Page 89 of The Cerulean Sister
Twenty-Five
My muscles throb from the repetitive motions made each day. The routine of my duties, temple, and meals with Lord Hollis take a toll on my body more than expected. I barely finish the two halls the elder priestess assigns me every morning. Some of the wounds on my hand look red and irritated around the edges from the constant movement, the sore feeling traveling down to my knuckles.
My teeth ache from countless meals spent with Lord Hollis and still only being permitted to eat sugar bread. The sole relief is when I take the long way to the cart room, past the kitchens. The cooks often have rolls and leftover stew sitting out for the Estate workers, easy things to steal and pick at throughout the day, hidden within my cart. Ben notices, I know he does, but he never says anything.
If I have calculated my time here correctly, then there are twenty days until the final phase of the conjunction, when the whole world falls into total darkness.
If I cannot find evidence, how am I supposed to step out of the Estate, walk to the safe house, and accept that there will be no investigation into its practices and that those women will be left to their fates?
My stomach turns at the amount of time I am wasting, how slow this process has been and how much I miss 99. I push the heavy cart faster at the thought of seeing him again the moment I have something solid to present to him and his government.
I need to speak with Leema, and I need to get into her temple. I have arrived early to service every day, hoping Leema and the other women will be there again. The times they are, she will make brief eye contact with me and then turn away like she is not sure if she is allowed to interact. Other times, they do not show up for the temple at all.
I sit through every service thinking of the divinity ceremony I witnessed. Something awful was done to the mother to manufacture the child’s divinity. I have seen what they do so vividly that even now it is hard to walk in the Estate and not feel in danger.
Now, the child will be raised in the Estate until she is old enough to go into the care of the School of Divine Children, and when she comes of age, she will take vows and begin service to the temple. When she is an adult she will be encouraged to have her own child, being guaranteed divinity through that matriarchal line. It's a manipulated family tree of forced divinity, a way to increase the ranks of the priestess order from within.
"High Priestess, you are to complete altars in the official Estate wings as well." Ben points down the intersection I have just passed on my way to another statue.
That intersection leads to the Estate library wing.
I do not think I was intentionally avoiding it—maybe I assumed my duties would not take me there. I smile at him tightly and push my cart toward the library.
The emotions I thought would overtake me standing in front of the large oak door do not come. My hand lifts just a little to the side of the frame, a leftover muscle memory from usingthe touch panels to open the doors of the Viathan library. The tiny reflex and then correction is enough to smother any happiness I may have had entering this place and replace it with homesickness for the library I am attached to now.
Everything inside looks to be the same as when I left it. As if I have only been away for a small amount of time and it’s frozen and waiting for me.
"It looks untouched." I glance over at Ben, who slowly walks around the rectangular tables in the middle of the common area.
"All but this." He runs his hand down the far wall. The crack that formed in the delicate plaster when the Viathans first arrived has been patched like new, the mural touched up to match almost perfectly.
He continues to circle the area, and from what I can tell, we are the only ones here. The back corners are darker than I remember, the large candles not quite making their way to light up all the space through the thick bookshelves.
I begin the memorized process of removing the flowers from the smaller statue here. There is not much to fix; very few patrons in this area of the Estate use it. Scholars are not known for their devotion so it is more ornamental, a reminder that even in this room of information, as censored as it may be, the temple is present. A fact that Mary hated. She even threatened to have it removed the few times she saw me sneaking a quick prayer between transcriptions.
I miss the innocent squabbling, how she would push just a little too far and realize she couldn't say exactly what she was thinking. I prayed hard for her, that her cynicism would not catch up to her one day and for First Mother to not judge her too harshly for her wavering faith. I wonder if she were still here now, what she would think of me. No, I know the answer to that, and I think she would even help our cause.
I place the last items on the altar and abandon my cart slowly. Ben watches me as I walk toward the old desk area where I spent years with her.
"Where are you going?" he asks flatly.
"I just want to see Mary's desk," I reply, praying he will understand. I don't know how well they got to know each other in the time that he served as her personal guard. I began seeing him posted here in the library shortly after she was appointed as Cosima's representative again.
"Please, I was not here when they laid her body to rest." I take another slow step and then another until I am sure he won't stop me.
"She rests in an outer city. She had family there," he says.
I pause, not wanting to look back and reveal how much his words affect me, that she is with family, that he knew about them and I didn't.
I round the corner to our desk area, raising the flames on a few of the oil lamps. Her magnifying glass is still in place, along with her special pens I was never allowed to use. I sit down in her chair, running my hands over the flat surface of her desk. I have the sudden urge to straighten it, to put some of the pens away like she did at the end of each of our days together.
I lean down and use the flat side of my fist to bump the sticky drawer I was never allowed in and place her favorite pens inside. As I shut it, I can't help but notice a deep blue book with coiling vines embossed into the leather front. I remember seeing a journal like that in her possession before, but never what was inside. Mary was a very private woman and rarely opened up to me past a few opinions on the things we were currently working on.
I shouldn't touch it, but I know I can't leave without flipping through. Mary had a whole life outside of the Estate, and I wish I could have known her more.
I flip through the journal quickly, not wanting to read any of the entries outright but just to see if there are any drawings of her family or something to cherish. But it's not a personal journal at all. It's a log.
A record written in Frithian.
