Bestow the Darkness

By Amanda Hocking

The New York Times Bestselling author of the Trylle Saga and Freeks returns with her first novel written for adults. Bestow the Darkness is a brooding gothic romance set in the rugged forest of 1890s Michigan.

Emiliath lives in a cloistered religious sect with her sisters and brothers, as she has for over twenty-one years. Her life is stable and quiet, but she has begun to feel a longing for something more. When tragedy hits close to home, she begins to connect with a handsome stranger from the city, Trent.

But her quiet life is far more sinister than it seems, and Trent has his own secrets. On top of that, a hungry beast is lurking in the forest, and it might be the end of everything Emiliath has ever known.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Amanda Hocking
• Release date: May 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005864736

Amanda Hocking

Amanda Hocking lives in Minnesota, had never sold a book before April 2010 and has now sold over a million. According to the Observer, she is now 'the most spectacular example of an author striking gold through ebooks'. Amanda is a self-confessed 'Obsessive tweeter. John Hughes mourner. Batman devotee. Unicorn enthusiast. Muppet activist.' Her books include the Trylle Trilogy, the Watersong series and the Kanin Chronicles.

Book preview

My Blood Approves Series

My Blood Approves

Fate

Flutter

Wisdom

Swear

Letters to Elise: A Novella

The Hollows

Hollowland

Hollowmen

The Hollows: A Graphic Novel

Trylle Saga

Switched

Torn

Ascend

Frostfire

Ice Kissed

Crystal Kingdom

The Lost City

The Morning Flower

The Ever After

Valkyrie Duology

Between the Blade and the Heart

From the Earth to the Shadows

Watersong Saga

Wake

Lullaby

Tidal

Elegy

Forgotten Lyrics: A Short Story

Other Novels

Virtue

Freeks

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously.

Cover by Regina Wamba reginawamba.com

BESTOW THE DARKNESS. Copyright © 2021 by Amanda Hocking. All rights reserved.

www.HockingBooks.com

Epigraph

"What in me is dark illumine"

John Milton

Paradise Lost

Table of Contents

Copyright

Also by Amanda Hocking

Epigraph

Table of Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Forty-nine

Fifty

Fifty-one

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Fifty-four

Fifty-five

Fifty-six

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight

Fifty-nine

Sixty

Sixty-one

Sixty-two

Sixty-three

Sixty-four

Sixty-five

Sixty-six

Sixty-seven

Sixty-eight

Sixty-nine

Seventy

Seventy-one

Seventy-two

Seventy-three

Epilogue

A Note About the Ojibwe

Author’s Note

About the Author

Coming Soon

One

October 3, 1893

Upper Peninsula, Michigan

A mist lingers over the city of Bouleaux, the chilly air thick and damp, filled with the scent of Sin and decay. I shiver when I debark the ferry, pulling my cloak more tightly around me.

Helaine loops her arm through mine the moment our balmoral boots hit the dock, and I instinctively shy away from her touch. She is undeterred, or perhaps, she doesn’t notice; it’s hard to tell her with her. But she’s two years younger than me, and she hasn’t ever travelled off Teesho Isle before.

My duties take me into the city a few times a week, purchasing paper and ink for the sermons, or oil for the lamps, or perhaps carbolic soap for cleaning or flour for the kitchen. Whatever is needed at L’etoile du Matin Abbey, I am sent to fetch it.

Of course, Bouleaux is too dangerous for a young woman such as myself to go alone, even in the morning. Avaline usually goes with me, but she’s been caught up in her work lately, with several toddlers falling ill this past month.

Four years ago, I had trained under Bethel, but when we’d first been ordained as siderum, Avaline went with me. Since then, Avaline has become the Abbey’s practitioner of medicine, and it has been more and more difficult for her to get away from her duties to go with me on my errands.

So, Mother Magdaliana had decided it was time for someone else to aid me, and she sent me with Helaine. This is her first time visiting the city, and I try to hide my irritation when she stares wide-eyed at all the sights and sounds she hasn’t experienced before.

The sights are certainly unusual compared to our quiet life on the forest island in Lake Huron, but there’s nothing wonderous about them. It’s crowded and filthy, and it reeks of excrement and booze.

A dirty urchin holds his hands out to anyone leaving the docks, begging for coins we don’t have to spare, but Helaine slows and looks at him with pity.

Helaine, I say and tug at her elbow.

