A man came today. I don’t know why, but Hilga let him in—and not just beyond the glamour either, but into the Convent.
I caught a glimpse of him and his two companions when they reached the Supplicant’s Sorrow. I had traded cleaning the dolmen for sheep duty today, since out in the meadows, I can pretend I’m far, far away.
The Windswept Plains, perhaps. Or even the savannas of southwest Marstok. Anywhere but here.
I’d followed the sheep down to that grassy patch that overlooks the pond. When I saw that we had visitors, I of course abandoned the sheep entirely and crept down to the glamour’s edge.
The man who led the way—the one who ultimately entered the Convent—was tall, broad of shoulder, fair of hair, and with eyes of stormy blue. At his neck, he wore a gold chain that he fidgeted with constantly.
His companions strode several paces behind. One of the men was just as tall and just as fair, though lean and slouchy. He smiled often and kept muttering things that the final man—a distinctly Marstoki-looking man, who kept his hands defensively high as he walked—chuckled at despite his best efforts not to.
At first, I thought his stance awkward. Then I spotted the triangular Witchmark on the back of his hand.
A Firewitch.
My interest, which had been piqued before, was now tenfold hooked. A hundredfold.
Hilga herself came for the men and bowed to each of them, a sight I’ve never seen. Hilga bowing! Then she led the leader through the glamour and into our home.
So much of the world has forgotten we exist, but some still remember—or still believe enough to go searching.
Like Gran-Mi.
As Sister Rose always says, “History might easily be rewritten, but someone somewhere always remembers what truly happened.”
The glamour keeps accidental visitors from wandering beyond. The magic masks us with images of forest expanse and bare mountainside; those who approach too close will abruptly find themselves lost and disoriented. Without really knowing why, they’ll turn and walk the other way.
These three men knew what to do, though. They followed the proper protocol, going to the Supplicant’s Sorrow and waiting for someone to meet them.
I couldn’t help but think of Ryber in that moment. The only child ever to find her way here on her own. To ask to be let in. No wonder the Sisters all thought she would be powerful one day.
I still think she might be too, even if she claims she has given up hope.
I wanted so badly to follow Hilga as she guided the man onto the Convent grounds, but even I won’t break a rule where Hilga might see.
As soon as Trina came to relieve me of shepherding, I pelted straight for our bedroom, where I knew I’d find Ryber huddled over a book. When chores end, that’s always where she goes first.
Except that when I barged through the door, she wasn’t hunched over Tüll’s Compendium or A Guide to the Constellations.
She had a child’s slate on her lap. The kind with the Nine Star Puzzle embedded into the stone.
At the sight of me, she flung the slate under the covers and then, knowing it was too late—I’d already seen—she dug herself under the covers too.
“Any luck?” I asked with forced lightness.
“Of course not,” she snarled, words muffled by the blanket.
I scrabbled onto the bed and burrowed under with her. It smelled like chalk, and a streak was smeared across her cheek. “I can tell you the answer, Rybie-Ry.”
“No,” she spat and, chalk still in hand, she clapped her hands to her ears. “I will figure this blighter out by myself, even if it takes me an entire lifetime.” Then, as she always declares and has for the past seven years: “Sister Hilga says that it takes some Sisters their whole lives to find the answer.”
“Can I at least give you a hint—”
“NO.”
With a groan, I kicked the covers off. Ryber gets worse and worse these days about following the Rules, about having to do everything perfectly ALL. THE. TIME.
Yes, I know she thinks that acting like the perfect Serving Sister will draw the spirit swifts from the scrying pool. That it will get her a Summoning from Sirmaya and she will finally earn that powerful Sight like the Sisters always promised her. But I think she’s wrong.
It won’t make a lick of difference. Sister Gaellan never remembered the Rules, so she constantly broke them by accident. And Sister Lachmi prided herself on breaking as many as she could. Yet they’re both clear-eyed now, and Ry still isn’t.
My poor Threadsister.
I just want her to be happy. To be free.
But she never will be if she won’t think beyond like I keep telling her.
“Hey,” I murmured, poking her in the shoulder. “Why do birds fly south in the winter?” I waited a beat before declaring, “Because it’s too far to walk!”
She glared at me.
I sighed. “Laugh, Ry. It’s funny, don’t you think?”
Then, because I was truly desperate to see her smile, I dragged out the only thing I knew she couldn’t refuse: “How about we go swimming under the Convent?”
She shot upright, the slate and puzzle completely forgotten. “Yes, yes, yes!” In a flurry of blankets, she tumbled out of bed and aimed for the door. “Last one there is an earwig!”
By the Twelve, she can move when she wants to.
Ugh, I thought, as I hurried after her. Why do I do this to myself? Sleeper knows, I hate earwigs—and I hate swimming under the Convent even more.
Goddess, the things I do to make her smile.
Then again, she does the same for me.