“Neighbor, you have that face again. Did you find something?” Helena’s eyes were bright with curiosity as she peeked at the notebook.

“It’s nothing, really.” Clara closed it and set it on the desk. I need to play some poker when this is over, because whatever my face is doing is becoming a problem. “By the way, Lady Helena, out of curiosity, what kind of key does Inquisitor Roderick have?”

“Inquisitor Roderick? Silver, like all the senior clergy.” Helena pursed her lips. “Wait. Do you suspect him? Clara, I really don’t think he—”

“No,” Clara said quickly. “I don’t suspect him. I was only mapping out who has access to what, so I can get a more complete picture of the playing field.”

“That makes sense.”

Forgive me, Goddess, for I have perjured myself.

Because the truth was, her mind was practically shouting Roderick’s name. He had the means, the motive, and even an association with Leofric—if Clara had set out to design someone to fit the definition of ‘suspicious inquisitor who is secretly evil,’ she would hardly have been able to come up with someone better than the relic keeper.

But she had also just seen what happened when Helena Rosewood decided someone was guilty; she wouldn’t be forgetting the image of Father Anchieta dangling in the air and clawing at his own throat anytime soon. Clara would have to handle her suspicions very carefully going forward.

“Lady Helena.” Clara held out her hand, little finger extended. “Before we go any further, let’s make another promise. That no matter what we find, or who we find, you won’t hurt anyone.”

Helena looked at Clara’s finger.

“No magic, either,” Clara added, remembering the girl’s penchant for stretching the truth. “And no choking. Oh, and definitely no killing, or doing anything that would constitute or otherwise lead to death or injury.” Not the kind of contract I ever pictured myself drafting.

Helena puckered her lips in silence.

“I think I can do that,” she finally said, hooking her finger around Clara’s. “I promise.”

Why did you have to think about it?!

“Thank you. When we find out who did it, I promise I’ll take it to the Cardinal Primate, and I’m sure the Church will handle it properly. There’s no need to take matters into your own hands.” Clara put on her best reassuring smile. “Also, while we’re on the subject of keys, there’s something else I’ve been wondering. Not many people have gold ones, and even Mother Cornelia, the one who enchants them, only has silver. How do the gold keys work? What are they for?”

“The gold ones are special,” Helena answered. “They have a much more powerful enchantment, which lasts many times longer—months and months, sometimes more. The custodian can’t make them or renew them, only Her Holiness can. They’re mostly for members of the Ecumenical Council.”

That was good information, but it still didn’t answer the question of how Radegund had one, and whether it was related to her death.

“I suppose you got yours because you’re a Saintess-to-be?”

“Oh no, I’ve had this for a while now.” Helena touched her necklace. “They made an exception for me, so I could spend my time here more comfortably.”

Hmm. Interesting.

“And speaking of the custodian, why don’t we go check in on Mother Cornelia?”

“Mother Cornelia? Whatever for?”

“Because I haven’t seen her all day,” said Clara. “She wasn’t there at the morning re-incantation—it was an assistant who handled that—and when I ran to the gatehouse to get Tobias, she wasn’t there either. I’ve thought she was pretty strict ever since I first met her, so that struck me as odd.”

It was a sensible next step for the investigation. It was also, Clara had to admit, a convenient excuse not to go to the reliquary yet. If Inquisitor Roderick was cut from the same cloth as Leofric, she absolutely did not want to confront him without having all the information she could get.

---

Helena knocked on the door of Mother Cornelia’s quarters, located on the opposite side of the abbey from Mother Radegund’s. After a pause so long that Clara wondered if anyone was inside, the door opened.

Clara almost didn’t recognize the custodian. Her light-red hair was loose and flattened on one side, and the shadows under her green eyes were deep enough to rival Warren’s worst nights aboard the Esperança. Even her habit, which was as impeccable as ever, hung heavier on her.

“Lady Helena.” Cornelia straightened her shoulders. “I am honored to receive a personal visit from the Saintess-to-be. And… the vessel as well, I see. Please, come in. I was about to take tea.”

Lovely to see you too, Mother.

They stepped inside, and Clara did a double-take at the state of the room.

She had cleaned rooms for a living, in a manner of speaking, and she knew what pristine was supposed to look like, per the head maid’s exacting standards. But this was something else.

Every single object sat in perfect order. The custodian had arranged her books by height, their spines flush with the shelf’s edge despite their obviously different sizes; on the desk, she’d sorted her pens in descending order of length, next to an inkwell and a candle that hadn’t spilled a single drop of wax; even the old stone floor gleamed like marble, and the whole room smelled of lye soap.

Cornelia directed them to the table by the window slit, then took a pot from a small stand by the hearth and poured a cup of tea, setting it before Helena.

“Thank you, Mother Cornelia,” Helena said.

There was no cup for Clara. I guess vessels don’t need to drink. Ironic.

Cornelia sat down across from Helena. “To what do I owe this visit, Lady Helena? I must note that if this is regarding the ceremony, it should go through the proper channels, as the Ecumenical Council has specific procedures to handle that.”

