CLOSED DOORS

No one came to fetch the texts. 

In fact, it seems the Matron is amiss both in hindsight and in presence. I can only assume that in the chaos of the courts, preparations, and in the Matron's clergy work, my task had become a small matter. She must have left along with everyone else.

I stare at the smooth ink of my calligraphy, balanced, and evenly paced as shadows grow on the page. Eveningtide threatens my vision. The sky dims as dusk falls, and a single candle lights my scriptorium in aid.

Decidedly, I am done for the day. I am losing light, and I can do nothing blind. Before leaving, I consider whether a farewell to Matron Briga is necessary—it feels redundant in the quiet—but I decide it's best to make the effort.

Letting propriety override practicality, I slip outside, tentatively skirting to the vestry at the back of the building. The vestibule hosts a variety of prayer rooms along with a small supply alcove and the Matron's office.

In the silence, I assumed I was alone.

I was wrong.

"Engelise, follow me," a hushed whisper breaks the still, followed by the jangle of keys at the far end of the hallway. The figures are bathed in shadows, but I recognise the woman's voice; Matron Briga. I could identify her tone anywhere, her cordial yet firm disposition. I am suddenly glad of the dimness as the Matron eyes the corridor cautiously, seeming to hide Engelise behind her. I find it odd to discover them sneaking around, and their apparent tiptoeing makes me prudent, enough to curl into the shadows out of sight. Their manner puts me on edge, like I am slipping into a cupboard with a skeleton.

"Lise is fine," the smaller shadow corrects, her feet pattering on the tiles.

I don't recognise the name, then again, I am not particularly well acquainted with other people my age. They both sweep into the threshold, disappearing before a flicker of candlelight swells.

Slowly and muted, I creep closer to the supply alcove, which happens to be nestled alongside the lit prayer room. The bitter taste of curiosity floods my tongue, and a voice tells me I know better. Disobeying it is too easy because with the door ajar, it seems only natural for my eyes to stray inside.

The interior, coated in alabaster plaster, is held together with coarse wooden beams. Lise sits in a chair near the corner of the room, a slim bronze statue of despair. She exudes a faint and musky odour of wantonness like a wild courtesan, and crimson stains the tail of her gown. Matron Briga, armed with a cleansing rag, drags a pail of water over to the girl.

"Now," Briga sighs, her face kindling warmth. "I know you feel like something sinful just happened, Lise, but you have to believe me. That was not sin." Fatigued and faded, Engelise's face is a confusion of expressions.

"It wasn't?" Lise's voice is strained, a thin wisp of song.

"Many of the Cyrican women have faced these decisions, and we all wouldn't still be here if what happened tonight was sin, would we?" Briga reassures her, stroking a soothing palm down her side before holding her hands in the swell of her breast. "We all love his guidance. We all respect his message. Amel's messenger has never led us astray, only to salvation." Lise's eyes lift from her half-veiled gloom, her innocent fancies seem to shrivel in the cold, leaving only limpid pools of shadow.

Matron Briga strokes her face softly before wetting the rag and erasing the film of maroon smeared on Lise's legs. "We are all together on this, you have to trust him. Are you with us?" The matron nods encouragingly, as Lise just stares empty and unsure. There is a long silence before she agrees solemnly.

My mother has always told me that silence solicits lies—but then again, she was discussing daemons in that same breath. It seems dastardly to apply it to the state of a prayer room. I am unsure if I should say something, announce my presence, apologise, or push the memory down, securing it under lock and key. Neither would ease my worries, yet despite my wonderings, the quiet speaks volumes. I can't quite pinpoint the emotion; I presume it is due to my vague grasp of their conversation—but the air feels heavy, cold, and clammy. It sends a shiver over the welts on my back and curdles the pit of my stomach.

"Good!" Briga beams. "Now we've got that settled, let's get you cleaned up! We will have you fresh and smiling when I'm done, ready for the morning's service." She concludes, already tugging at Engelise's gown.

I don't linger. Without a word, I slip away. 

~ ¤ ~

That night I am told something absurd.

