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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
    I T 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