Helena shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I was just worried about you, Mother. We didn’t see you at all today, and you’re always working so hard. I wanted to make sure you were well.”

Clara had assumed—correctly, by the look of things—that Mother Cornelia would not be receptive to questioning by a ‘vessel,’ so she’d coached Helena on what to ask and how to ask it. It was a nostalgic experience, akin to teaching an intern back at Caine, Polis & Smith. If interns could crush a man with their minds.

Just another day in the exciting life of a fantasy lawyer. How did that curse go again? I think it was ‘may you live in interesting times.’

“I see.” Cornelia lowered her head. “I apologize for my absence, and I am grateful for your concern, Lady Helena, unnecessary though it is. I am unwell today, and so I have filed for a rest day in accordance with the abbey’s ordinances.” She frowned. “The fourth in over twenty years of service. I dislike adding to that number, but a custodian who is not at full attention is worse than no custodian at all. Sister Marcia is handling my duties.”

“Unwell with what, Mother?” asked Clara.

“Nothing that concerns a guest of the Ministry. I am simply tired—it happens, occasionally, when one carries the burdens I carry. It will pass with time, which is what a rest day is for.”

“Of course.”

Helena took a sip of her tea, then set the cup down on its saucer. “Mother Cornelia, might I ask you something else? About Mother Radegund.”

“I have heard about what happened to her.” Cornelia narrowed her eyes, then put a hand over her chest. “As a fellow servant of the Church, I respect her long service to this abbey. May the Goddess receive her.”

“May the Goddess receive her,” Helena repeated. “Mother Cornelia, did you happen to see her yesterday?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I…” Helena looked down, her voice low. “I wanted to know what her last day was like. I didn’t get to be around her all that much yesterday, and I thought, if I can find out how she spent her final moments, then I can keep her with me in my prayers.”

Very convincing. More proof that Helena’s powers of persuasion came not from outright lies but from leaning on certain parts of the truth.

“That is a noble sentiment, my lady, though I regret to say that I cannot aid you. I spent all of yesterday in service of the Cardinal Primate, and I did not cross paths with Mother Radegund. Her Eminence’s work has grown substantially because of the ceremony, and she relies on me for support. When my work finished yesterday, it was already late, and all that remained was to go to sleep. I only learned of Mother Radegund’s passing this morning, when I left the room to file my absence slip. The ordinances require it to be submitted in person before the first bell, and a custodian cannot make exceptions, even for herself.” Cornelia smiled ruefully.

“You didn’t see her at all? Not even a glimpse?” asked Helena.

“No. Had I known it would be her last day with us, perhaps I would have made sure our paths crossed at least once. I am sorry, Lady Helena.”

---

Clara braced herself as they went into a narrow corridor lit not by lamps but by crystals enclosed in glass. The air within was dry, and her hands curled instinctively.

“You’re very stiff, Clara,” Helena observed. “Is something wrong?”

“Just some… unpleasant memories.”

There’s no reason to be nervous, Casewell. You’re only going to talk to him; nothing’s going to happen. If you think he’s suspicious, you’ll go to the Cardinal Primate later and tell her about it.

Clara straightened her back.

Stay alert. Look out for any gemstones. If he chants anything, you grab Helena and run. Don’t let him catch you by surprise like Leofric did.

They made their way through the heavy double doors at the end of the corridor and into the reliquary’s main chamber. It was a beautiful domed room, windowless but illuminated by dozens of colored crystals, and the sight of it was enough to make Clara forget her nerves. The walls were lined with display cases of thick glass, and within each lay objects sitting on velvet pillows.

Helena drifted between the cases. “That ring once belonged to Saintess Elowen,” she said, pointing at a gold band that held a ruby. “And that’s a fragment of the first tide bell. Oh, and that one’s one of my favorites.” Helena stood next to a large iron pot with a screw-down lid and a hinged valve on top. “Legend says Saintess Focaccia could feed hundreds of people a day using this.”

Of course she could. That’s a giant pressure cooker.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Helena sighed happily. “The Saintesses left us so much wisdom. I hope I can leave something behind one day, too.”

“It’s certainly something.”

Clara lingered at each case, picturing the lives of the women who had come here before her. There were a variety of objects owned by the Saintesses, from mundane things like a hair comb, a pair of chopsticks, or a telescope, to more exotic relics like the alleged finger bone. Clara looked at it for a while, but to her it was just a cracked shard of bone.

Sorry, Mother Radegund. If it’s fake, I can’t tell.

There was some writing, too—Clara saw a yellowed scrap of parchment with fading ink. The plaque beside it read ‘EXCERPT FROM THE COMMANDMENTS OF SAINTESS WINIFRED. Meaning unknown.’

She tried to make out the text. ‘Cutem tuam a sole unguento tuere. Semper.’

‘Semper’ means always, ‘unguento’ should be ointment, and then there’s ‘sole’…

She held back a laugh at the mental image of pilgrims traveling the Kingdom to visit a piece of paper that said ‘wear sunscreen.’ Honestly, it’s pretty good advice. It might not be a divine revelation or an unassailable moral truth, but then again, most of the advice worth giving was unglamorous.

