“Maybe,” I hedged. I didn’t need him to finish the thought to know exactly what he meant.Whohe meant.
My godfather.
“Itisyour birthday,” Bertie said, and I was touched to hear the trace of sadness in his voice.
I felt stuck in place. I’d spent so much time dreaming of the day my godfather would return that I’d never stopped to consider what would happen the dayafterhe did.
Or the day after that.
Where would he take me? Where would I live?
The temple in Rouxbouillet was his in name only. It was a small courtyard with a solitary monolith that no one had ever taken credit for sculpting. A candle, somehow forever burning, rested in front of the plinth. There was no building, no other structure. It was no place to raise a child, to raise me. As far as I knew, he didn’t have even a single postulant. No one, it seemed, wanted to devote their life to the lord of death.
“Mama’s going to spit flames if we’re late. Come on!” Etienne snapped before turning down the street.
“Come on,” Bertie echoed, gentler, and offered his hand to me.
I didn’t want to take it.
If I took it, then we’d find Mama, and go to his temple, and he was sure to be there, waiting for me.
My godfather.
In the Holy First’s sanctum, there were stained-glass windows on three sides of the hall. At the front, just behind the altar, perfectly situated toward the east to best catch the morning sunlight, was a rendering of the Holy First in all her lustrous beauty. Swirls of iridescent glass were pieced together to make up her veiled butundoubtedly radiant face, her long wavy tresses, and her flowing gown.
To her right were the Divided Ones. Thick leading segmented their face so you could easily tell that though they shared one body, they were made up of many.
And to the left was the Dreaded End. His window was less a portrait and more a mosaic, suggesting at a hint of a being, not a perfectly rendered form. It was made up of various triangles, all in dark grays and rich plums. The glass had been so heavily stained with those bruise-colored dyes that light could barely pass through it. Even on the sunniest of days, the Dreaded End’s window was a mottled mess of gloom and gloam.
So when I tried to picture him…the Dreaded End, my godfather…when I tried to picturethat,I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t see him there, a figure, a being, a person. I could see the window, the dark hues, the swirling mess of fog and mist and grim finality.
I only could see the death, not my life.
“Come on.” Bertie beckoned again, jangling the hand in front of me as though the only reason I’d not yet taken it was simply because I hadn’t noticed its presence. “If we’re really meeting him, if he’s really come back, than Mama won’t even mind the tear.” He beamed at this stroke of unbelievably good fortune. “See? Everything is working out.”
Without warning, I threw my arms around Bertie’s neck, pulling him against me with a strength that surprised us both. “I’m going to miss you the most,” I whispered. I could feel my body trembling as he hugged me back.
“I’m sure he’ll let you visit,” he said softly. “And I’ll write to you every week, I swear it.”
“You hate writing,” I reminded him. The tears that fell down my cheeks splashed hot and wet.
“I’ll learn to like it, just for you,” he swore fervently.
My hand found his then. I seized hold of it and clutched him tightly all the way back to the wagon.
But it wasn’t my godfather’s temple we were headed to.
Chapter 3
“I need you to lineup now, please, all of you,” the reverent said with a voice so soft that you nearly missed the hard edge lying in wait. Beneath the sweep of her wide headdress—studded with five jagged peaks, each holding a swag of tulle—cool blue eyes regarded us with measured curiosity.
My family was outside the temple of the Divided Ones, in the courtyard, and my brothers and sisters wandered about the space, gaping at the stone walls, the mosaics, and the great urns that dotted the perimeter. Each of the vases had been smashed apart only to be soldered back together. Everything felt fractured, yet whole, just like the gods it represented, and I found that the angry, jagged lines made my head ache.
“Sister Ines will not ask again,” snapped a young girl beside the reverent. She wore the yellow and green robe of a novice, and though she didn’t look any older than Bertie, there was a hardening around her edges, a child forced into adulthood at far too young an age. Her brown eyes regarded us with open disdain. “Do as she says!”
We hurried to comply, and I fell into place at the end of my siblings’ line, brushing shoulders with Bertie as we exchanged glances in confused silence.