Mother sits opposite me, silent and frog-eyed, picking at the skin around her fingernails. It occurs to me that Dossa has rattled her, and she could grow unsettled and weepy like some hag, haunting the night with flatulence—but she begins to talk, which is a blessing. Slowly and quietly, for the benefit of no one but herself.

"It wasn't long after you were born," she begins. "Your father, rest his soul, was off—Fortsouth, I recall. And I was sat there by the fire, you bundled up in my arms. Such a lovely bairn you were, ruddy cheeks and baby skin." She chews her cheek at the sentiment. "A night, early winter, like this, with a foul wind and biting chill. I was so worried you'd catch your death," she adds, her eyes seemingly lost in the flames of the hearth. "A man came, all in black, and stood there—" She points to the centre of the room, in front of the fire. "A man, with no shadow, no face, who seemingly stepped from in-between the air itself. I was alone, and the next..."

I fall still and look up at her. I can tell she sees the man there now, her bloodshot eyes tracking the progress of some obscure visitant around the room. "They do not tell you, before," she says, quietly, her eyes still fixed on nothing, "that one moment you are alone, and the next... you are still alone. You think, when you are young, that a child is likened to a cat's cradle, or a fixing nail—except you push it out rather than in." She smiles ruefully. "That breeding will come and free you, give you purpose. That everything will fall into place. But it doesn't. I mean"—she looks at me, at last—"you didn't."

What am I meant to say to that?

"And there the man in black stands," she continues, "in a long coat like a beak doctor, and I sit still and quite dumbfounded. He says I would do well, you would do well, Joan Whitmaw—I remember it, exactly that—to throw th' babe in the fire. For it will perish in this realm. Right then and there. So, I kissed your little cheeks and I put you down there on the hearthstone, before I could think to know what it was that I was doing... and the man in black was gone."

I make a face, disturbed by the story.

My mother continues. "The embers were very hot, and soon enough you were squalling, and wriggling like a worm on a hook. I watched as your swaddle caught alight, and I felt very heavy of a sudden, like my legs were bound together tight. And then"—she smiles—"there was a knock at the door. In comes Lina—with her white eyes—takes one look about the parlour and seizes you up and away from the fire, shrieking." I know of Dossa's mother; Lina, she was only halfway through life before the woman possessed a full complement of ailments, rather instantaneously during adulthood, that eventually snuffed her existence. My mother now speaks of her in bitterness, as she often does with traitors, referencing her clawed hands that shuddered, milky eyes, and tormented soul. There is a rumour that when Amel took her gaze, he gifted her a spectral one—but my mother indicated one of arrogance.

"The blind bat gave me a sound slap, then grabbed up my hands," Mother goes on, wriggling in her seat, "and together we prayed. She to the old, I to the new. We prayed until she grew fatigued, and then I prayed to Amel anew. I prayed again and again, a thousand times over." She is silent for a while, and then adds, "—and I never saw the man in black again."

The violence of my mother's tale—the attempt of infanticide, the burning baby, the baby who was me—moves me not. I am alive and well, or just about. I think of it, the man in black, the woman we stoned. There is a pattern to it, like with nature, and it is violent and cruel more akin to the dastardly than the righteous.

"A man in black," I repeat. It sounds like I am mocking her, I think. I callously hope it sounds like I am mocking her, and her man in black.

She looks at me askance. "You think it was the Deofol."

I shrug. "Who else could it be?"

She is silent then, and I much prefer it.

~ ¤ ~

The next morning rushes by in a blur, and by noon, duty calls.

I grab the athenaeum door, dragging the heavy wood outward to glimpse inside my own trove of wonders. In the candlelight's soft glow, shadows swathe the room. Shelves coat every wall, and a tower as tall as the ceiling cleaves the space, leaving two narrow aisles to peruse. I hover at the entrance, recounting the times I have skulked into the athenaeum, devouring the pages of scripture and storytelling—but this time it's different—this time the air dances thick with dislodged dust.

Something is wrong.

The room isn't in its usual order. Books have been moved; shelves shifted. Everything is slightly out of place, as though someone had indiscriminately searched through it.

I stop, cautious, my pulse quickening.

The musty scent of old paper is mixed with a strange undercurrent of dread. I listen closely, before treading carefully, my footsteps echoing in the unsettling silence. 

I am alone.

