Without Silas by her side, Sabine could not keep the New Maiden’s word afloat. Alone, she would drown from the effort.
“Of course, Maiden,” the Chaplain said, solemnly. “Your will be done.”
It wasn’t. Three days later, Artur returned to the family’s quarters, expression grim.
“Found this in the Manufacturing District,” he said, producing a now familiar sheet of parchment. That cursed moth brought another new message, embittered words scrawled above and below the insect: What She takes, He will return. What She replaces, He will reclaim.
“There were others,” Artur said, fussing with the collar of his fancy frock. “I took down as many as I could, but I didn’t want anyone to notice me.”
Sabine shook her head quickly. “No need to make yourself a target,” she agreed. “I’d rather they only focus their attention on me.” Orla Anders let out a soft hiccup that might have been a sob. Sabine put her hand on her mother’s. “It’s all right, Ma,” she whispered softly. “They’re only words.”
But they weren’t. The Second Son’s threat had been swiftly exacted, as Sabine found later that day when she called on Silas in the royal chapel.
The candles were all extinguished, the hymnals closed, no incense lit. Silas kneeled before the altar, lips moving soundlessly. She paused her prayer when the New Maiden approached.
“I have failed you,” the Chaplain said, her usually impassive expression pained as she gestured to the frontmost pew. The dark washed wood was covered in squares of white fabric, shimmering like pearls in the daylight. The cloth was out of place, for the chapel’s pews did not offer cushions.
“I don’t understand.”
“They’re discarded vestments, Maiden,” Silas said gravely. “Resignations across the country in protest of my appointment. There have been ten today already.”
“Surely René was not so beloved?” Sabine offered the woman a lighthearted smile, which the Chaplain did not return.
“René was known,” Silas said, tucking her short hair behind her ears. “They are”—she searched for the proper word—“uncomfortable with your choice.”
“Why?”
“Maiden,” Silas said softly, “not once in the history of Her Church has the position of Royal Chaplain been held by a woman.”
Sabine blinked blankly. “But the Church belongs to a woman.”
“Yet its terms of worship were created by a man,” Silas corrected. “In Her memory. The clergy understand the Maiden as a figurehead, a silent artifact. You destroy that orderly illusion by having your own voice, by appointing yet another woman to the highest position in your Church.”
“Am I to stay silent, then,” Sabine challenged, “while others twist Her word for their own gain?”
The new Chaplain put a hand to her heart. “Maiden, I do not presume to tell you how to act. I only tell you what I know.” She sighed wearily. “This upheaval is exactly what I was concerned about.”
Sabine blinked at her. “You doubt my judgment, as they do?”
“Of course not, Maiden,” Silas said, bowing her head reverently. Sabine was suspicious of such unflinching loyalty. Either Silas was indiscriminate to a fault, or worse, the Royal Chaplain did not trust Sabine with her truth.
Sabine now missed her darkness more than ever, craved the slippery sense of relief that washed over her when confronted with its candor. She was desperate for the emotion elicited from such sincerity. That space where her sadness had lived was now tormented with endless fog. Only once since its disappearance had she found anyone direct enough to incite that familiar feeling. Unfortunately, that person was one she did not particularly care for.
Soliciting reproach from a stranger was the sort of impulse her darkness would have instantly put to an end. Expecting a person to fill an emotional void was foolish. Dangerous, even. But without its voice in her ear, Sabine could not be bothered with self-preservation. And so, when she left the royal chapel, she did not retreat to her family’s chambers. Instead, she headed for the training room in search of Tal.
The room was empty, save for the swords strapped to the walls. Silver blades glinted in the sunlight, leather handles stank of oil, wood gleamed with polish. The weapons were as beautiful as they were deadly, could carve right to the heart with one slip of a hand. Sabine observed them keenly, running a finger across the edge of a dagger. The blade sliced through the top layer of her skin but did not draw blood. She marveled at the cleanness of the cut.
“What are you doing?” Tal was leaning against the doorframe, watching her with amusement.
“Testing the blades,” she said, as though the New Maiden had any business with swords.
“And?” Tal raised an eyebrow.
“They’re perfect.”
“Ought to be,” he said, grabbing an axe from the wall. He sliced at the air like he himself was partially made of steel, wielded the axe like it was both craft and calling. “I sharpened them all myself.”
“I didn’t take you for the manual labor sort,” Sabine said snidely. “Your boots are far too polished.”
Tal smirked. “Did those myself, too.” He returned the axe to the wall, trading it for a sleek sword. His hands were rough and calloused, nothing like the delicate digits of nobility. Now that she had located the first crack, Sabine could see the tiny traces of poverty in Tal’s appearance. The collar of his coat had been repaired with thread a shade too light. The scuffs on the sole of his boots had been filled in with pitch. The lengths to which he had gone to disguise his shortcomings filled Sabine with an unexpected tenderness.
“You hide it well.”
Tal cocked his head curiously. “What?”
“Your lineage.”
“I am well-versed at keeping up appearances, Maiden,” Tal said darkly. “Do you begrudge me for it?”
“On the contrary.” Sabine discarded her cloak to reveal the patchwork dress beneath. It didn’t feel right to constantly masquerade in the fine things provided by the palace. Not when so many still had nothing. “I am intimately acquainted with that reality.”
“That’s right,” Tal said, sheathing his sword. “The New Maiden hails from Harborside. How could I forget?”
“I hope I never do,” she said quietly. It was easy to get wrapped up in the niceties of the castle, how simple life was without the responsibility of survival. Yet an entire class of people lived in the palace only to serve, practically invisible. There was little difference in qualification for the role of queen and the role of scullery maid. Who held which came down to nothing more than luck.
“They’ll never let you,” Tal said, an edge to his voice. “No matter how desperately you wish to leave behind your old self, no matter how well you think you’ve blended in, there will always be a prying eye, a snide remark in the hall, a titter behind a hand. Anything that makes you different makes you a target. Elodie’s mother tried to ban me from playing with her children, you know.”
