Red Sister. Mark Lawrence
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and curling in the wet air.
Nona stepped out of her smock, arms folded about herself, with only the steam for modesty. She made a dart for the pool.
‘Wait!’ Sister Apple raised a hand. ‘You can’t go in filthy. You’ll turn the water black.’ She took a leather bucket from one of the many pegs lining the walls above the benches. ‘Stand over there.’ She pointed to an alcove between the benches on the left.
Nona did as directed, her whole body clenched. The alcove was wide enough for two or three people. The floor, tiled and perforated by finger-width holes, felt strange beneath her feet.
‘What—’ An explosion of hot water stole the rest of the question. Nona wiped her eyes clear in time to see the misty outline of the nun at the poolside having refilled the bucket.
‘There’s a brush on the floor. Use it.’ Another wave of hot water broke across Nona’s chest.
Nona reached, dripping, for the brush. She’d never felt anything quite as wonderful as a bucketful of hot water. Not even fresh bread and butter came close. Not even eggs, or the bacon she had smelled cooking at the Caltess. If scrubbing herself with a bristly brush was the price she had to pay to get into a whole pool of it, she would scrub.
Two buckets later Sister Apple declared her clean enough for the pool. Nona ran to the edge and lowered herself in, toes questing for the bottom. ‘How deep is it?’ The rising steam blinded her, the heat delicious.
‘This end is shallow. On you … to your shoulders?’
The water reached her neck before Nona’s feet found a smooth floor and she released her death-grip on the side. She stood, arms floating at her sides, sure that she had never been truly warm before.
Time skipped a beat. It skipped an untold number of beats. Nona hung in the blind heat of the pool. A sharp clap brought her attention back to the world.
‘Out you get. You’re clean … well, cleaner.’ Sister Apple stood at the water’s edge. In concession to the heat she had hung the outer cloak of her habit up on the pegs. She clapped again. ‘Out! We’ve both got things to do.’ She pointed to the corner of the pool. ‘There are steps there.’
Nona went to the steps, too limp to want to struggle back over the edge. At the top she found the nun holding out a large rectangle of thick cloth towards her. It didn’t seem to have any armholes or ties. ‘How do I …’
Sister Apple snorted. ‘It’s a towel.’ She thrust the thing into Nona’s hands. ‘Dry yourself with it.’
Nona wrapped herself in the towel, finding it thick and luxurious. If it had arms she would have worn it.
‘Dry your hair too.’
When Nona finished rubbing at her hair she was alarmed to see Sister Apple had sprung a second head, this one young and impish with short black hair, chin resting on the sister’s shoulder, cheek next to hers.
‘What is it?’ the new head asked.
‘It’s a Nona,’ Sister Apple replied.
‘A what?’
‘A ring-fighter from the Caltess.’
The new head frowned. Two slim hands slid into view holding the tops of Sister Apple’s arms. ‘It looks rather small and skinny for that. Someone should feed it. It looks more like a farm-girl.’ The second nun slipped away from Sister Apple. ‘Are you a farm-girl, Nona?’
Nona clutched her towel to her and found she was biting her lip too hard to explain that her mother wove baskets. She shook her head.
‘I don’t much care for farm-girls,’ the new nun sniffed, her smile removing any sting.
‘This is Sister Kettle,’ Sister Apple explained, shooing the other woman away. ‘And,’ raising her voice as Sister Kettle vanished into the steams, ‘she loves country girls.’ She returned to the benched area. ‘Come on. Get dressed.’
Nona followed her and reached for the habit. Sister Apple brushed her hand away with a tut. ‘Smallclothes first.’ She held out a confusing piece of white linen. Nona took it, frowning. Sister Apple watched her a moment then shook her head. ‘Farm-girls …’
It took a couple of minutes and significant amounts of advice before Nona finally stepped out of the bathhouse in the full attire of a novice of the Sweet Mercy Convent of the Ancestor. The wind was shockingly cold on her face but the rest of her seemed surprisingly well protected. She stood in her double-sleeved robe, tied at the middle with a woollen belt, two underskirts rustling beneath, her feet feeling most strange in leather shoes drawn tight around them with laces. The only difference between her habit and Sister Apple’s appeared to be the lack of a headdress, the nun having restored the garments she’d shed inside.
‘The novices will be at breakfast in the refectory.’ Sister Apple turned her head sharply and waved to someone across the wide yard. ‘Suleri!’
The figure stopped, turned, and hurried towards them, a tall girl with long dark hair. ‘Yes, sister?’
‘This is Nona: she’s to join Red Class for lessons. Take her to their meal table.’ Sister Apple seemed suddenly more stern, someone to be reckoned with.
‘Yes, sister!’ The older girl, perhaps fifteen, glanced down at Nona, ‘Come on.’ And she walked away at a brisk pace, forcing Nona to run to keep up.
They crossed a courtyard and turned a corner into a passageway, the bake-house on one side, the kitchens on the other. Suleri stopped and rounded on Nona, blocking her path.
‘You’re not her!’ She seemed both furious and unconvinced. ‘The Chosen One wouldn’t be a skinny little hunska.’
When hunger has been your lifelong companion the smell of food is a physical thing, an assault, a seduction, a deep-sunk hook that will reel you in. Nona forgot about Suleri’s anger. The convent’s wonders slipped from her mind. The flood of warmth on passing through the tall oak doors, the rapid, high-pitch babble of many voices that became almost a roar … none of it mattered. The aroma of fresh bread held her, the captivating scent of bacon sizzling, buttery eggs, scrambled and sprinkled with black pepper.
‘This way!’ Suleri’s voice carried the edge added when someone has had to repeat themselves.
She led Nona through a crowd of older novices chatting animatedly by the entrance. Nona’s head barely rose above belt-height on many of them.
Four long tables ran across the width of the hall, each surrounded by high-backed chairs and with large bowls set along the centre. A dozen or more girls sat around each table save the nearest one where only a couple of novices had yet taken their place, both looking like grown women to Nona.
‘Is that her?’ A voice from behind.
The conversation around the doorway died to nothing and, glancing back, Nona found the novices staring down at her.
‘Red Class at the back, Grey Class next, Mystic …’ Suleri slapped the table immediately before them. ‘And Holy!’ She waved Nona away. ‘Go!’
Nona advanced into the room under the scrutiny of the girls by the doors, arms straight at her sides, hands in fists. Despite the crowd she had never felt more alone. She bit her bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. Easing her jaw, she pressed her lips together in a thin, defiant line.
The conversation failed at each table as she passed; by the time she reached the fourth the girls there were turning their chairs to watch.
Nona stopped at the last table. The girls there ranged across a few years in age, though none looked quite as small or young as her. The hunger that had wrapped her stomach in its iron fist slipped away under the stares of half a