Grey Sister. Mark Lawrence

I tell her to like. The Mensis have been scions to the Jotsis for generations.’ At Nona’s frown she elaborated. ‘We get to boss them about.’

      The Vinery Stair led down from the Rock of Faith along a gradient gentle enough for cart and horse, though Nona would not want to be that horse. Below them the vineyards huddled against the base of the Rock, sheltered from the worst of the wind. The vines had their leaves folded tight. They wouldn’t open until the ice-wind relented, although Sister Hoe – who had charge of the wine-making – had told Nona that a heavy dose of fertilizer would coax most plants to open their leaves whatever the weather.

      ‘They can’t abide to lose the chance,’ the old woman had said. ‘Worried some other plant will thieve it first. They’re not so different from people really. There’s not much most wouldn’t risk to stop a rival having the benefit of something they want.’

      At the bottom of the Vinery Stair a turnpike gate offered token resistance to any without proper business up at the convent and it was here that a crowd of perhaps two dozen pilgrims waited.

      ‘That must be her!’ A shout from the crowd.

      Zole lowered her head, pulling the hood of her range-coat down across her face. The opposite of what Sister Apple had been teaching them all week. And rather than inconspicuous she just looked guilty.

      ‘It must be!’

      ‘All those guards!’

      ‘She’s here!’

      ‘Be watchful.’ Sister Kettle stepped to the front, tapping the lead guardsman’s shoulder. ‘Clear a path. Don’t hurt anyone.’

      As the guardsmen approached to pull the pike aside the crowd parted letting a man emerge with his burden. Hulking in his sheepskins he must have had a touch or more of gerant, and in his arms he carried a child, limp and pale.

      ‘He’s sick. The Argatha can heal him.’ The boy he offered up showed no signs of life. He looked to have no more than six years, seven at most. ‘Please.’ Somehow the plea from so big a man in so deep a voice tore at Nona, making her eyes prickle.

      A few of the guardsmen turned to stare at Zole. Nobody had named her to them but perhaps the red of her ice-tribe skin was enough.

      ‘It’s her!’ Figures around the man with the child pointed Zole out, following the guardsmen’s looks.

      ‘Bless me, Argatha!’

      ‘I just need to touch her.’

      The mass of people began to surge forward. With an oath Zole turned and ran back along the Vinery Stair.

      ‘Zole! You don’t have to—’ Kettle turned, hand raised, but Zole had quick feet and was gone. The pilgrims sighed with a single voice, disappointment rising.

      ‘It wasn’t her.’

      ‘The Argatha wouldn’t run.’

      Ara caught Nona’s gaze, biting her lip, a small shake of her head. ‘You’re lucky to have her. I’m lucky to have you. Neither of us would want this.’

      Kettle went to examine the child in the man’s arms. He stepped back at her approach, as if sensing the shadow in her, but the crowd held him.

      ‘I’m sorry.’ Kettle lifted her fingers from the boy’s neck. ‘The Ancestor has your son. He is a link in a chain without end, still joined to you, still joined to everyone who has ever cared for him. We will all be one in the Ancestor. Nothing passes from this world that is not remembered.’

      They left then, walking towards the distant city.

      Ara moved to walk beside Kettle. ‘Well spoken, sister.’

      Kettle shook her head. ‘A parent’s grief runs deeper than words can reach, novice. We speak them to help ourselves.’

      The Mensis escort forged a passage through the tight-packed streets of Verity with practised ease. They seemed more confident within the city walls, and in their midst Nona thought she had a taste of what it must be like to be born of money and name.

      She watched the colour and variety of the crowd, the density and energy of it. With no shadow, wholly black eyes, and no apparent talent for disguise, Nona had begun to despair of passing the Shade Trial. But, reminded of the city’s chaos, the prospect of crossing Thaybur Square unchallenged seemed to inch from totally impossible towards merely very unlikely.

      ‘The Shade wardrobe doesn’t match this …’ Nona watched a woman pass by in a cloak of dark green velvet trimmed with fox fur. To stand a chance in the Shade Trial and cross the square unchallenged by her classmates her disguise would have to be perfect.

      ‘No?’ Ara hadn’t yet been introduced to the wardrobe. ‘I should think the older novices can recognize most of what the Poisoner has in there anyway. A lot of the girls get clothes from outside for the trial …’ Ara trailed off, presumably remembering Nona’s poverty and complete lack of family in Verity.

      Nona had thought the variety and quality packed into the Shade wardrobe was astounding, but seeing Verity’s streets again she reassessed her opinion.

      ‘I’ll work something out.’ She kept on walking.

      The house the guardsmen led them to was set back among trees behind a high wall on a street lined with grand homes. Nona had seen buildings to dwarf it: the Dome of the Ancestor, the Academy, and the palace itself, but never a private home. Windows marched for a hundred yards to either side of a great portal of polished redwood. Enormous sandstone blocks had been fitted together to build the walls, each block meeting the next with such precision that even without mortar the smallest insect would find no space to crawl between them.

      A doorman opened the doors as Ara climbed the stairs.

      ‘I’ll explore the gardens,’ Kettle said.

      ‘You don’t have to, sister.’ Ara gestured to the doorway. ‘Join us. Please.’

      Kettle shook her head, faint shadows flowing like the memory of past bruises. ‘I’ll be close when you’re ready to leave.’

      A footman led Ara and Nona through the Mensis foyer. Having spent so much time in the Dome of the Ancestor meant that Nona was able not to gape at the mosaicked floor and towering marble columns. The corridor that led from the foyer was punctuated by niches though and the statuettes and vases within held Nona’s gaze, filling her hands with a longing to touch. She found it hard to imagine that anyone lived here, day by day, striding through these corridors and knowing that they owned it all.

      Nona suddenly felt very drab and dull in her habit and wondered what this high lady would make of her. It felt like little more than a sack compared to the finery she’d seen in Verity’s streets. At the same time she had to admit that Ara somehow managed to look beautiful in hers, the simplicity of it contrasting with the gold of her hair, the hard lines of her body evident as she moved.

      The footman knocked on an imposing set of double doors, then entered. ‘The Lady Arabella Jotsis to see you, ma’am, and her companion.’

      Ara strode into the room, a sumptuously appointed chamber strewn with stuffed couches and deep chairs that looked so comfortable they might swallow a person whole. High above them the ceiling had been painted sky-blue and clouds scattered the plaster heavens.

      ‘Terra! You’re looking wonderful! This is my friend Nona. She’s Shield to the Argatha and she’ll make the best Red Sister the empire’s seen!’ Ara spoke with an animation Nona had never witnessed in her before and in the accent she’d brought with her to the convent more than five years earlier, each word clipped short and stressed in strange places.

      There’s something wrong with your friend. Keot ran up her neck, spreading across her scalp beneath the black thicket of her hair.

       She’s fitting in. Shut up and stay hidden.

      ‘Arabella!’ Terra stood from her chair, a tall girl in a sparkling