The japing girl got a good chorus of laughter for that. Anne marked her, with her long, slender neck and dark eyes. Her hair was hidden by her wimple.
Anne did not, however, reply but set herself grimly and pulled some more. She had to go back and work each trunk onto the flagstones individually, but after that they went a bit smoother. Unfortunately she was wearing out.
At first she didn’t notice the sudden silence that fell across the other girls, and when she did she thought it was because she had stumbled. Then she looked up and saw what had really silenced them.
First she noticed the eyes, fierce and piercing and bright, like the eyes of Saint Fendve, the patroness of war madness, in the painting in her father’s battle chapel. So striking were they that it took moments for her to understand their color— or rather that they had almost none, so black were they.
Her face was harsh and old and very, very dark, the color of cherry wood. Her habit was black, wimpled in storm gray, and the moment Anne laid her gaze on her she was afraid of her, of what damage crouched behind those eyes and the rough seams of that face.
“Who are you,” the old woman said, “and what do you think you’re doing?”
Anne set her jaw. Whoever this was, she was just a woman. She couldn’t be any worse than Mother or Erren.
“I am Anne of the house of Dare, princess of Crotheny. I am told I may have only those things that I can carry to my room, so I am carrying them there. And may I ask your name, Sister?”
A collective gasp went up from the assembled women, and even Casita raised an eyebrow.
The old woman blinked, but her expression did not change. “My name is not spoken, nor is the name of any sister here. But you may call me Sister Secula. I am the mestra of this coven.”
“Very well,” Anne said, trying to remain brave, “where shall I put my things?”
Sister Secula looked at her for another dispassionate moment, then lifted her finger. Anne thought at first she was pointing to the sky.
“The top room on the left,” she said softly. It was then Anne realized she was pointing at the tallest of the towers on the wall.
Midnight found Anne collapsed at the base of the narrow spiral stairs that led to the tower heights. Sister Casita had been replaced by another observer, an older member of the order who identified herself as Salaus. Austra was still there, of course, but otherwise the courtyard was empty.
“Why persist in this, Anne?” Austra whispered. “You would have left all this behind had you succeeded in fleeing. Why do you care so much for it now?”
Anne regarded her friend wearily. “Because that would have been my choice, Austra. All of my other choices have been made for me. To keep my things is the only choice it is still in my power to make.”
“I have been up the stairs. You cannot do it, and they will not let you separate yourself from them. Leave one of the trunks behind.”
“No.”
“Anne …”
“What if I give one to you?” Anne asked Austra.
“I’m not allowed to help you.”
“No. I mean I will give one of the trunks to you, and all of its contents.”
“I see,” Austra said. “And then I would give it back, later.”
“No. It would be yours, Austra. Forever.”
Austra’s hand flew to her mouth. “I’ve never owned anything, Anne. I don’t think I’m allowed to.”
“Absurd,” Anne said. She raised her voice.
“Sister Salaus. I’m giving one of my chests to my friend Austra. Is that permitted?”
“If it is a true gift.”
“It is,” Anne replied. She tapped the smaller of the chests. “Take this one. It has two fine gowns, stockings, a mirror and combs—”
“The mirror set with opal?” Austra gasped.
“Yes, that one.”
“You can’t give me that.”
“I already have. Now. You can choose to carry your things to our rooms, or you can leave them for the Sefry. I’ve made my choice. Now you make yours.”
They crossed the threshold into their room an hour or so before dawn, dragging the trunks behind them. Sister Salaus presented them with a lit taper and a pair of dun habits.
“The morning meal is at seven bells,” she said. “You should not miss it.” She paused, and her frown deepened. “I’ve never quite seen the like of that,” she said. “I do not know if it bodes ill or well for you as a beginning here, but it certainly sets you apart.”
And with that, she left. Anne and Austra looked at each other for a few moments, then both burst out in a fit of laughter.
“It certainly sets you apart,” Austra said, imitating the sis-ter’s thick Vitellian accent.
“There’s something to be said for that, I suppose,” Anne replied. She cast her gaze around the room. “Saint Loy, is this really where we’re to stay?”
The room was a quarter of the tower, about five paces on a side. The roof was mere beams, and above that was the deep darkness of the conical roof. The girls could hear doves cooing, and feathers and bird droppings decorated the floor and the two wooden beds that were the only furnishings. There was a small window.
“It’s hardly better than a dungeon cell,” Austra said.
“Well,” Anne sighed. “It’s a good thing I’m a princess and not a greffess, I suppose.”
“It’s not so bad,” Austra supposed dubiously. “Anyhow, now you’re a princess in a tower, just as in the story of Rafquin.”
“Yes, I’ll begin knitting a ladder from spider silk right away, so when Roderick comes—”
Austra’s face went serious. “Anne!”
“I’m joking, dove,” Anne said. Nevertheless, she went to the window and peered out. “Look,” she said. “The sun is rising.”
The pale horizon became a golden seam and eventually the sun himself peeked up to reveal the leagues of gently rolling pasture, sprinkled with gnarled olive trees and slender cedars. In the middle distance, a gently meandering river clothed itself more verdantly in cypress and willow, and beyond that, the scenery faded into pale green, yellow, and finally sky.
“This place will do,” Anne said softly. “If I can see the horizon, I can bear anything.”
“We’ll test that now,” Austra said, holding one of the habits toward Anne.
“Well, there’s Princess Mule,” the girl with the long neck said as Anne and Austra entered the refectory.
Anne’s ears burned as the girls within earshot laughed, and a chatter went up in Vitellian.
“I seem to have earned a nickname,” she noticed.
The refectory was an airy place, its flat roof supported by slim, open arches on all sides. The tables were long, common, and rustic, and few empty seats greeted them. Anne chose the least populated bench and sat at an end across from a thickset young woman with a large jaw and close-set eyes. As Austra settled beside her, Anne noticed that the other girls had already been served bowls of porridge dressed with some sort of curd or fresh cheese.
The girls at the table glanced at her from the corners of their eyes, but no one spoke until several uncomfortable moments had passed, when the thickset girl, without looking up from her meal, said, speaking Virgenyan, “You have to serve yourself, you know. From the cauldron on the hearth.” She gestured, and Anne saw a cauldron tended by a pair of the dun-dressed girls.
“I’ll fetch ours, Anne,” Austra said quickly.
“They won’t allow that,” the girl said.
“Doesn’t she know anything?” another of the girls wondered aloud.
“You didn’t know when you arrived, Tursas,” the thick girl pointed out. Then, to Anne, she said, “You’d best hurry. Soon they’ll take the food to the goats.”
“What kind of place is this?” Anne whispered. “My father—”
“You’d best forget your station here,” the girl said. “Forget it, and quickly, or Mestra Secula will teach you to regret your stubbornness. You’ve already been foolish enough. Take my advice.”