Can’t we help him? She’s pleading with me as I lead her down the muddy road. He’s little more than a baby –

Mother Magdaliana would’ve sent money to help paupers if that’s what we were meant to do, I tell her simply, repeating what Bethel had taught me the first time she brought me to the city. We only have enough coin to get what we require.

Well, why do we have to give him anything? Helaine presses on. Can’t we bring him back with us to the Abbey?

Helaine, don’t be absurd. They have enough to do in the nursery, I remind her, and we weave through the horses and slow-moving pedestrians to make our way deeper into Bouleaux.

But we could make room, she insists, and I curse under my breath. We can rescue him –

It’s not rescuing, it’s kidnapping. I turn to face her fully, and her dark eyes are sullen. Helaine, we are peuros siderum – servants of the Abbey. We are not citizens of this city. These aren’t our neighbors or our friends. They don’t care about us; we don’t care about them. We trade, and we go home. That is our mission.

She scowls but she nods. Yes, Emiliath. I will serve the Abbey better.

Good. I glance up at the clocktower. We should hurry. The morning grows late.

Helaine casts her eyes toward the sky, and she nods more fervently. She’s small and pale, more of a sickly sparrow than girl, and even with her unearned optimism, she knows she’s not safe in the city.

We’re able to get through our first errands with little delay. In the apothecary, the townsfolk give us strange looks. Our dark cloaks are for the cold autumn weather, but the black lace veil covers our hair year-round, pinned atop a red scarf. The uniform lets everyone know that we’re from the Matin Abbey on the island.

At least in the respectable parts of Bouleaux, they give us a bit of distance. But once we leave the center market and venture down the backroads of Bittern Street, the drunkards and ladies-of-ill-repute do not give us any courtesy or respect.

They leer, they shout, they even reach out to touch our cloaks as we step over the river of the blood that runs down from the butcher shop.

Helaine makes the mistake of making eye contact with a toothless man, and he starts to follow us.

I pull her arm harder, hurrying her, and over my shoulder, I shout at the man, Be gone with you, you disgusting fool!

Stuck up witches. He sneers at us beneath glassy eyes. The devil’s already got you.

Then we have nothing to fear of you, I retort and turn away from him to head to our final stop.

The drunken fool serves some use, though. Helaine adheres herself to my side now, her fingers knotted in the rope belt cinched around my waist.

Outside the Joliet Butchery, flies are abuzz around the sausages and carcasses hanging in the open windows. The floor is covered in sawdust, some of it already clumping with curdled blood from the day’s work, and the metallic scent is so thick in the air, I can taste it.

I reaffix the red scarf across my forehead, the one under my veil that hides my unruly hair, and Helaine releases me, apparently feeling safer inside the shop.

We’re the only customers here, and the lone employee stands behind the counter. I noticed him working the last few times I’ve come in. He’s much quieter than his jovial boss Sveinn Joliet but he has a nice smile. He’s some years older than myself, with his chestnut hair landing below his ears, and his stubble dark on his sharp jaw.

Like many butchers I’ve seen, he wears a blood-stained apron over a sleeveless shirt, and flecks of dark red mar his biceps. He’s wielding a cleaver, and he slams it into the wooden chopping block – hard enough that Helaine jumps in surprise. He turns his dark eyes toward me, and he offers an easy smile.

Can I help you? he asks, his voice deep and serious, a sharp contrast with his soft, friendly expression.

Is Sveinn Joliet in back? I ask for the owner by name as I approach the counter.

No, sorry.

Mr. Joliet usually helps us, I explain. He understands the… specific requirements of our needs.

I’m sorry. He’s gone for the day. He leans forward, resting his hands flat on the counter, and his eyes hold mine. You can tell me your needs, and I can take care of them. Or you can come back tomorrow. The choice is yours.

Emiliath, tell him what we need, and then we can go, Helaine says, nearly begging again, and she’s standing by the open window with a handkerchief to her nose.

The young butcher keeps his gaze on me, his eyebrows raised expectantly.

I sigh and pull the list I’d neatly folded in my pouch, and I slide it across the counter to him.

Is that it? he asks, after he’s read it over.

Yes. That is all.

I’ll have to go in back. He straightens up. But I’ll have it right out to you.

Thank you, I mumble, and he disappears through a narrow door into the backroom.

You come here every week? Helaine asks me after he’s gone, sounding completely appalled.

At least once a week, I clarify.

But I saw other shops in the town center, Helaine argues, as if this butchery had been my choice. As if my every destination isn’t predetermined by Mother Magdaliana and the Abbey. Why don’t you stop at any of those? They’re closer and – she lowers her voice, even though we’re alone, – cleaner.

