Page 117 of The Rebel and the Rose
Mother Madeline looked over her shoulder at them, the lantern casting eerie shadows across her creviced face. ‘I tried my best to help her, you know.’ Not that any of them had asked. Or cared, particularly. Perhaps she was speaking simply to fill the yawning quiet or distract herself from the trio of Daggers skulking at her back. ‘When I found Sister Marianne in the rubble after the storm, I dragged her back here myself. I nursed her with my own hands, offered up my own prayers. But as time wore on, it became clear the girl was changed. And not for the better.’ She shuddered at the memory. ‘She was…dangerous. The walls would tremble in her wake. When she had a nightmare, debris would fall from the ceiling. Too many nights, I woke choking under clouds of dust. Even the windows would rattle and break.’
The whites of her eyes shone too brightly in the moon, the dread on her face making her look like a ghost. ‘You must understand why I could not let her leave. Not after she put her hands on Honoria. Not after the damage she did to our tower. To our priory.’ Again, the Daggers didn’t speak. Matters of morality were not part of their remit and Ransom had no comfort to offer the Mother Superior. He was focused entirely on the task at hand. Once it was done, he could find his way back through the fog in his head. Back to himself. ‘Our world does not need more saints. It needs order. Discipline.Humility.’
Caruso gave a huff of laughter. ‘And the coin of rich people who will pay any amount for a few of your precious prayers,’ he sneered. ‘I’m sure it would upset your little island commune to have another dozen or so saints wandering around Valterre after all this time. Who would pay you then?’
Chastened, or perhaps too livid to respond, Mother Madeline turned and did not speak again until they reached the peninsula. There, she stopped walking, gesturing for them to go on ahead of her, to where the remains of the prayer tower stood.
The lantern in her hand began to tremble. ‘Take care not to speak to the girl. She’ll beg. She’ll weep. She’ll use every tool at her disposal to try and free herself. The faster it’s done, the better. And whatever you do, donottake her chains off,’ she added starkly. ‘Marianne’s temper is a hazard. She’d rip the stars down if she could. You need only look to the fate of Sister Honoria to know it.’
‘We’ll take it from here,’ said Ransom. ‘You can return to your priory.’
But Mother Madeline lingered, her eyes on the broken tower. ‘I have an Order to run. And it already has a saint to worship,’ she said with a sniff. ‘Marianne has changed. The hand of destiny has struck her, and the wound cannot be mended. The matter is out of my hands.’ She took a careful step back. ‘The anchor stone should be enough to sink her but if you require more, there are loose rocks down by the shore. When it’s done, fill her pockets and dump her body in the lake. The graveyard here is for our sacred sisters. I would rather not sully our earth.’
‘Charming,’ muttered Nadia.
‘Thanks for the tip,’ said Ransom.
‘Now fuck off,’ said Caruso.
Turning from the Mother Superior, they made for the end of the peninsula. The lake sloshed alongside their footsteps as they reached the sorry remains of the prayer tower. The base of it jutted up from the ground in uneven slabs of pale stone,reaching to just above Ransom’s head. The rest of the tower was scattered across the strand, where huge white slabs stuck out of the earth like teeth.
Inside, a single oil lamp flickered, illuminating a slight, dark-haired woman. Wreathed in heavy metal chains, she was sitting on a threadbare rug with her back against the hard stone that anchored her. Her head was buried in the crook of her arms.
She must have sensed them standing there, six feet away and openly gawking at her, but she made no sound nor movement. Nothing beyond the barest twitch of her fingers.
‘She’s so small,’ said Caruso.
Another twitch.
‘Underfed,’ said Ransom, frowning.
And another.
‘And filthy,’ added Nadia. ‘Look at all that hair. It’s like rattlesnakes.’
Find the acolyte.
Kill her.
Bury her body.
The girl gave a derisive snort.
Stepping inside the tower, Ransom said, ‘Well, at least we know she can hear us.’
‘No shit,’ came the acolyte’s reply. Lifting her head, she added, ‘Who knew assassins were so fucking rude?’
Ransom opened his mouth to respond but the words died on his tongue. Shock coursed through his body, snatching the air from his lungs. He blinked furiously.
Impossible.
Impossible.
The acolyte stared up at him, her hazel eyes growing. They were shot through with red and rimmed in the dark shadows of endless sleepless nights, but he would have known them anywhere. They had chased him through a thousand nightmares, haunted him for ten long years.
Haunted him even now.
Her chains twisting and clanging, the girl pitched forward, her voice so small the wind almost snatched it away. ‘Bastian?’
