Sabine caught a whiff of smoke. Strange, that she would smell the strike of a match from the other side of the chapel.
“Not only did I steal herbs from my neighbor’s garden,” the woman continued with a reassuring obliviousness, “but I used them on my husband. I brewed a potion to keep him asleep so that I might have a few moments when his hands were not on me in anger.”
Sabine clenched her fists until her nails left crescent moons in the meat of her palms. The litany of women who had come through pleading forgiveness for their pain, their emotions, and their wanting left her exhausted and devastated in equal measure. These women were hurt by cruel hands and judgmental tones, were embarrassed by their own ambition, were made to doubt themselves by those who feared their success. It was a suffering Sabine knew well, one she would not wish upon anyone.
“You need not apologize,” Sabine said plainly, for the woman had begun to sniffle on the other side of the screen. “Indeed, it is your husband who should be begging forgiveness, for putting you in such a position.”
“Oh, Maiden, no, I’m certain I deserved it,” the woman said quickly.
“Do not grasp for meaning where there is none,” Sabine began, but her thought was interrupted by pounding footsteps. Silas wrenched aside the curtain and pulled the New Maiden to her feet. Smoke slithered about her like a shroud.
The bishop’s sleeve was pressed against her nose and mouth. Her eyes were wide with panic. She extricated the stunned woman in the confessional with similar swiftness, gesturing for them both to follow her to safety.
The altar was alight, a halo of flames encircling the effigy of the New Maiden that hung upon the back wall. The prayer candles had been overturned; wax oozed across the floor, held back by a dam of broken glass. An astringent scent rushed Sabine’s sense. Upon closer inspection, she saw that the pews were soaked with barrel brew, the clear, noxious alcohol crafted in the hulls of disreputable merchant ships. Unless a person was courting death, the stuff was no good for drinking. It was, however, perfect for starting fires.
Once she confirmed that Silas and the woman had made it out, Sabine turned back.
The Harborside chapel had been her first achievement as the New Maiden. She had helped scrub the brick clean, had repaired the curtains, had painted the walls. She had made the house of worship a home.
Just as the New Maiden had watched the Lower Banks burn, so Sabine now witnessed the destruction in her own neighborhood. She kicked at the shattered shards of the prayer candles, eye catching on a blood-red kerchief. She had seen the color before, tucked into the coat pocket of the man who struck the match. It felt too bold a signal to be coincidence.
Sabine reached for it but was stopped by a firm hand on her shoulder. Everywhere she looked, Sabine saw red. The flames that devoured her chapel, the handkerchief on the floor, the uniform of the Loyalist who restrained her.
“Let me go.” She squirmed in the soldier’s grip, but the fingers only squeezed tighter.
“Does the New Maiden believe she can walk through fire?” It was his voice that stopped her flailing.
“What are you doing here?” Her suspicion was thick as tar.
“My job,” Tal said dispassionately, guiding the New Maiden away from the hungry lick of the flames and releasing her into the hazy afternoon.
A crowd had gathered on the other side of the street to gape at the destruction.
“Aren’t you going to do something?” Sabine shrieked. Several Loyalists stood among the motionless spectators. “If we make a line and pass buckets from the harbor, surely we can—”
“Sabine,” Silas said solemnly, putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “It’s too late.”
“No,” Sabine said, irritated eyes watering from the smoke. She cursed the empty tears that painted her cheeks. They held no emotion, only inadequacy. The ink had barely dried on the hymnals, and now they were ashes. The pews had just been polished, and now they were dust.
Silas turned toward her, fear scrawled across her face. “Maiden, who would do this?”
Sabine knew the answer. But she wanted proof.
A quick scan of the surrounding area offered her exactly what she was looking for. A piece of parchment had been nailed to the door of the boarded-up tavern across the alley. Even from a distance, Sabine could make out the outline of an insect with spotted wings. She marched up to the building and tore the paper from its nail, crumpling the page in the process. This time, the Second Son’s message was different, but no less pointed: Fathers do not wish for daughters, it read above the moth. Instead, they pray for Sons.
4
The New Maiden tracked ash into the Queen of Velle’s quarters.
“You look like you walked through all twelve hells,” Elodie said, glancing up from the sofa where she was considering a request for resources from the province of Prottle.
“Feels like it, too.” Sabine flung herself onto the settee opposite, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Elodie set down the correspondence and offered her full attention to the other girl. “There was a fire?” The sleeves of the New Maiden’s purple silk vestment were singed, and she stank of smoke.
Sabine made a face. “What gave you that idea?”
Although the New Maiden’s voice was steady, her distress was tangible in the way her left foot shook on its axis. Elodie squeezed in beside Sabine on the velvet cushion, placing a hand firmly on the other girl’s knee. “Are you all right?”
The New Maiden stilled. “No.” She fixed her gaze on the opposite wall, brown eyes empty. “It was the chapel, El. In Harborside.”
Renovating the musty, padlocked structure had been their first initiative as Church and crown. Sabine had been the one to throw open the doors in welcome. As sunlight spilled upon the entryway, the New Maiden might have been made of gold, so brightly did she shine alongside the rewards of her first action.
“An accident?” The queen’s voice was too hopeful. Its high-pitched waver made Elodie cringe.
“Arson,” Sabine confirmed darkly.
Elodie forced her features to steady even as her pulse raced. “Surely not.” More likely it had been a prayer candle blown over by the wind.
“They doused the sanctuary in barrel brew,” Sabine insisted. “This was planned.”
Elodie swore. Perhaps she had not taken Edgar’s idle threat seriously enough. “Marguerite!”
Her lady-in-waiting appeared instantly. “Yes, Majesty?”
“Draw the New Maiden a bath.” At Sabine’s raised eyebrow, she added a belated “Please.”
