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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 snag a