Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

Sister Serafina turns and frowns at me over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I say, and force myself to step over the threshold.

Sister Vereda’s chamber is dark and dim. The smells of a sickroom hang thick in the air: pungent herbs, a full chamber pot, old fevered sweat. It feels like every breath the seeress has ever drawn still sits here, trapped for all eternity. It is all I can do not to gag and run screaming from the room.

I take slow, deep breaths through my mouth and allow my eyes to grow accustomed to gloom. Once they have, the first thing I see is a pale orange glow from the four charcoal braziers set around the room. As my vision adjusts further, I am able to make out the interior, a small, cramped place with no windows, only the one door, and not even a true fireplace.

Sister Serafina sets down her tray, then takes the basin from my hands. “How is she?” she asks the lay sister who sits by the bed.

“She is well enough, for now,” the lay sister replies. “But she is fretful when awake, and her breathing grows even more shallow and labored.”

“Not for long,” Sister Serafina says with grim determination in her voice.

When the lay sister has left, I trail behind Sister Serafina as she draws near the bed. Even though Vereda is old, her cheeks are as smooth and plump as a babe’s. I cannot help but wonder if this is because it has been years since she set foot outside this room and felt the sun or the wind against her face. She wears no wimple, but a small linen cap covers her hair with only white wisps escaping in a few places. Her body is a lump, obscured by layers of blankets to keep her warm. As I stare down at her, Sister Eonette’s comment that Sister Vereda’s illness hints at some sinister undercurrent comes back to me. “What is wrong with her?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

Sister Serafina sets her little kettle on one of the charcoal braziers in the room. “I do not yet know.”

“I thought we who were born of Mortain did not get sick?”

Sister Serafina purses her lips and motions impatiently. “Bring me the dried coltsfoot, comfrey, and mallow root you have in the dish there.”

I do as she asks and wonder why she will not answer me. Still silent, she takes the herbs and dumps them into the kettle and begins to stir. After a long moment, she finally speaks. “We do not get sick. Or not often, at least. And when we do, we heal quickly. Let us pray that Sister Vereda will heal quickly as well.”

Since it is the prayer I have uttered with every breath I’ve taken since overhearing the abbess’s plans for me, it is easy enough to agree. “Good. Now remove her blankets and unlace her shift. We’re going to put this poultice on her chest and keep it there until the phlegm releases its hold on her lungs.”

In this moment I realize I have no earthly idea what this sort of nursing entails. It sounds most vile. I am torn between laughter and tears. All my life, I have waited in breathless anticipation for my meeting with the seeress. It would be the culmination of seventeen years’ hard work—a triumphant call to serve Mortain. But instead, I am here to empty her chamber pot and wipe up her spittle.

It is almost—almost—enough to make me wish the Dragonette were still alive. And even though she has been dead these seven years, my stomach clenches painfully at the thought.

Chapter Four

IT TAKES NEARLY THREE WEEKS, but just as winter solstice draws near, we are finally able to chase the illness from Sister Vereda’s aging body. She is still weak and frail, but she will live.

I have never nursed anyone as vigorously or fervently as I did the old seeress. I slept on a cot next to hers; spooned rich broth through her thin, wrinkled lips; sponged her fevered brow with cool water mixed with herbs; and applied poultices to her shriveled chest with my own hands, desperate to chase the fever from her lungs.

She was not an easy patient, for though I have helped Sister Serafina with new girls when they arrive, the seeress was far more restless and fussy. Not to mention the unpleasantness of her foul, stale little room. I vow, not a whisper of fresh air has entered that room since she was first sealed in it all those years ago.

And so it was with great joy that I awoke two days ago to find her milky-white eyes open, her skin cool, and nothing but grumbling and complaints on her lips, for it takes no small amount of energy to gripe, and surely that is a good sign.

A gust of wind, sharp and salty from the surrounding sea, snatches at my cloak and sends a gray cloud swollen with rain scuttling across the sun. Even though it causes me to shiver, I lift my face and spread my arms wide, willing the brisk air to carry away all the vestiges of the sickroom.

