarantia had escaped the worst of the Sorrow by collapsing the mountain pass that connected it to Loraille. Once our closest ally, it now traded with us only by sea, wary of risking overland contact. Nevertheless, the shared history between our two nations was such that many people in Loraille had varying degrees of Sarantian heritage, evident in their brown complexions and dark, wavy hair.

Now that I was listening properly, I could identify the lilting cadence of Sarantian without doubt. I could read it passably, since some of our convent’s texts were written in it, but here it was being spoken too quickly for me to follow.

Cautiously, I shaded my face against the sun and opened my eyes.

I was in a square larger than the grounds of my convent. The shops that crowded its sides were each as tall as the chapel—high, narrow buildings of stone and white plaster, whose tiled roofs and chimneys stretched so far toward the sky that following them upward made me list sideways and almost fall before I caught myself against the gutter. I averted my eyes from the spires beyond, which soared even higher, the flocks of ravens flapping around them as tiny as gnats.

The bustling view below wasn’t any safer to behold. I focused on the statue of Saint Agnes that stood at the center of the square, her feet strewn with offerings of wilted flowers. Beggars crouched around its base, holding out bowls for alms. A smaller statue of Saint Agnes stood in the cemetery in Naimes, erected over the grave of a pilgrim. Her familiar marble countenance was the closest thing to a friend that I was likely to see in Bonsaint.

My heartbeat gradually calmed. I was trying to work up the balance to stand, feeling like a sailor recently deposited onshore, when a voice above me said, “Are you all right?”

Unmistakably, the question was addressed to me. I longed for my life in Naimes, where the only new people I’d had to meet had been corpses. I spat to clear my mouth and looked up into a pair of curious brown eyes.

Eyes that I recognized. They belonged to the young soldier who had slapped Priestbane’s flank and told me to run. Now he had his helmet tucked beneath his arm, revealing a handsome, brown-skinned face and a tousled head of black hair.

My stomach plummeted. I braced myself for recognition to dawn, but his expression didn’t change. He didn’t know who I was. He must not have seen my face beneath the hood.

“The captain sent me,” he went on, speaking a little more slowly, as though I might have difficulty following. I gathered that the way I was looking up at him didn’t inspire confidence. “Captain Enguerrand, that is, the captain of the city guard. We’re supposed to bring everyone who’s sick or injured to the convent so Mother Dolours can have a look at them.” He glanced around, then knelt beside me in a confiding pose, his bent arm resting casually on his knee. “The captain said to mention there’s a sanctuary law at the convent, which means that for as long as you stay there, you’re under the abbess’s protection. He thought it might make you feel better.”

I knew about the sanctuary law; it applied to every convent in Loraille. Famously, it had once been used to shelter the scholar-turned-heretic Josephine of Bissalart from burning at the stake. I stared at the soldier, trying to figure out what a normal person would say. In the end I bent over and vomited again, which seemed like a better alternative to speaking.

“Oh, sorry,” he said, and leaned over me to look. “At least nothing’s coming up. You must not have eaten in ages.”

“Stop looking,” I ground out.

He grinned unrepentantly. “Well, you’re definitely sick,” he said, sounding very cheerful about it. He jammed his helmet onto his head and stood at attention. In an authoritative voice, he declared, seemingly for the benefit of passersby, “Madam, I have no choice but to escort you to the convent.”

Going with him didn’t necessarily seem like a good idea. Some of the sisters would be carrying relics. I wished I could consult the revenant, but at the moment it was queasily sloshing around in my head like a stunned fish in a bucket, occasionally rolling belly-upward. I didn’t think it was going to have anything useful to say for a while.

Captain Enguerrand had saved me twice now. Both times, he had been aided by Trouble. Maybe it was foolish to believe that the Lady had sent Trouble to help me, but that was all I had to go on. If this was what Captain Enguerrand thought I should do, then I would do it.

I tottered to my feet, shaking my head in refusal of the soldier’s offered arm. Then I ended up grabbing it anyway when I made the mistake of looking up. The riot of motion and color in the square hadn’t grown any less overwhelming since I had last seen it. I thought I might be sick again.

He gave me a knowing look. “Your first time in a city, isn’t it? I’ve seen that expression before. Where are you from?”

“Montprestre,” I muttered, releasing his arm. I would stand out less if I claimed I was from Roischal, but my story would quickly unravel if anyone began asking questions. Meanwhile, I could probably get away with lying even if I was unlucky enough to meet another person from Montprestre. Mostly, the province was known for having a lot of goats.

“That explains it,” he said sympathetically. “Well, you’ll get used to Bonsaint eventually. In the meantime, keeping your eyes on the ground might help. My name is Charles, by the way.”

“Anne,” I returned, doggedly trailing after him as he set off across the square. If he said anything else, I didn’t hear it. I hadn’t been prepared for how painful it would be to use my old name again. The sound of it echoed cruelly in my head, conjuring up memories of ropes around my wrists, the musty stink of the shed. I should have chosen something else. Francine, or even Marguerite.