This is the only one that carries what we need, I tell her absently, because I’m watching through the door, observing the butcher work.

His back is to me. His shoulders are broad with a jagged scar that crosses from the nape of his neck, darting under his shirt and across his shoulder blade.

He pauses his work, glancing back at me, and suddenly, I think, He can feel me watching him. I look away quickly, even though I know it’s absurd. But I’m happy for my dark olive complexion, helping to mask the blush on my cheeks.

– always envious that you and Avaline got to leave the island, Helaine is saying, and I realize I haven’t been listening to her, but she doesn’t seem to notice. But this is not the adventure I thought it was.

We always told you it was no adventure at all, I remind her.

I truly never believed you before, she admits, her small voice tight because she still holds the cloth to her nose. But I do now.

The butcher returns a moment later, the meat wrapped in parchment and twine already, and he sets it on the counter and tells me the price. When I drop the coin before him, he smiles crookedly and says, I’m glad I was able to help you today.

Thank you, I say again, lowering my eyes as I take the order.

He watches me as I turn to go. Helaine hurries at my heels, and the putrid air outside the shop provides little relief. We step over the stream running down the gutter – dark with blood and anything else that leaks onto this forsaken road – and we’ve only made it another step when the toothless drunk blocks our path.

I open my mouth to tell him off, but he pulls a dagger from his pocket and holds the dirty blade toward me. Helaine squeals in fright, and I move to block her, standing between her and the knife-wielding drunkard.

Two

I can give you my pouch with all the coin I have left, I tell him, keeping my voice even and strong. My eyes are locked onto the bleary maniac while my hand goes to the soft leather pouch attached to my belt.

He laughs, the scent of fetid meat and potent booze comes off in a disgusting cloud, and I can’t help but flinch.

It ain’t your coin I’m after, he says, and his glassy eyes travel down – lingering only for a moment on my breasts hidden under thick fabric – before settling on the packages wrapped in parchment.

I hold them to my chest. If I gave you coin, you can buy all that you wish.

No need to buy it when you’ve already got it. He gives me a toothless sneer.

Give him what he wants and we can go, Helaine implores me.

Go now. To the ferry, I tell her firmly.

She hesitates a moment, and the drunkard starts closing the distance between us. Then she darts to the side, and he lunges at her. I move in between them, and though I succeed in shielding her, the price I pay is a blade tearing through my clothing, the sharp point piercing the tender flesh of my belly.

Oy! A strong voice shouts, and we all look back to see the butcher, holding a meat mallet.

As soon as the drunk looks at him, the butcher swings, and it collides against the drunk’s head with a wet thud. He instantly crumbles to the dirt road, unconscious.

I told him he needs to stop bothering our customers, the butcher says.

You saved us! Helaine’s staring up at him in awe.

The butcher looks over to me, his eyes bouncing from mine down to the wound in my stomach. It’s your friend who deserves the gratitude. She took a knife for you.

Emiliath! Helaine gasps and flits to my side and grips my arm.

I’m fine. It’s little more than a scratch, I assure her with a wan smile.

Come inside and get cleaned up, the butcher says. There’s a sink in the back with clean water.

I can wait until I get home, I try to decline.

"Emiliath, you’re bleeding, Helaine persists. You can’t go around dripping blood."

Come on. The butcher motions toward the shop.

Arguing would only prolong this, so I let Helaine take my arm and we return to the butchery. He directs us to the back, but he stays out front at the counter.

The wound is shallow and about an inch long, hardly anything to die over, but it stings. I focus on the bloodstained tools mounted on the wall while Helaine cleans it with cold water and murmurs a prayer to herself.

With a clean rag pressed to my cut, Helaine uses a hairpin – one of many that hold her veil in place on her scarf – to secure my torn dress.

When we come out of the back, the windows are closed, and the butcher has discarded his apron. He’s pulling on a long duster jacket, carefully folding down the collar.

Oh, forgive us, Helaine says. We didn’t mean to keep you past close.

I am closing on your behalf, he says. The streets have proven themselves unsafe, and I would be remiss if I let further injury befall you.

Helaine lowers her eyes, her pale cheeks growing rosy. You are too kind, and we are forever grateful for your protection and courtesy.

It is too kind and unnecessary, I say, and then, when he looks uncertainly at me, I add, But if you insist on escorting us to the ferry, I cannot stop you.

It’s settled then, he says and holds the shop door open for us.