As far as I know, nothing more has been said of me replacing Sister Vereda, at least not that I have been able to overhear. But even if it has, there is more joyous news this morning: Sister Vereda’s visions have returned. Assuredly, they were small, unimportant ones, but they were visions nonetheless, and I cannot wait to report them to the abbess. Once I have confirmed that they are true.

That is what brings me to the rookery.

It is dark inside the small hut and reeks of crow droppings and faintly rancid meat. Sister Claude is settling a crow on its perch and crooning in a soothing, tuneless murmur. The old nun’s disheveled black habit covers her shapeless form like a set of poorly groomed feathers. Her head, encased in her black veil, is scrawny and birdlike, her nose as long and sharp as any beak. She cocks her head at me. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Wondered where you got to.”

“I’ve been helping with poor Sister Vereda, but she is better now, so I should be resuming my regular duties.”

She grunts. “Too bad no one told the abbess that. You just missed her.”

That news stops me cold. “The abbess? What was she doing here?”

She sniffs. “Said she was taking a turn in the garden and saw the crow come in, but I can’t fathom what she’d be doing in the garden on a day like this. Do you think she was checking up on me?”

“I can’t imagine why she would be,” I assure her. But it is most odd. In all my years here, I do not remember her ever coming to the rookery for messages. It is not like I am the only novitiate who can fetch and carry for her. I distract Sister Claude from her worries by handing her the small packet of sugared almonds I pilfered from the kitchens. “Here, I brought you something. Let me stoke the fire, and then I will heat some wine to go with it.”

The old nun’s face brightens and she clacks her teeth together in anticipation as she goes to take a seat. That is Sister Claude’s secret: she has developed an overfondness for wine. Although who could fault her when she is so often excluded from the excitement and festivities that take place in the convent proper?

I tend the fire until it is burning brightly, then take one of the pokers from the hearth and wipe the ashes from it with my apron. “Who was the message from?” I ask as I thrust the poker into the fire. Pretending I am not overly interested in the answer, I pour wine into a heavy tankard.

“’Tweren’t either of those friends of yours,” the old nun says around a mouthful of nuts, “so don’t be fretting.”

I ignore the thin rebuke, grab the heated poker, and then thrust it into the tankard. There is a faint hiss as the hot metal warms the wine, and the scent of it fills the room.

“’Twas Chancellor Crunard,” she says as I hand the wine to her. That is her other secret, that she will trade bits of information for creature comforts and kindness, things that I would give her anyway.

“And we only received the one?”

“Aye.”

I bite back a sigh. It appears Sister Vereda was spouting nonsense this morning rather than true visions, for she had reported that there would be two messages. Hiding my disappointment, I turn my attention to the crow who is still pacing across the table, faintly agitated and fluffing out his feathers. Trying to decide how much more I can press her for answers—did she have time to read the message before the abbess arrived?—I reach for the thick heavy crock that holds the birds’ rewards and sn

ag a gobbet of meat to feed him.

Just as he snatches it from my fingers, the door to the rookery flies open and crashes into the wall. For a moment I fear that the abbess has returned and has been listening at the door, but no, it is merely the wind howling into the room, causing the crows to raise their voices in caws of annoyance.

“I’ll get it,” I tell Sister Claude. I hasten across the room to push the door shut when my eye is caught by a small, dark speck dizzily making its way through the gathering clouds. It takes me a moment to realize it is another crow.

My spirits lift; the old seeress was correct after all. “I’ll be right back,” I call over my shoulder, then hurry outside.

The poor creature struggles mightily against the wind, which seems to be playing with it much like a cat plays with a mouse. A gust flings the crow higher into the sky, only to have an invisible hand bat him back down so that it is all he can do to stay in the air. For a few seconds he can do nothing but hover, trapped by the force of the wind, before it releases him and he shoots forward.

I raise my arm and the crow lunges for it, grabbing hold with sharp eager claws. Quickly, I bring my other hand up around the bird and begin murmuring soothing noises as I smooth his feathers. I stare at the bulging packet on his right leg. I must make a decision, and quickly.