I carefully crack open the door. The room is as dark as the Underworld itself, with naught but a faint red glow here and there from the charcoal in the braziers. The old seeress’s breathing is deep and even, so I slip inside and quietly shut the door behind me. I pause a moment to let my eyes adjust.

Once I have gotten my bearings, I slowly move across the room, watching the floor carefully to be certain I do not trip or stumble or make any unexpected noise. It takes me but twelve silent steps to reach the shelf. I glance once more at the sleeping seeress, listening to the deep, sonorous rumble of her breathing, then turn and reach for the vial.

As my hand closes around the dark crystal, I am surprised once again at how heavy it is. I know little of the Tears of Mortain, for it is one of those mysteries that only true initiates are supposed to be privy to, but I have heard stories. Whispered tales and hints of rumors. The Tears are said to enhance our ability to see and experience life in order to better imitate how Mortain is able to see and experience life. They are supposed to correct for our human inadequacies, whether by making it easier to sense life behind closed doors or by allowing us to better see His marques. I lift the stopper to reveal the long, crystal wand that ends in a sharp point. A single drop of the Tears hovers on the tip. I take a deep breath and slowly lift the stopper to my face. I force my eye open, but before I can place the drop of Tears in it, Sister Vereda snorts in her sleep. The sound startles me so that my hand holding the stopper jerks and the drop splashes onto the bodice of my gown. I freeze, wondering if the old woman will wake. There is a long moment of silence, then her loud breathing resumes.

As I replace the stopper in the crystal bottle, I decide to take the Tears with me. Not only so that I may use them when needed, but also so that I can ensure that the nuns will not send anyone else out on assignment while I am gone. Surely they would not send one of the novitiates without the Tears of Mortain to aid her.

Once the Tears are secured in my pack, I take a deep breath, turn, and begin carefully making my way out of Sister Vereda’s chambers. I shift my h*ps to avoid the corner of one table, then shift again to avoid the stand that holds a charcoal brazier. By the time I reach the door, I am damp with sweat and coiled tighter than one of Sister Thomine’s whips. Out in the hallway, I lean against the wall and calm my thudding heart. It is not Sister Vereda’s chambers that cause it to race, but the enormity of what I am about to do. But what other choice do I have?

The day I have dreamed of for as long as I can remember has finally come—I am leaving the convent. Not in a triumphant march to do Mortain’s bidding, as I have always imagined, but on a determined search for answers. I will find the abbess in Guérande and make her tell me precisely why she insists I be seeress despite the many others who could fulfill those same duties. If it is not something personal, then it must be a flaw or lack of mine, and I will force her to tell me what it is, not hide behind half-truths and lies. Because once I know what that flaw is, I can fix it. I can change that part of myself, as I have so many times before.

Chapter Thirteen

IT IS A TERRIFYING THING to cross the sea at night, but I tell myself it is exhilarating. There is nothing but the glimmer of moonlight to steer by, and the sharp salt-scented breeze from the sea whistles past my ears, bringing a faint spray to my face. And while my arms are strong from long hours spent at weapons training, they are not accustomed to rowing and so begin to ache after the second hour. Or what I judge to be the second hour, for it is hard to tell. Exhilarating, I remind myself. This is what freedom feels like, and it is exhilarating.

After a long while, I begin to worry that I have missed the mainland altogether and am merrily rowing out to the open sea. I wipe the sweat and salt spray from my eyes and peer into the darkness in front of me. There are no lights to guide me toward shore, no cooking fires or candles or torches. I stop rowing and tilt my head to the side. It is hard to hear over the thudding of my own heart and my ragged breathing, but I think I detect a faint sound of waves breaking. And where waves are breaking, there will be land. Hopefully, it will be the smooth beach I am aiming for and not the jagged rocks and shoals of the southernmost coastline. With a quick prayer to Mortain, I adjust my heading to the north and resume rowing.

Soon, the sound of the waves becomes different, more of a gentle lapping with a hollow ring to it—the sound of water against the wooden hull of a boat. A labored sigh of relief escapes me as I muster one more burst of energy.

When I finally feel the slight crunch of rocks under the hull, I fling the detested oars from me, only too happy to be done with them. If not for my leather gloves, my palms would be blistered and shredded from the bedamned things.

With the boat firmly on the beach, I stand on the seat and leap as far clear of the shallows as I can, then turn back and grab the prow of the boat to pull it up farther onto the beach so the tide will not carry it away. I cannot help but note that my arms are as weak and feeble as newborn lambs.

I could head for the stable, saddle one of the horses myself, and simply ride off, but I fear it would raise doubts as to the legitimacy of my summons to the abbess’s side. It seems more convincing to wake the night rower and demand assistance, just as if I were on a genuine convent assignment. After all, I have saved him the hard work of rowing. The least he can do is saddle my horse. Besides, I don’t wish to be mistaken for a horse thief.

I approach the small cottage and rap sharply at the door. It does not take long for the old caretaker to open it—he is accustomed to being awakened in the middle of the night to row boats across the sea. “Eh?” He peers up at me.

“I need you to saddle a horse.”

He stares at me a long moment, and I force myself not to fidget. “Haven’t seen you out alone before, have I?” he finally says.