The street in front of the butchery is empty – the drunkard is gone. Though whether it is by his own accord or someone else’s, I cannot say.

I wind my arm through Helaine’s, meaning to keep her close to me, but she’s always been a persistent thing. She steers me nearer to the butcher, falling in step beside him, and even though I know that I shouldn’t, I do feel safer with him around.

You’ve done so much for us, and we don’t even know your name, Helaine says as we walk.

Trent, he says in a low rumble. His voice is oddly comforting and menacing all at once, like far-off thunder during a summer storm.

I’m called Helaine. This is Emiliath.

He glances over at me. It’s good to make your acquaintance. Even if it has been under less-than-ideal circumstances.

It is always ideal if it leads to new friends, Helaine says brightly.

I want to correct her, to tell her that a stranger she’s only just met is no friend, but I bite my tongue as she effuses over her new-found hero. I won’t let her run off with him – not that I think Helaine would even dare do such a thing, naïve though she may be – and there’s no need to waste time arguing with her.

We don’t have a chance to make a lot of friends where we live, Helaine goes on.

You come from the Abbey on the island? he asks, his gaze travelling over our uniforms.

She nods. We’ve lived there since we were born.

That’s not entirely true, but I already decided not to correct her mistakes in front of Trent, so I don’t start now.

Were you born in Michigan? she asks him.

No, I’ve only been here for a few weeks. His hands are buried in the pockets of his soot-colored jacket as he walks beside us.

Where do you come from? Helaine asks.

Here and there, really, he replies with a shrug.

Oh. She is deflated but only for a moment. Were you a butcher there?

No, but I’m not a butcher now, he answers rather cryptically.

I give him a sidelong glance when I question, What is it that you do at the butchery then?

Apprentice, he says with a wry smile. I’m new to the vocation.

New city, new job, it all sounds so exciting, Helaine says. I’ve only ever lived in the same place, and to start over somewhere new sounds like such a terrible adventure.

He laughs then, a sound like warm thunder. I’d hardly consider myself an adventurer.

Helaine thinks everything is an adventure, I say.

She scowls, but she falls silent and I’m happy for the respite. Without all her inquiries, Trent doesn’t speak, not until we’re nearly to the dock.

He stops then and says, I think you ladies will be safe from here back to your home.

Of course. I turn back to him, and his eyes are like the night, dark and endless holding me like a precious star. Thank you.

You are most welcome, Emiliath, he says, and hearing my name on his lips makes my heart flutter and I have to look away.

You are a true saint among men, Helaine says, and he laughs, more heartily this time.

Your praise is much too high, he says. And you should make haste so you don’t miss your ferry.

Come now, Helaine, I say, not because I worry about the boat – we have time before it leaves. What worries me is the heat in my belly that grows every time Trent laughs.

I take Helaine’s arm, and I don’t look back at him, even though I swear I can feel his gaze – warm and prickly – following me. Is this what he felt when I was watching in him in the butchery? I wonder, before quickly chasing away such a scandalous thought.

Once we are on the boat, seated with the few other passengers that need ferrying between the islands and mainland, I take a deep breath and stare out at the placid dark waters of Lake Huron. Helaine is beside me on the wooden bench, but she looks back over her shoulder at the shore. At Trent.

I am so pleased that we made a friend, even if I am sorry that you were injured, she says.

The butcher kills animals, and he sells their flesh and blood. He is not the type to be trusted, and a stroll through the town does not a friendship make, I admonish her, but truthfully, I’m admonishing myself.

She sinks lower in her seat, sullen, but she doesn’t argue with me.

Everything I said was true, but my heart keeps racing at the thought of Trent, and that will not do at all.

Three

L’etoile du Matin Abbey is a large stone building built in the thick woods of the Teesho Isle on the northern edge of Lake Huron. It had been built many years ago when David was yet a young man.

The island is loosely inhabited on the northern side, closest to the mainland, with a few homes, a fishery, a boat shop, and a rather pitiful general store with overpriced jams and smoked fish.

The Abbey rests on a hill in the middle of the island, on the edge of the dense Makwa Forest. We walk a narrow dirt road, through thick evergreens, and it feels like we’re the only people in the whole World.

As we slowly round the bend through the trees, the imposing compound appears. The Abbey is laid out in a square, made of bricks the same dark red color of an old scab. Statues loom on the eaves – winged creatures with hideous faces, watching over all who enter.

The Abbey sits right up against the road, with the private entrance connected by a path. It’s a three-story building, and the main floor is offices, the infirmary, the kitchen, and a few private quarters. At the very back is the grand Church, with the vaulted roofs towering over the rest of the building.

