Slices of Midnight
Chapter 2
I rarely slept after a ghost hunt—the night following my trek into the heart of Waurista’s Woods was no exception.
With visions of club-wielding skeletons still rattling in my mind, I returned to my humble cabin near the village of Dowling.
The place was cold, dark, and empty.
As usual, my father hadn’t come home after a night of drinking. He was likely sleeping off his stupor at an inn rather than braving the cold.
At least, I hoped that was the case.
Lately, he had grown erratic, and I hated to think what might happen if he got lost in the woods—drunk and wandering in the cold.
By the time I had started a fire in the cottage’s hearth and changed into my nightclothes, the darkest hours before dawn had settled in.
I spent an hour staring into the dark spaces of my bedroom, replaying the apparitions I had seen—
Then managed only a few moments of precious sleep before the cock’s crow signaled it was time to rise.
I pulled on my cold, dirty clothes and dutifully made my bed.
The pantry and larder were both empty.
If I wanted breakfast, I would have to get it from the priory.
That meant sitting through morning prayers and enduring one of Prior Shambling’s loathsome sermons.
The Society of Laeron Madrin—the assembly of prophets and priestesses who ran the priory—used forced piety to keep their pews full when they might otherwise sit empty.
Hunger gnawed at my belly the entire walk to the priory, and the wind was cold and brisk.
When I arrived, I learned that Miss Jocelyn—the most junior of the three resident priestesses—would be leading prayers and delivering the morning message instead of Prior Shambling.
That meant a long day.
I could count on one hand the number of times he had missed morning prayers in the past year, and it was usually when one of his children had fallen ill.
It made sense, then, that Piper might be out of sorts after what she had witnessed the night before in Waurista’s Woods.
And, naturally, I was to blame.
Anticipating the worst, I sat through the service in silence.
I didn’t sing.
I didn’t recite the liturgy from the Otholitica—Malakanth’s most holy book.
Knowing trouble would find me soon made the ordeal almost unbearable.
"Oh, Marissa, may I have a word with you before breakfast?"
Miss Jocelyn’s voice rang out the moment the last stanza of the benediction hymn concluded.
So much for slipping out of Rose Chapel unnoticed.
With a congregation of roughly fifty people making their way out, I had hoped to blend in.
But Jocelyn had been watching me the entire service.
My escape had been doomed from the start.
Still, you can’t fault a girl for trying.
"Yes, Miss Jocelyn?" I said in my sweetest voice as the attendees—mostly the priory's orphans and a few older villagers—filed out of the chapel.
They were eager for the warm meal the Society of Laeron Madrin provided as a show of appreciation for their attendance.
Jocelyn stepped down from the pulpit and ambled over to me.
She had arrived at the priory only a few months earlier, fresh from her priestly studies at the Aegis of Laeron Madrin in Calipsis—a remote Malakanthian province far to the east.
By my estimation, she was about twenty-five. And pretty.
"Marissa, I received word just before the service that High Priestess Nyomi wants to speak with you after breakfast."
She tilted her head, all gentle concern. "Do you know where her office is, sweetie, or would you like me to walk you there once you’ve finished your meal?"
I nearly rolled my eyes.
I knew that ancient building better than any greenhorn priestess.
In truth, I had learned more about its history and architecture than even Prior Shambling—but I kept that to myself.
Jocelyn was fresh and cute, and her abject ignorance was too pristine to puncture with harshness.
"No, I'll be fine," I said simply. "I know the way. Trust me."
#
With the prospect of facing Priestess Nyomi looming, I didn’t enjoy breakfast nearly as much as usual.
Rather than savoring Miss Margaret’s spicy sausages and jam-filled biscuits, my mind kept drifting to what I might say to avoid Nyomi’s dreaded rod of discipline.
Obviously, Piper had snitched about last night’s trip to Waurista’s Woods, and a reckoning for breaking the village’s trespassing laws was inevitable.
Unfortunately, of all the people at the priory, Nyomi was the only one I struggled to match wits with.
If she had already decided that a particular miscreant’s wrists needed a sound slapping—literally, in some instances—there was little I could do to talk my way out of it.
Thankfully, Sir Isaac strolled into the dining hall to wipe down a pair of tables recently vacated by a group of villagers, giving me a brief respite from thoughts of my impending punishment.
Isaac, an orphan who had lived at the priory his entire life, had only recently begun working in the kitchen full-time.
On occasion, Miss Margaret and the other cooks let him try his hand at a recipe, but mostly, he scrubbed pans and scoured pots.
He never complained, though.
No matter how menial the task, he tackled every chore with a joyful demeanor.
Isaac’s looks matched his knightly manner.
With the blondest shock of hair I had ever seen on the Isle, he couldn’t help but be the object of every village girl’s desire.
Solid in stature. Delightfully well-muscled. He looked every bit the hero.
Late at night, while lounging on my bed, I sometimes imagined him wielding a sword or spear, battling some great foe of the kingdom.
Sometimes it was a hydra.
Sometimes a chimera.
Sometimes he triumphed.
Other times, evil crushed his rippled, sweat-covered body beneath its cruel heel.
Either way, the scene was… provocative.
Isaac looked up from scrubbing a table and caught me staring.
Rather than blushing and looking away like a typical girl, I gave him an appreciative wink.
His blue eyes sparkled, and with a dimpled smile that would likely last all day, he turned back to his work, wiping the table down with renewed zeal.
"Are you finished, dear one?"
I pried my eyes away from Isaac and looked up to find Miss Margaret’s cheerful face staring down at me.
Another priestess assigned to the priory, she and Nyomi were both about thirty—
But that’s where their similarities ended.
Nyomi was stunning by any standard, but her angular features were too sharp for my liking. She reminded me of an angry forest lion, always poised to pounce.
Her severe looks suited her, though. They lent her a stern, no-nonsense air, the kind that let her lord over the entire Isle while instilling a healthy fear of God Almighty in its people.
Margaret, on the other hand, had chubby cheeks and a rotund figure that no one could find intimidating.
A purveyor of smiles and every conceivable kind of cookie, she left disciplinary measures to others in favor of nobler pursuits—
Like cooking up the finest damn meals to be found anywhere on the Isle of Indamar.
"Yes, I’m finished." I handed her my half-empty plate. "Thank you, Miss Margaret."
"And thank you, Miss Marissa. But what’s wrong? It’s not like you to leave so much as a crumb, much less half a helping."
I cast Margaret a most dejected look. "Nyomi wants to see me in her office this morning."
"Oh dear, that’s not good." She shook her head. "Were you part of the nonsense in Waurista’s Woods last night?"
I arched an eyebrow. "Do you know me?"
Margaret gave a knowing nod and patted my shoulder.
"Be brave, dear one," she said.
"Be brave."