Annoyed that he would notice such a thing, I merely arch a brow at him. “Is it part of your duties to question my comings and goings?” The truth is, I would not put it past the abbess to arrange such a thing.

“Eh, don’t bite my head off, missy. Let me get my coat and a lantern.” He disappears back into his cottage, and I turn and look out at the sea, relieved that there is no sign of pursuit, although surely the earliest they would notice my absence would be after the second morning bell.

The old man comes to the door wrapped up in his cloak and carrying a lantern to light the way to the stable. Not sure what I am supposed to do, I follow him. At least until he turns and arches one of his own thick, white eyebrows at me. Pretending I do not see it, I swing my travel bag off my shoulder, set it on the ground, and begin rummaging through it, looking for one of my small leather pouches.

When I find it, I draw out a pinch of salt to leave as an offering to Saint Cissonius. He is the patron saint of both travelers and crossroads, and I feel most assuredly as if I am staring at some sort of unseeable crossroad, unable to discern the true path ahead of me. As I sprinkle the salt onto the earth beneath my feet, I whisper a brief prayer and ask Mortain Himself to guide me on this journey.

The old man returns just then. When I see that he is leading my favorite horse, Fortuna, my impatience with him leaks away, and I smile. “She is my favorite.” I run my hand down her silky black mane.

He shoots me a sideways glance. “Why d’you think I brought her?”

It occurs to me that all of us at the convent should pay closer attention to this man, who sees far more than he lets on. “And I thank you for it.”

He grunts, then helps me secure my bag to the saddle before cupping his hands and holding them out for me. I accept the boost and, stepping lightly, throw my leg over Fortuna’s back, then settle into the saddle and draw up the reins.

My bow is within easy reach and my quiver of arrows is at my back. I do not expect trouble, but neither am I afraid of it. In truth, I am eager for whatever the road may hold, knowing I am more than able to meet the challenge.

Once I am on a horse that can outrun pursuit, the tension across my shoulders eases and I realize I did not believe that I would be able to escape undetected. But I am not a child any longer, and am more than able to pit my wits against any of the older nuns’. Nor are they still able to easily frighten me with their tales of the dreaded hellequin pursuing any who dare to defy Mortain.

The clear sky holds, and the moon is just past its fullness, providing plenty of light for me to see by. Fortuna is well rested and fresh, prancing in the crisply cold night air, her breath coming out in small white clouds.

As we set out, I quickly become aware of how different the world is at night. For one thing, there are infinite shades of gray, from palest silver to nearly black. And while I have ventured onto the mainland before, it has always been with others from the convent. I have never been as utterly alone as I am in this moment. There is no one to order me about or tell me what to think or how to behave. There is no one to say I must turn this way or that. No one to cast me disappointed looks when I fail to do as they wish. Nor do I have to bear the weight of those unspoken wishes.

There is a sensation—a lightness—in my chest, something I have never felt before, and I cannot decide if it is disagreeable or pleasant. Part of me wishes to poke at it, examine and sift through its meaning. Instead, I urge Fortuna to a canter and look to my future rather than my past.

The nearest village is only three leagues from the coast, but traveling in the dark it takes me the rest of the night to reach it. Some jaunty c**k crows to greet the morning, and smoke from a dozen chimneys rises up, pale smudges against the dawn. Even though my bones ache with fatigue and my eyes are gritty with the need for sleep, I decide to keep riding. Unreasonable as it is, my fear of being followed is so great that I could not sleep, or even rest, if I allowed myself to stop.

I see almost no one on the road other than a man hauling a wheelbarrow full of firewood. A woman sits with her spindle in a doorway, watching a young child feed the chickens. In the fields to either side of me, tillage has begun. One lucky man has two oxen yoked to his plow, but I pass many more farmers too poor to afford any such beasts. Instead, they simply strap the yokes to their own shoulders. With the recent storms, it is muddy, backbreaking work, and I do not envy them. I think of the widowed farmer the abbess threatened to give me to, and my blood simmers in anger all over again.

My mind keeps going back to the choices before me and how to honor both my own desires and Mortain’s. I have always hoped to live in accordance with His will, but for the first time I begin to fear I will be forced to make a choice between His will and mine. If being seeress is truly His wish and not the abbess’s, if He truly wants from me what I cannot bear to give, then I will have to choose one over the other. The mere thought of that makes my heart feel as if it is being ripped in two.

Besides, it is hard to reconcile that sort of Mortain with the one I have known all my life. The one who comforted me and encouraged me, the one who accepted every gift I offered Him, whether it was the small black moths and beetles I found or my childish attempts to master some new skill in His name. I cannot believe that He would reject the gifts I wish to place in His service and demand of me things that fill me with dread and foreboding.

But if it does turn out to be Mortain’s will, what then?

Will I continue to dedicate my life to Him as I have always imagined—even if that service requires me to spend the rest of my days in a living death?

I do not know the answer to that question, and that frightens me nearly as much as the abbess’s plots.

I make the town of Quimper just as night is falling and am one of the last allowed through the city’s gates before they close. The guard takes one look at the attire that marks me as one of Mortain’s and hastily waves me through. Quimper, while a large town, is close enough to the coast—and the convent—to keep faith with the old ways. Or at the very least to have a healthy respect for them. More importantly, it is easy to lose oneself in a town of this size, and it makes the job of those pursuing me just that much more difficult.