In the center is the Courtyard, invisible from the road, and it’s only accessed for cleaning and for special ceremonies. Outside, at the back southwest corner, a tiny cemetery is nestled between the Abbey and the forest that surrounds the entire property.

To the southeast of the compound are the acres of farmlands. A long barn is at the end of a fenced in pasture. It houses our cattle, sheep, chickens, as well as the Irish wolfhounds used for hunting, and some of the wayward boys no longer allowed in the main building.

Beyond the north of the barn is a small, unassuming shack, almost hidden under overreaching pine branches. The lone little building is known as the Shed, and I’d only been out to it once. To the far south, on the other side of the Church, are the fields and gardens where our crops grew in the warmer months.

Very little of that could be seen from where we walked – most of the Abbey is hidden from outside eyes.

I walk faster than Helaine, even though she isn’t injured and I’m carrying most of the packages. She’s been sulking all the way home, and I’m weary and feeling off-kilter – both from the drunkard’s confrontation and the walk with Trent – so I don’t have the energy to cheer Helaine along.

Her mood turns almost the moment we pass through the private entrance. Thomasin is in the Warming Room off the entryway, adding more logs to the hearth since the temperature is dropping outside. Before I can even set down the packages and untie my cloak, Helaine announces our afternoon events with macabre glee.

A vagrant tried to rob us, she says, ostensibly to Thomasin, but loud enough so anyone in the vicinity might here.

Avaline is coming down the corridor from her infirmary office, and some of the younger girls hurry over to greet us.

Was he successful? Thomasin asks.

Emiliath stood up to him, so he sliced her across her belly! Helaine says as they gather around us.

Avaline’s pale eyes flash with worry, and she’s instantly at my side, poking around for my injury.

And then a handsome butcher came and saved us! Helaine says, and now that’s too much. I must interrupt before she gets carried away.

Helaine is embellishing a rather unremarkable incident, I say, downplaying as much as I’m able.

Your dress is torn. Thomasin points to the hairpin holding it together.

He cut her with a big blade, Helaine continues undeterred by me.

Is that true, Emiliath? Mother Magdaliana’s voice cuts through the murmurs of the girls crowding around Helaine and me, and the room falls silent. Somehow, she’s snuck up on us, though the clack of the sharp heel of her boots usually gives her away before she arrives.

She stands across from me, at the edge of the corridor. Her hands are clasped over her braided belt, and her icy blue eyes pierce straight through me. Her uniform is a mirror of my own and all the girls, except where ours is the color of charcoal, hers is rose red.

The veil that hides her golden hair is pitch black, and her skin is like porcelain. Lines form around her eyes and mouth, but much fewer than one would expect for someone her age.

Avaline thinks it’s because she’s touched by the Lord, and his grace keeps her skin young and pure. But I can’t imagine that’s true, not even in my kindest thoughts.

The knife wasn’t very big, I answer Mother carefully. The injury is little more than a scratch, m’um.

Were you able to complete your errands? she asks.

I nod vigorously. Yes, m’um.

Good.

She steps closer. Her long skirt sways around her like a bell, and the younger girls bow their heads and shirk away from me. Even Avaline, Helaine, and Thomasin take a step back, although they are much more subtle about it than the others.

You’re very fortunate that only your garments and your dignity were wounded, Mother Magdaliana says, her voice as cold and clear as a frozen lake.

Mother, I strive to live a life of humility and without pride, I say.

And you have nothing to be proud of, she says, her words nearly overlapping my feeble protest. You are far more accustomed to the city than Helaine. It was your duty to protect the Abbey’s belongings. That includes your habit, your body, and Helaine.

I am sorry, Mother. My chin is hung to my chest, and I’m staring down at the floor and her pointed black boots poking out from underneath her skirt. I’ll try to be more careful next time.

"You will be more careful, Mother Magdaliana commands. Or there will be consequences."

I nod, shame burning my cheeks. Yes, m’um. Of course.

Good. She exhales. Now go put the packages away, then clean yourself and get to your afternoon chores. The rest of you, get back to your duties and your lessons.

The girls scurry away like frightened little farm mice, and within moments, it’s only me and Helaine. I slip off my cloak and boots – switching out my town balmoral boots for flat house slippers. I watch Mother disappear slowly down the hallway, her red dress fading into the shadows.

I hand off as many of the packages to Helaine that I think she can handle. But I can’t send her inside Ead David’s Study. She isn’t even allowed in there, but if she were, I still wouldn’t trust her with his things.

