Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(52)
“Aren’t any free beds in the dorter,” one of them whispers, “and now’s not a good ti—”
“Hsst, Sister Katherine,” a second nun interrupts. Her voice is a thin hiss, and Isbe pictures the pointed face and sharp, pronged tongue of a snake. “It is not for us to say. Sister Agnes will summon Reverend Mother Hildegarde. She will make the decision about what to do with our visitors.”
“Yes, Sister Genevieve,” says a third, quieter than the other two. “Please,” she says to Isbe and William with a rabbitlike sniff, “follow me.”
They follow Sister Agnes through the graveyard, into the cloisters, and then into a building that the sister tells them is the calefactory. “Only warm spot in all of the convent,” she explains, stoking the big fire, whose heat sparks out, penetrating the entire space.
Isbe is grateful for the warmth as she and William sit down on a long, narrow bench beside the roaring flames while Sister Agnes leaves to find the prioress. She knows the calefactory is likely the only room other than the kitchen in which a fire is allowed. The sisters favor a life of deprivation.
As if responding to her thoughts, William mutters: “I’ve never understood the absolutism of religious practices. What sort of higher power would create fire in the first place, only to ask that his worshippers all but forego it?”
Isbe nods. “It sounds exactly like the kind of thing a selfish dictator would do—or one of the fae.”
“It would be both blasphemous and deeply unwise,” says a booming female voice behind them, “to compare our heavenly father to a corrupt faerie.”
“Reverend Mother,” William says, standing quickly.
Isbe follows suit. “We only meant that—”
“I don’t care what you meant, daughter. If history teaches us anything,” Mother Hildegarde says, “it’s that the intentions behind our statements matter far less than the way they’re interpreted.” Her presence is commanding; her voice fills the room, as pervasive as the heat of the flames. “Men have warred and died for centuries over the interpretation of a few words.”
“But of course,” William says with immaculate manners.
“In answer to your question,” the prioress continues, “I’d love to heat the dorter and refectory, but we can only afford the maintenance of a single fire. My women are too busy for chopping firewood.” Pride reverberates from her voice like the echo of an empty wine barrel. A woman nearly as wide as she is tall, Isbe guesses.
“Perhaps we may be of service to you, in exchange for shelter and protection from the elements,” the prince says. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”
“Here,” the prioress says, handing them each a bucket. “You may as well make yourselves useful while we talk. The water must be boiled and prepared for the laundry.”
Isbe can almost feel William tense in response to the demeaning task. Then again, the reverend mother doesn’t know he’s a prince. They take the buckets and place them on a rack over the flames. Sister Agnes returns with a cart full of dirty linens, and then the prioress dismisses her so that they are once again alone in the calefactory.
While William and Isbe awkwardly attempt to wash the clothes, the prioress questions them about where they’ve come from and where they’re going.
“Reverend Mother,” Isbe says, “we were driven from our village by supporters of Malfleur. We are traveling north to see my sister.” That part, at least, is true.
“Your sister?”
“She’s . . . she’s at the Delucian palace.” Again, it’s the truth, even if Isbe is gambling on the fact that the prioress will interpret her words to mean that her sister is employed by the palace, not its royal heir.
“You’re planning to head straight toward the sleeping sickness.”
“We don’t have any other options,” William replies.
“So will you house us tonight?” Isbe asks, feeling anxious as she wrings out a cloth. She wishes she could see the reverend mother’s face.
The prioress is quiet for a moment. Finally she answers. “Yes, but you must do me a favor.”
“Anything,” William quickly says. “We are happy to perform any other chores you may wish.”
“You must bring a message to the palace for me. The council has failed on a promise.”
“I’m sorry?” Isbe asks, confused.
“Sixteen years ago, when I was still chief minister to King Henri, he and I came to an agreement.”
Isbe stands there in astonished silence, a drenched sheet heavy and dripping from her raw hands. The prioress was once on the king’s council, and during Isbe’s lifetime? How did she not know this?
“Perhaps hard to believe now,” the prioress says, obviously in answer to Isbe’s stunned expression. “But at one time his highness had many female advisers.”
Her father had many female advisers? This is news to Isbe. She knows only that he had many mistresses. But quite a bit changed after her father married Queen Amélie and Aurora was born.
The prioress continues speaking. “I was to accept his bastard daughter upon the eve of the wedding of Princess Aurora, in exchange for a healthy sum to fund my orphanage. It was a fair enough arrangement, but years have gone by, the princess has succumbed to disease, the young woman I was expecting never arrived, nor did the money. Now our granary is empty, and we are up to twenty-four orphan girls here at the convent, all of them lacking proper winter clothing, food, and supplies. One of the girls, Josette, only six years old, is suffering from pneumonia. I fear she won’t live to see spring. Still, my requests have fallen on deaf—or should I say sleeping—ears. I ask only for what was promised me.”