Chương 88: Book 2, Chapter 27: Technicalities

The Church's carriage was utilitarian and did not in the least resemble the palatial coaches used by House von Rhenia or House de Bragança. Its exterior was a clean black, adorned only with a pair of crossed golden keys embossed into each door, and its benches had been upholstered in worn crimson leather.

"From how grim you look, one might think you're heading to an execution, not a religious retreat." Conrad sat across from her, observing her with an amused smirk. Well, yes, I'm not thrilled about seclusion, not to mention the 'extra work' the duke mentioned. But that aside, she was glad that Conrad now felt comfortable enough to make jokes with her.

"Who knows, with my luck any interaction with the Church could easily turn into my demise." Conrad chuckled, then turned his gaze to the countryside darkening through the window. Slowly, his face shifted back into a scowl, which was reassuring in its familiarity. Eventually, after the sun had already set, the trees opened wide, and the eastern shore of Lake Elowen appeared before them.

Clara leaned toward the window, and her eyes followed a long stone causeway that ran from the shore into the lake, almost at water level. And, at the end of that causeway, was Mont Sainte-Michelle. It was an island, a mountain, and a fortress all in one, rising out of the lake like a spearhead. A village clung to its base, its lamps flickering on as the night settled, and above the village the walls began. Several layers of them, each thicker than the last, with round towers placed at regular intervals.

And behind them was what could only be described as a cross between a castle and an abbey, with a spire piercing high into the sky. She'd expected it, prepared herself for it, even readied a flurry of complaints to level at the Goddess and a certain author about their lack of creativity. Yet now that she was here, she couldn't help but admire it.

"The tide's coming in soon," said Conrad.

"Any later and the causeway would've been flooded. I wager they've timed our arrival for it."

"Tide? I thought this was a lake."

"It's connected to the sea by a river, and the Church uses water magic to regulate the water levels. When the tide comes in, the Sacred Ministry answers to no one but the Goddess. Or so they say—it sounds like needless spectacle to me." The carriage rattled onto the causeway, and it took several minutes for them to reach the other side. They disembarked in a small courtyard facing the outer gatehouse, and waiting for them were three women in gray habits and a fair-haired boy who wore a brown robe with a red sash.

Two of the women carried lanterns, and the boy held a small box. The third woman, who was older, approached them. She had light red hair, and her habit had gold trimmings at the ends, unlike everyone else's. A necklace with a silver key dangled over her chest, and her cold green eyes fixed on Clara.

"Miss Clara Casewell," she said.

"I am Mother Cornelia, custodian of Mont Sainte-Michelle." She turned to Conrad.

"And you are? We were not told the vessel would be arriving with company." Conrad stepped forward before Clara could respond.

"I am Conrad von Rhenia, and I've come to escort an important friend of my house, though I won't be staying. And she is Dame Casewell, knight of the Order of the Gavel, a title granted personally by His Majesty the King. Perhaps you haven't been getting your news in time." Cornelia's expression turned serious.

"I assure you that the Sacred Ministry keeps timely records of everything deemed relevant. Yet worldly titles mean nothing within these walls, regardless of who bestowed them." Clara curtsied, trying not to start a fight before she even went inside.

"Thank you for receiving us, Mother Cornelia."

"Before any soul passes into Mont Sainte-Michelle, there are formalities. Vessel, do you have your permit for admission?" Cornelia asked. Can't say I enjoy being called a vessel. Clara reached into her satchel and handed over the envelope from the Grand Inquisitor. The custodian read it slowly, then held it up to a lantern and turned it over.

"The permit is in order. Now, you will submit to the Blessing of Truth, per the ordinances of the Ministry. It is applied to every guest without distinction. You need not worry about any unpleasantness, unless you have something to conceal." Shit. I suppose this is why the duke was never able to get anything out of this place.

"A routine procedure, you say," said Conrad.

"You cannot possibly intend to submit a knight of Arcadia, not to mention a recipient of a miracle confirmed by Her Holiness, to extensive questioning."

"There are no exceptions. I have kept this gate as the custodian of Mont Sainte-Michelle for over twenty years now, and I have never once opened it in haste."

"Hmph." Conrad glanced at Clara and gave her a small nod. Mother Cornelia gestured to the boy. He stepped forward, and that was when Clara recognized him: it was the inquisitor-in-training who had been assisting Warren at Westwick. He was wearing a bronze key around his neck.

"Tobias, it's good to see you again. How have you been? What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Miss, I mean, Dame Casewell, I'm honored to see you again as well." Judging by his face, it seemed he hadn't expected her to remember him.

"I was sent here for training while Lord Warren was abroad, so I've been helping administer the Blessing. If you're ready." I'm definitely not, but I don't think I have a choice. She did her best to keep a level expression and nodded. He took a jeweled chalice from the box, and one of the sisters poured wine into it." In vino veritas," Tobias chanted. Then the chalice glowed, and he handed it to Clara. She braced herself and drank, the alcohol so watered down it tasted more like grape juice.

The soft golden light pulsed from her chest, but it felt different this time—she could really tell there was energy swirling inside her. Probably another side-effect of her ability to use magic.