These rooms are often forgotten, with tomes and tablets of scripture in all sizes filling every vacant crevice and cubbyhole. It is my responsibility to ensure they last beyond dusting and cleaning, to protect them from pests and dampness. But today, it seems I must also protect them from intruders.

Despite being a public collection, many of the villagers cannot read. I am one of the lucky few. My mother taught me—she was the canny sort, schooled, with a life before poverty—specifically for reciting prayers and, considering my obvious lack of company, it is something to savour, somewhere to hide.

Yet now, the athenaeum, my refuge from the world, feels tainted.

I move through the aisles, eyes cataloguing any changes. The leather-bound journals that normally rest in neat rows are askew, some leaning against each other, others jutting out precariously. Scrolls and parchments that should be tucked away in their compartments lie scattered on the floor. Someone had been thorough in their search, but what were they looking for?

Near the back, the scriptorium desk catches my attention. They stand out among the displaced, as if deliberately left behind. A pile of mouldy volumes alongside an open book greets me, their coverings unfamiliar. Some are too worn or neglected to decipher, but most appear different from the rest, bound with hand-twisted thread and canvas. 

Wiccian grimoires. 

Magic textbooks, specialising in gifuwician—the magic of celestials, of Amel—and its precarious counterpart, hellruna. I scan the spines: Gifuwician fundamentals. Celestial Kingship, and Archengels. Hellruna Fundamentals. Forging Curses, Hexes, and Amulets. Shadows, Light & Spell Weaving.

With each new title, my heartbeat thuds, I've never seen these before. I had no idea the Cyrican contained literature on wiccian. Yet, it makes sense, I suppose—as a necessary levy against belligerent practice.

A singular heavy grimoire—embellished in red, with a black clock and an embossed title reading: Bestiary of Daemonic Entities, A Compendium of the Supernatural and Dastardly—lies open, waiting to be read.

I pick it up, fingers trembling. Before my heart shrivels.

Page after page, word after word, written in Old English. Even as my excitement wanes, a sense of helplessness doesn't fully take hold. Many hymns are recited in Old English, and naturally, I have absorbed some of the vernacular over the years.

Preparing myself, I square my jaw, determined, as I skim the page. Most of the words remain foreign to me, but soon my vision snags on something familiar.

A sinner. A firenlust. A worshiper of the Deofol.

Firenlust, the Heofonweard had called the woman. A daemonic word. A word which jettisoned any attempt of comprehension, as a vivid illustration demonstrated the term explicitly. Various daemons adorned with horns and wings appeared to be taking lovers, a female intertwined, grinding against another, screaming in either pain or pleasure—it is unclear. A male daemon kisses the column of a neck, a thigh, an ear. An arrow-tipped tail, in places it shouldn't be. 

My cheeks pink, feeling very hot. I wet my lips, mouth suddenly dry, and quickly skim to another paragraph. Escaping any unchaste thoughts. 

My attention catches on the words 'Þa ripung.' They sit irregular and odd, superimposed as though unwelcome and defacing. Recognising the terms, I translate the title, rereading it as 'reaping.' I assume it is a simple safeguarding piece or error, but I can't be sure.

Pulse racing, I attempt to decipher the rest of the writing. My gaze hovers, eyes devouring the page, unfamiliar words, and illustrations slowly. I manage to grasp the wayward text somewhat, outlining a falsity and some kind of 'wēn' or harm done to the village. Mentions of 'Þæt weorc sendeþēow' and 'morþor,' translating to an act of murder. I swallow hard. The phrasing seeming both foreign and disturbing.

My body sags, at a loss, as I lift the book close and scan the text for any last morsel of information. Surely there is a reason, I think—nearly dropping the book. Written roughly at the bottom of the page, tiny and unassuming, is the warning ′Beware the wolf. Their guises are treacherous, guard your soul,′ scrawled in red ink with the initials A.M. 

Curious. 

Someone had found this and read it, but why leave it behind?

I glance around, the silence pressing in. Why rearrange everything? Is it merely the work of men and boys who are hungry and cloyed by boredom, or does it mean something? My mind races with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. Surely, this isn't just a random deed of vandalism; it's a deliberate act, a message.

