bucket,
containing the jumble of raw human remains, on the lowest of the stairs leading
to the conservatory door. A Cypriest on the parapet above turned away from his
watch over the city and stared at her. She thought it was Father Kassic, but
she couldn’t be sure. She waved and gave him her best effort at a smile, though
it felt cold and fraudulent, even to her. The Cypriest’s expression was no more
inviting. He turned away again, his figure a silhouette in the oncoming dawn.
She looked at the blue bucket. You’ll be fed well today, Father .
Metal pail in hand, she followed one of the winding paths to
where a high retaining wall drenched a recessed section of courtyard in shade.
She scattered a handful of feed over the close-set stones, then clucked her
tongue to summon the denizens of this hallowed place.
They were timid at first, craning their necks from behind
cracked pots and overturned barrels. By the time she was peppering the ground
with a second handful, the scene was descending into mayhem. From the woodwork
they sprang to the feast, pink flesh bobbing at their jowls. There were flashes
of white and deep brown-red and medium oak-brown, attacking the mixture of dry
grits and squirming grubs, neither of which fought back.
Laying down a few more handfuls, Sister Bastille crept to the
opposite end of the little recessed area and found the nesting boxes, sheltered
by miniature roofs and enveloped in perpetual shade. With her charges otherwise
occupied, she began to fill the bottom of the pail with eggs. Her mouth watered
to think of how fresh and savory they would taste after just a little time in
the kitchens. Most of the eggs were brown, but here and there an egg with a
greenish or bluish shell would make an appearance from one of the less common
breeds.
“Kind Sister!” came a sudden cry from behind her.
Bastille whirled, the hens scattered and fluttering in the
wake of the prosaic-clad acolyte dashing toward her. “What in Infernal’s name…”
she said, as startled as the hens were. She checked the pail to make sure none
of the eggs had cracked in her moment of surprise.
“Kind Sister, kind Sister.” Adeleine was panting, flushed
pink in the face and dripping with sweat. The woman’s strawberry hair was
plastered to her forehead, her eyes protuberant and fearful.
“Yes, what is it?” Bastille said, less a question than a demand.
“Sister Jeanette has fallen ill.”
“I shall come at once,” Bastille said.
The acolyte raised a hand. “No, no you mustn’t. You mustn’t
go near her. There is something else that… that I am afraid to tell you.”
“You silly, impudent girl. If something’s happened, you must
tell me what it is.”
“I… I came to you because… because I didn’t know where else
to go. I’m afraid for her, and for myself, if it is true.”
“Out with it, now. I won’t stand for any more of this
senseless babbling.”
“Very well,” Adeleine said with a shallow, trembling breath.
“Sister Jeanette is… with child.”
“How far on is she?”
“Just at the start, if I’m guessing right. You saw her
yesterday, before she left the room sick. We were all in our underclothes.
There’s barely a bump on her. She must be a couple of months along at best.”
Bastille let a moment pass in silence as she puzzled through
the implications of this. Beginning from the present date, she thought back to
how long it had been since the Order accepted Sister Jeanette as an acolyte.
The results only baffled her further. Jeanette had been inside the basilica
compound for close to six months now.
“Who knows about this?” Bastille’s voice was an abrasive
whisper.
“Just me, I think… as far as I know… and now, you,” Adeleine
said. “And Sister Jeanette, of course,” she added with a smile.
Bastille gave her an exasperated look. There was one element
of this situation that was pivotal, no matter the rest. She took the young
woman’s hand in both of her own,
containing the jumble of raw human remains, on the lowest of the stairs leading
to the conservatory door. A Cypriest on the parapet above turned away from his
watch over the city and stared at her. She thought it was Father Kassic, but
she couldn’t be sure. She waved and gave him her best effort at a smile, though
it felt cold and fraudulent, even to her. The Cypriest’s expression was no more
inviting. He turned away again, his figure a silhouette in the oncoming dawn.
She looked at the blue bucket. You’ll be fed well today, Father .
Metal pail in hand, she followed one of the winding paths to
where a high retaining wall drenched a recessed section of courtyard in shade.
She scattered a handful of feed over the close-set stones, then clucked her
tongue to summon the denizens of this hallowed place.
They were timid at first, craning their necks from behind
cracked pots and overturned barrels. By the time she was peppering the ground
with a second handful, the scene was descending into mayhem. From the woodwork
they sprang to the feast, pink flesh bobbing at their jowls. There were flashes
of white and deep brown-red and medium oak-brown, attacking the mixture of dry
grits and squirming grubs, neither of which fought back.
Laying down a few more handfuls, Sister Bastille crept to the
opposite end of the little recessed area and found the nesting boxes, sheltered
by miniature roofs and enveloped in perpetual shade. With her charges otherwise
occupied, she began to fill the bottom of the pail with eggs. Her mouth watered
to think of how fresh and savory they would taste after just a little time in
the kitchens. Most of the eggs were brown, but here and there an egg with a
greenish or bluish shell would make an appearance from one of the less common
breeds.
“Kind Sister!” came a sudden cry from behind her.
Bastille whirled, the hens scattered and fluttering in the
wake of the prosaic-clad acolyte dashing toward her. “What in Infernal’s name…”
she said, as startled as the hens were. She checked the pail to make sure none
of the eggs had cracked in her moment of surprise.
“Kind Sister, kind Sister.” Adeleine was panting, flushed
pink in the face and dripping with sweat. The woman’s strawberry hair was
plastered to her forehead, her eyes protuberant and fearful.
“Yes, what is it?” Bastille said, less a question than a demand.
“Sister Jeanette has fallen ill.”
“I shall come at once,” Bastille said.
The acolyte raised a hand. “No, no you mustn’t. You mustn’t
go near her. There is something else that… that I am afraid to tell you.”
“You silly, impudent girl. If something’s happened, you must
tell me what it is.”
“I… I came to you because… because I didn’t know where else
to go. I’m afraid for her, and for myself, if it is true.”
“Out with it, now. I won’t stand for any more of this
senseless babbling.”
“Very well,” Adeleine said with a shallow, trembling breath.
“Sister Jeanette is… with child.”
“How far on is she?”
“Just at the start, if I’m guessing right. You saw her
yesterday, before she left the room sick. We were all in our underclothes.
There’s barely a bump on her. She must be a couple of months along at best.”
Bastille let a moment pass in silence as she puzzled through
the implications of this. Beginning from the present date, she thought back to
how long it had been since the Order accepted Sister Jeanette as an acolyte.
The results only baffled her further. Jeanette had been inside the basilica
compound for close to six months now.
“Who knows about this?” Bastille’s voice was an abrasive
whisper.
“Just me, I think… as far as I know… and now, you,” Adeleine
said. “And Sister Jeanette, of course,” she added with a smile.
Bastille gave her an exasperated look. There was one element
of this situation that was pivotal, no matter the rest. She took the young
woman’s hand in both of her own,
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