"The Blessing has taken hold," said Mother Cornelia, stepping forward.

"Clara Casewell, vessel of the Goddess's miracle, bare your soul to me as you seek entry into this holy place. Confess: has anyone asked you to spy upon the Sacred Ministry or any other part or person related to Her Church?" Clara did what she could to hold back the impulse, but, of course, she couldn't resist the Blessing.

"No." Wait, no? Then she remembered what Duke von Rhenia had actually said.

'I am not asking her to spy. All I want is for her to take note of what she sees and hears.' Oh, you're cunning. You weren't reassuring Iris's conscience at all; you were building the answer you wanted me to give at this gate. She wanted to laugh.

"Did anyone ask you to gather any information for them within these walls?" asked Cornelia.

"No." True again. He'd asked her to take note and remember what she saw, but he'd said nothing about it being for him, technically. He hadn't asked her to report back, and he'd stressed that she had as much of a reason to want the conspiracy purged as he did. You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"Did anyone ask you to bring anything into Mont Sainte-Michelle?"

"No." Mother Cornelia waited, and she seemed almost disappointed when the Blessing didn't force Clara to say anything more. Before the next question came—maybe something more incriminating, like'Do you intend to report what you see or hear?' —Conrad spoke up.

"Surely that is enough, Mother. The Blessing has spoken three times, and I will remind you yet again that she carries the Goddess's favor in her flesh, not to mention the backing of the Crown, House von Rhenia, and House Albion. Shall I report back to the King and two dukes that someone with their backing—and whom the Goddess Herself chose to save—is being subjected to humiliating questioning in the late evening, when all she wants to do is get a good night's rest?

What consequences do you reckon that might have for the Church's already rocky relations with the nobility?" Mother Cornelia glanced at Conrad, then at Clara, weighing the situation before coming to the inevitable conclusion.

"The questioning is concluded." The duke's gambit had worked. Everything—the specific way he'd talked to Clara, sending Conrad over—was carefully planned so he could sneak somebody who technically wasn't spying for him into Mont Sainte-Michelle. Part of her admittedly felt used, but she had to admire the game he'd played. How unscrupulous you are, duke. She only hoped that this would not be one of those moves that called for a sacrificial pawn.

Mother Cornelia approached Clara, then reached into her robes and produced a small wooden key strapped to a plain linen cord.

"You will keep this with you at all times, and present it to me each morning for re-incantation. If you fail to do so, you may find yourself trapped in very unpleasant circumstances." She put it on Clara like a necklace, raised her hand, and chanted, " Clavis impleatur." The quartz set on the key's handle started shining. What does that mean? Something about a key answering to doors? Soon the light faded, and Mother Cornelia smiled thinly.

"Be welcome within the Sacred Ministry, Miss Casewell. Before you head to your quarters, you'll need to leave any wands, rings, or gems you may have in your possession here at the gate. They will be returned to you on your departure." Clara faltered. Being stuck on Church property for weeks without access to her magic was not what she'd planned, especially after the duke's warning. Yet in the end, she relented—mostly because she didn't have a choice.

Clara had prepared herself for stiff ceremonial rehearsals, or long days of prayer kneeling on cold stone, or even for endless hours studying holy texts. They'd even given her acolyte-style robes and undershirts, so she very much looked the part of an aspiring clergywoman, save for the satchel she was wearing on top of it.

But instead of religious study, during her first full day of seclusion, she'd been handed a bucket and a mop, then thrown in with the acolytes to tackle the endless supply of chores necessary to keep the heart of the Church running.

"A soul is like an old stone," Mother Cornelia told her every morning when she redid the incantation on the necklace.

"It gathers grime and dust in its many imperfections. The labor to clean the stone also purifies the soul. Only by dedicating yourself fully to the Goddess, as I have, can you receive Her grace." And so Clara found herself assigned to do daily work rotations alongside a group of a dozen acolytes in brown training robes, with gray-habited sisters supervising them with folded arms at every step.

Clara noticed that the acolytes all wore the same wooden keys on their necks as she did, while the sisters had either iron or bronze keys. Something about that disparity made her feel exposed, which was compounded by not having her wand. It was the first time since she'd gained back her magic that she was going so long cut off from it. She hadn't seen anyone with a silver key yet, apart from Mother Cornelia.

Practically every door at the abbey had a quartz set in its handle, which Clara suspected was connected to the necklaces in some way, perhaps as part of enchantments to restrict who could access what parts of Mont Sainte-Michelle. In fact, not even the bedroom doors had proper locks on them, which Clara took as evidence that the quartz handles served that function. Not that she could test any of that when she was tasked with something or other every waking moment.

Which was a problem because, looking back, Clara concluded that Duke von Rhenia did want her to spy for him, and he'd just phrased things the way he had so she'd pass the Blessing of Truth at the gatehouse. Given the circumstances, she wasn't sure how upset she should be, nor if there was much of a point in being mad at him at all. Rather than dwell on what she couldn't do, she decided to be practical.