David is our father, as Magdaliana is our Mother. That is what his title – Ead, pronounced as ee-AH-day – translates to: father.

His Study is down on the east wing of the Abbey, back in the corner with the windows overlooking pasture and barn. He often watches out the window, at the lean-to next to the barn that houses his beloved wolfhounds. He’s not there when I arrive, because he usually takes his constitutional in the woods with his hounds in early afternoon, rain or shine.

It’s a large room, but the dark wood walls and lofty bookcases make it seem smaller. The shelves house hundreds of books, including the battered copy of Treasure Island that I repeatedly snuck for Helaine, Thomasin, and I to read. A hint of light breaks through the overcast sky and through the windows, but I don’t want to waste time lighting lamps, so I hurry through the shadows.

Nestled between the bookcases, behind his desk, is a wooden cabinet with iron handles on the door. It’s about the size and shape of a clothing wardrobe, but this one has a compartment on the top filled with ice. We grow ice deep in the underground cellar. In the morning, I restock the ice, and the Ead sends me to the town a few times a week to restock the icebox itself.

I leave the meat in the parchment, the blood darkening the waxy paper. Then I check to see if anything in the icebox has begun to turn. For that, I don’t need any light. I’ve done this for so long, I can tell what’s begun to rot by smell alone the way Bethel had taught me. Today, everything is still fresh, but sometimes, I’m left with pounds of meat to be incinerated.

With that done, I hurry down the corridor, and up to the third floor, to my room. The second floor is the dormitory for the children and postulates – those younger and with less prestigious roles in the Abbey. They sleep in big rooms with a dozen beds, with no privacy and no space from their peers.

That’s how I slept until I was seventeen. My bed was next to Avaline’s in the center, with Thomasin’s kitty-corner from us against the wall. We’d sleep huddled together under thin blankets during the coldest nights of winter.

When we were finally ordained as peuros siderum, we were given our own rooms on the third floor, with softer beds and thicker blankets and our very own wardrobe and desk.

I don’t have much time to clean myself, because I have chores to do, so I hurriedly begin undressing. First my lace veil and red scarf come off. My long dark hair is still in thick braids, pinned to my head, and I wish I had time to let it down and run my fingers through it.

I slip off my top and skirt, and I lay them on my narrow bed. My petticoat was unharmed by the drunkard’s assault, but my off-white chemise is torn with blood staining through the thin cotton. I curse under my breath, because now I have extra work to get it clean.

The jacket is dark enough to hide the blood, but it will still need to be mended. I don’t check under the rag Helaine placed at the butchery, but it’s not soaked through, and it only hurts a bit; enough to be irritating but not enough for me to worry about.

As I’m pulling fresh clothing from my wardrobe, there’s a meek knock at my door, and Avaline steps in without waiting for an invitation. She knows that she doesn’t need it. Though I’m only in my bloomers, with my breasts wrapped under a sheer band and my hair exposed, no shame or discomfort is shared between either of us.

Life in the Abbey never allowed for any privacy, and even now that we have walls between us, our bond remains unchanged. Avaline is my oldest friend, closest confident, and a sister of heart and circumstance if not by blood.

Our lack of physical relation is apparent in our appearance. She’s fair and pale, with fine hair the color of fading sunshine, and her eyes are the faintest gray of an autumn fog. She’s thin, frail, with a round face, and a solitary dimple on her left cheek when she smiles.

I am short, bordering on squat, with untamable black hair. My skin is much darker than hers, though I am not rich brown like Lenore or even the tawny like Thomasin. Where are all of Avaline’s features are delicate, petite, mine are substantial, protruding.

Now she’s frowning, worry tightening her face as she eyes my bandage. How are you truly?

"I am fine. Truly, I add, but she doesn’t look as though she believes me. Helaine is the one who is fond of telling stories, not me."

So you are denying her account that a drunkard tried to kill you in the street today? Avaline asks pointedly.

Yes! I insist, and then I roll my eyes at her doubt. A drunk asked for our coin, I said no, he stumbled and gave me a scratch. It was little more than a nuisance.

She’s moved closer to me, standing in front of the window beside my wardrobe, and she lowers her voice to a whisper. And were you not saved by a handsome butcher?

I pretend to be focused on looking through my wardrobe – as if all my clothes aren’t identical – and hope she doesn’t notice the blush rising on my cheeks at the memory of Trent.

The butcher scared him off, I reply carefully. "But you