Panic and urgency propel me forward. I need answers. I need to tell someone. Clutching the book to my chest, I hurry out of the athenaeum, the subtle disarray left behind like swallowing acid. My feet pound against the tiles as I make my way to the northern quarters.

Bursting through the door, I find the Matron at her desk, her brow furrowed in concentration. She looks up, startled by my abrupt entrance.

"Matron Briga," I gasp, holding out the book. "Apologies, but I must tell you something. There has been a breach in the athenaeum, nothing taken, it seems, but they—someone must have been searching for something—a book, some books perhaps, I think. I'm not sure." Her eyes burn into mine—strangely intent, almost angry—yet she doesn't move. Doesn't speak. "They combed the archives and then left this, this grimoire, open at my scriptorium. Alongside, a pile of others." I continue, trying to slow my heartbeat, but it's no good.

The Matron takes the book from me, reading its ominous warning. Her expression hardens, indignation replacing her shock. Her voice becomes scary and unfamiliar when she demands, "Who else has seen this?"

"Only me!" Even I can hear my heartbeat now. It thump, thump, thumps through my chest, my throat, my fingers, as I slowly shake my head. "Only me, I-I haven't seen the volumes before, this is a wiccian grimoire. Is it not, Matron? I was rather stunned to see them. There's a pile of them. I thought perhaps you had brought them in, a silly thought." I admit senselessly, sounding juvenile and babbling.

"I did no such thing." She streaks past towards the athenaeum, a brisk and purposeful pace. "They should be under lock, amongst the private collection." I struggle to keep up, my mind still reeling. The private collection? I was unaware we had a private collection.

As we enter the athenaeum, she surveys the scene with a practiced eye, noting the subtle disturbances, the shifted books, the scattered scrolls. She picks up a mouldy tome from the pile, examining it closely before placing it back upon the desk.

Then and there, I promise myself to remain resigned and placid, but as I think it, I find I am doing the opposite. "Do you recognise the initials A.M.?" I ask.

"You needn't worry about that Maeve." She advises firmly, a steel grip on my back, steering me away. "When women think alone, they think sinful. These things are best left for the Heofonweard. You needn't speak of this to anyone."

"Oh. Y-yes, of course, to no one." My stomach sinks horribly. "You know I have either the mind or means to do harm, Matron." I insist quickly, feeling the weight of the situation. When her eyes narrow, I begin spewing words almost instinctively, "I saw nothing. No one. Nothing, out of the ordinary, Matron. But then again, I wasn't watching particularly closely. I didn't expect anything untoward. I only meant to complete my Cyrican duties—"

"—You've done your duty for today. Thank you for your diligence, Maeve." She gives me a practiced smile. Her words are meant to reassure, but something in her tone makes me uneasy. I nod, uncertain. "You may go."

"Take care," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Pay no mind," Briga replies, a odd glint in her eye.

As I leave the athenaeum, I glance back over my shoulder. The Matron has already pivoted, the book clutched tightly in her hands. She paces, her fingers tapping restlessly against the spine of the cover. It is a tense and fidgety display. Both peculiar, and consuming, seeing her so candid. Then I have an adamant thought, pig-headed and sinning. Stay, it says, just a while longer, dogging my mind. Which I relent to, embarrassingly so, and with ease.

Resolved to linger, I hover outside the door, unable to shake my trepidation. A faint rustling sounds from inside. Just a little peak, I intend at first, only once, but I cannot stop. I can see the Matron by the hearth, the grimoire held close.

See as she opens the book, tearing out the page. 

See as she crumples it.

See as she tosses it into the fire.

My heart jolts. What is she doing?

The flames catch, consuming everything, its red ink turning to ash. Briga stands there, silent, watching it burn, an unscrupulous frown playing on her lips.

Backing away, I know I couldn't possibly confront her now. Doubtlessness bucks and reels through my mind. My heart sinks as a realisation dawns on me. It seems the Matron's interest in the warning goes beyond mere investigation—she's hiding something.

Beware the wolf. Their guises are treacherous, guard your soul.

I stare at her fire-lit silhouette, hoping for some sort of solution. But instead, confusion settles and sours, along with the strangest feeling that something has begun, and I am tangled in it.