Even if she hadn't committed to anything with the duke, it couldn't hurt to find out where the archives were and to try to learn how these keys worked, just in case an opportunity presented itself to get some information. As he so succinctly put it, her skin was on the line as well, and she might as well make herself useful in here while Iris and Warren were making the rounds with the Chamber of Lords outside. She could just try to ask the sisters if there was a library—maybe the archives would be part of that.

It was a perfectly normal question to ask, and there must be some normal books here that they read to pass the time. She tried asking Mother Cornelia, but the custodian snapped at her to go back to her duties. Hopefully, Clara could do some exploring once she had some free time. They're going to give me free time eventually, right? Yet to her surprise, she didn't mind the labor all that much.

It was a lot more work than her short stint as a maid for House von Rhenia, but Stella's instincts served her just the same, and all Clara had to do was let her body take over and follow the rhythm. While the young acolytes around her groaned about blisters, Clara fell into old motions with practiced ease. She wondered what Warren would think if he saw her like this—would he make some sly comment about cleaning being beneath his rival? Or maybe… She shook her head and got back to work.

In the evening, Clara ate with the acolytes in the main mess hall. The food was nothing to write home about—porridge, mostly—but it was still fine, and the conversation centered on speculation about the seating arrangements for the canonization ceremony. Apparently, people were placing bets on where the senior sisters and mothers would sit. The most contested one was the highly coveted position in the front row, where a single regular member of the clergy would be invited to sit next to the Ecumenical Council.

I can see why they get so heated about that, if this is anything like the seating charts for corporate events. That was yet another similarity between executive boards and teenage girls—using 'who sits next to who' to send veiled messages. Clara was curious about who was holding the wagers, since gambling wasn't exactly holy even in this world, but when she asked, the response was a chorus of nervous laughter and a change of subject.

The night was the most unpleasant part, when Clara was stuck in a shoebox with only a small slit for a window. And to make matters worse, there was an owl constantly hooting outside. She almost wished one of Mont Sainte-Michelle's many mouser cats would catch it, just so she could get some sleep. It was on the third day that she saw Helena Rosewood. Clara had, of course, expected the girl to also be at Mont Sainte-Michelle.

If the miracle's recipient had preparations to do, the miracle's giver ought to have even more, after all. But she hadn't expected that a noble lady and Saintess-to-be would be doing the same kinds of chores that she was. The girl was at the far end of the eastern cloister, with another group of acolytes, on her knees working a brush across the stone. Her honey-blonde hair had been bound up in a kerchief so that the white tips were hidden, and her hands were grey with soot.

When she first caught sight of Clara, she lit up and waved with delight, as though they'd met each other at a party and not a penitential floor-scrubbing session. Clara waved in return and went back to her chores, as the two groups were kept too far apart by the supervising sisters to really speak. But she kept her eye out for glimpses of Helena whenever she could over the following days, thinking that it might be a good opportunity to see if the Saintess-to-be showed any signs of being a transmigrator.

And what struck her was that, for a baron's daughter, Helena Rosewood was remarkably proficient at menial labor. And not in a way that made you think of someone playing at humility. She was competent and efficient, and she worked constantly. Whenever Clara saw her across a courtyard or down a corridor, the girl was carrying something, or scrubbing something, or in general performing a wide variety of tasks, always with a soft smile.

The other acolytes clearly adored her, and even the cold sisters seemed warmer when she was nearby. On the sixth day, the task rotation finally placed them together. They'd been assigned to the long gallery on the second tier of the great hall. It was an echoing corridor lined with tall windows, and six acolytes, plus Clara and Helena, were charged with cleaning it. Now that she was near Helena, one more thing caught Clara's eye—the golden key around the girl's neck, shining under the sun.

If even the custodian has silver, and she's the one who enchants the keys, what does gold mean? Clara filed that question into what was becoming an increasingly large binder of Mont Sainte-Michelle mysteries and began her work. They'd been at it for perhaps an hour when the usual complaints began.

"I can't even feel my hands anymore," one acolyte muttered, pressing the back of his wrist to his forehead.

"And it's so hot."

"I think the shoulders are worse," added the girl next to him.

"It hurts so much I almost want to give up." The complaints today seemed more theatrical than on the days before, but Clara ignored the grumbling acolytes and continued cleaning. Helena, however, did not.

"You poor things." She approached the acolytes while wiping her hands on her apron.

"You mustn't push yourself if you're not feeling well. You go and sit by the window where it's cool, and let me take care of your sections. I've nearly finished mine, anyway."

"Lady Helena! Are you sure?" The two acolytes looked at her with pleading eyes.

"Of course! It's no trouble at all. Go on, now, and get some well-deserved rest." And that was that. The pair murmured thanks that didn't sound guilty, and Helena slid her bucket over and doubled her pace. Clara might not have thought much of it—it wasn't as if a heroine-like character being kind was some sort of shocking twist—except the exact same exchange happened again half an hour later, with another acolyte who had a blister on his palm.

Helena offered to take over his part before a complaint even left his mouth, insisting it wasn't a problem. Something about this feels off.