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His words clearwithout Guillo’s knowledge, then he is” I push away from the wall, step carefully over a sack of onion

s, and follow the hedge priest into the kitchen It is dark; the only light comes from the banked embers in the hearth I should wonder how the priest foundme, but I do not care All I can think is that he is not Guillo and not my father The rest does not matter

He leads me to the back door, and in a day full of surprises, I find one e hovering nearby If I did not need to concentrate so hard on putting one foot in front of the other, I would ask her what she is doing here, but it is all I can do to stay upright and keep fro on my face in the dirt

As I step into the night, a sigh of relief escapes me It is dark out, and darkness has always beene priest helpsaround to the driver’s bench and clilances over his shoulder at me, then averts his eyes as if he’s been burned “There’s a blanket back there,” heout onto the cobbled lane “Cover yourself ”

The unyielding wood of the cart presses painfully into my bruised bones, and the thin blanket scratches and reeks of donkey even so, I wish they’d brought a second one for padding

"Where are you taking me?”

“To the boat ”

A boatwater means I will be far from the reach of my father and Guillo and the Church

"Where is this boat takingexhaustion overwhelth to pluck answers froer berries froive ait

And so led like so turnips or in hay in the back of carts, awakened by furtive voices and fue priest to herbwife, a hidden chain of those who live in accordance with the old saints and are detere priests, with their aard h, but their fingers are unschooled in tenderness or compassion It is the herbwitches I like entle as laent srant shadow Often as not, they give me a tincture of poppy for ive ly at that

When I awake on what I reckon to be the fifth night ofof the sea and rele to sit up, pleased to find my bruises pain h a sainst the chill and wonder ill happen next

At the very edge of the village sits a stone church It is to this that the latest hedge priest steers our cart and I am relieved to see the door bears the sacred anchor of Saint Mer, one of the old saints The priest reins his horse to a stop “Get out ”

I cannot tell if it is fatigue or disdain I hear in his voice, but either way, nore it and claht around me lest I offend his modesty

Once he secures the horse, he leads me toward the beach, where a lone boat waits The inky black ocean spreads out as far and wide asthe vessel seem very small

An old sailor sits hunched in the prow A shell bleached white as bone hangs fro him as a worshiper of Saint Mer I wonder what he thinks of being woken in the ers out into the dark sea

The sailor’s faded blue eyes skiht ” He thrusts an oar at et into the boat

The small vessel dips and rocks and for a mohts itself and then the priest steps in, causing the hull to sink even lower

The old sailor grunts, then returns the oar to its pin and begins rowing

we reach the small island just as dawn pinkens the eastern horizon It looks barren in the early, spare light

As we draw closer, I see a standing stone next to a church and realize we’ve come to one of the old places of worship

Gravel crunches under the hull of the boat as the old sailor rows right up onto the beach He jerks his head toward the stone fortress “Get out then The abbess of St Mortain be expectin’ ye ”

Saint Mortain? The patron saint of death A trehat reat a mortal temptation

Clutching the blanket close around me, I climb aardly froratitude and annoyance, I curtsy slightly, careful to let the blanket slip from my shoulder for the merest of seconds

It is enough Satisfied at the priest’s gasp and the old sailor’s cluck of his tongue, I turn and slog through the cold water to the beach In truth, I have never flashed sotreated like a temptress when all I feel is bruised and broken

When I reach the patchy grass that grows between the rocks, I look back toward the boat, but it has already put out to sea I turn and begin er to see what those orship Death want of me

Chapter Two

Two ancient standing stones mark the entrance to the convent The chickens in the courtyard are just now beginning to stir, scratching in the dirt for their breakfast At my approach, they cluck and flutter away

I pause at the door, wishing I could find a corner and sleep untilme, and while I do not know

My heart beats wildly as I raisea short, plain wo a word, she motions me inside

I follow her through a sparsely furnished room, then down an equally austere corridor that leads into the heart of the convent My guide knocks once on a closed door