“And these are the live relics,” said Helena, gesturing toward a row of cases set apart from the glass displays. “The ones that still have a Saintess’s magic in them.”

“Live? As in, they can be used?”

“Mhm. They say that chalice can transform any liquid it holds into clean water. Those scissors can cut skin without causing pain, that coat lets the wearer walk in the shape of a beast, and I think that plow can heal soil that was drained of life? Something like that.”

“That sounds very useful for agriculture,” said Clara.

“Does it? I wouldn’t know anything about that. And anyway, live relics rarely ever see the light of day. Since they’re unique and we can’t replicate their magic, they can only be used with permission from the Ecumenical Council, so they mostly sit under lock and key at Mont Sainte-Michelle, with a few rotating for the pilgrims to see. The best we can do is maintain them, which is Inquisitor Roderick’s work.”

Clara was curious about what other live relics existed. Given her knowledge of Latin, if she refined her control over magic, maybe she could create something just as useful, one day. Focus, Casewell. Magic isn’t what you’re here for.

“And where do we find the inquisitor?” she asked.

“He must be in the back office.” Helena moved to a plain door at the far end of the chamber. “Let’s go, Clara. He can get cross if pilgrims wander in, but I’m sure he won’t mind it if it’s us. Though… I still don’t understand why you insisted on seeing him.”

Clara was about to ask for a second to steel herself, but Helena simply pushed the door open, revealing the office.

The room wasn’t messy in the same sense as Professor Morris’s, but it was full to the brim with pieces of history: maps of the continent from different eras, shelves with cracked helmets and pieces of armor, glass cases with everything from bones to pottery to arrowheads. Were these all relics, or was the inquisitor simply a collector? Whatever the answer, the man himself was nowhere to be found.

“Inquisitor Roderick,” Helena called cheerfully. “It’s Helena Rosewood!”

The reply was a dry creak, then the clattering of metal dragging on stone.

Inquisitor Roderick appeared from a side room. The man looked to be about fifty, with broad shoulders, black hair, and heavy eyebrows over his sharp brown eyes. His crimson robe was the same as Aldric’s, except it ended just below his waistline.

Because Inquisitor Roderick had no legs, and was in a wheelchair.

Well, shit.

“Lady Helena.” Roderick inclined his head. His voice was deep. “And you must be Dame Casewell, the vessel. Forgive me for not rising.” The corner of his mouth moved. “Come in. Brother Luke, some refreshments for our guests, if you would.”

He waved for Clara and Helena to take a seat, and soon after, a small boy who looked even younger than Tobias appeared with a tray of juice, bread, and dried fruit, which sent Clara’s stomach rumbling—it was midafternoon, and the investigation hadn’t left her time for lunch.

Is this safe to eat? Surely nobody would try to poison the Saintess-to-be and the vessel days before the ceremony, right?

But just as Clara was about to have a bite, the ashen-feathered owl swooped in from the same side room and took the exact piece of bread she’d been reaching for.

Hoot.

“No, off,” said Roderick, shooing it away. “These are for the guests. Sorry about that.”

The owl jumped back and hooted again.

“Is that your owl?” Clara asked. Because if so, you have a lot to answer for, even if you didn’t kill Mother Radegund.

“I do not believe anyone could own this owl, though he does visit often. Perhaps one of these days I ought to stop feeding him.”

Hoot. Hoot.

Clara glared at the owl’s azure eyes. By now, she was sure there was more to this bird. She took another piece of bread while Inquisitor Roderick and Helena exchanged small talk.

“Inquisitor, did you see Mother Radegund yesterday?” Helena eventually asked.

“I did.” He answered without hesitation. “She came here in the morning, as she was wont to do. She liked to stand in the reliquary and sniff the cases, then exclaim that the relics were fake.” He let out a long sigh, rubbing his nose. “I told her she was a nuisance and asked her to leave. That was the last thing I said to her.”

He looked down at his hands. “It was true, mind you, and there were days I prayed the Goddess would grant her a vow of silence. Yet now she’s gone, the reliquary is quiet, and I wish I had been kinder. Time is the most pernicious illusion.”

“It’s okay,” said Helena. “If you pray for her, the Goddess will make sure she hears it.”

Roderick nodded.

Well done, Casewell. You spent the last two hours searching for the person who climbed the stairs, and you convinced yourself the answer was a man who physically couldn’t have done it. Let this be a lesson on the cardinal sin of prejudicial reasoning.

She supposed it wasn’t totally impossible that he’d somehow achieved it with magic, or by working with an accomplice. Not that Clara had any evidence of that.

After eating some more, they rose to leave, and Roderick wheeled himself along to see them out. That was when Clara’s gaze fell on a shallow dish atop the side table by the door.

A coin lay in it. But not the usual silvery fare from Arcadia.

This one was red-brown, and its face bore an eagle and a crescent moon.

A Byzottoman dinar.

Clara stopped.