Page 1 of Insolence (Eisha’s Hidden Codices #1)

Itissa

M y head is still empty, and my heart is sick, just like every other miserable day since the ritual. Pain pounds in my temples, throbbing in time with my pulse. Tears prick my eyes yet again, and I steel myself against a wave of helpless resentment.

Stop, damn it. Don’t cry.

I blink at the empty air beyond the heavy iron bars. The disappointment is smothering. You’ll just… find another way .

A cluster of three greenhouses blocks my view to the rear of the temple complex. On the opposite side, the blacksmith and his apprentice bang and clank away. Snatches of their conversation drift to me over the racket.

The smithy’s presence could be traditional or ceremonial, given Eisha is their patron goddess. Otherwise, why the temple would require one is beyond me, but the background noise is aggravating my angry head.

Alone in the kitchen gardens, I loiter near a patch of turnips. The tidy vegetable rows extend nearly all the way to a sheer drop. A ten-foot-tall wrought iron fence spans the cliff’s edge, keeping anyone from slipping off and plunging to the valley below.

This evening is the first time since the ritual that I’ve felt well enough to leave my room. After nearly two full days, I couldn’t spend another minute cooped up in the dark.

Not that it’s much better out here.

A chill, misty gloom blankets the rows of kohlrabi and cabbage, thickening with impending evening. Overhead, bands of rose pink, orange, and gold streak the sky.

I’m about to head back to our residence for dinner when a spate of laughter reaches my ears.

“Huh?” My head whips around, unshed tears cold on my lashes.

A weathered compost shed sits just beyond the bounds of the gardens, built into the rock wall by the blacksmith’s cottage. More laughter goes up, followed by the noises of the smithy.

The next sound that reaches me is a subdued moan.

Shivers race down my spine while I glance around for its source. Suggestive whispers bend and twist on the breeze, floating to my ears from the shed.

Sure enough, the edge of someone’s cloak flashes behind the weathered wall.

Giggles and another, more erotic moan follow. Both voices belong to women.

What in the Netherworld hell? I’m making my way toward them when a shout goes up from the other side of the flower greenhouse.

Sister Kerrigan emerges from behind it, halting me where I stand.

Intimidatingly tall and stout, she stalks toward the shed, her scarlet robes brushing the ground beneath her cloak. Like the other sisters I’ve encountered, her dark hair is styled into a chignon at her nape. A sheer gauze veil is pinned over her head.

Lips twisted with disgust, she snarls, “That’s not what you’re here to do.” She lunges behind the wall while I stare, flabbergasted.

A yelp rings out, followed by a pained wail. Kerrigan emerges, dragging a girl around my age by the arm.

Recognition hits, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Rosalie is her name; I ran into her and her friend Cara earlier. They were feeding the finches by the sprawling tree in the courtyard.

Rosalie’s head swings my way, a look of raw panic on her face as Kerrigan hauls her away from the shed. Ice floods my veins when I register the streaks of blood smearing her lips and chin.

What the hell happened?

With a growl, Kerrigan flings her away like a rag doll, sending her stumbling.

“I’m sorry,” gasps Rosalie, barely keeping her balance. “I won’t do it again.” The blood on her face is already drying a rusty brown.

Closing the distance between them, Kerrigan slingshots a broad hand across her cheek. The impact, and Rosalie’s shriek, pierce my ears. Birds erupt in panic from the enormous tree, their cries and the wild rush of wings filling the air.

Weakness shoots through my legs while I try to make sense of what’s happening in front of me.

Kerrigan growls something that sounds like “see Deirdre” before seizing Rosalie and jerking her along. Another anguished noise escapes her as the two of them go murky behind the greenhouse’s steam-streaked glass.

Every nerve in my body pricking with dread, I’m frozen in place. Soft sobs come from the compost shed. Oh, gods, Cara!

Rushing toward it, I’m almost bowled over when she bursts out, crashing into me.

“Sorry!” she cries. Her cloak’s hood is pulled forward, one tear-streaked cheek barely visible.

“Are you all right? What happened?”

Cara shoulders past me. Staggering toward our residence, she tramples a clump of radishes along the way.

“Wait!” I shift my weight, determined to run after her.

A firm hand lands on my shoulder, halting me where I stand. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

The clipped words slice through me with razor precision, the steely voice turning my blood hot. I pivot and flinch, finding myself face-to-face with the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in my life. Probably.

Very likely .

Her piercing hazel eyes are locked onto mine, a furrow pinching between her eyebrows. For a moment we share the same air. A strange energy trembles between us.

Seeming to realize she’s still touching me, she yanks her hand back and spins, crossing the stony ground as if she can’t get away fast enough.

“Hold on,” I call, trailing her to the greenhouse. “You saw that, right? What Sister Kerrigan did to Rosalie?”

The greenhouse door is barely shut behind us when the woman turns.

She’s definitely older than me, a few inches taller than me, and dignified in bearing.

“I understand you’re still adjusting to everything, so allow me to help,” she says, her jaw tight.

“Strange things happen around here. I don’t see them. Neither do you. Got it?”

I step back. “So that’s how it is?”

“Am I being unclear in any way?” Her full lips compress into a thin line.

Frustrated anger shoots through me. “You really expect me to ignore a sister abusing a woman who came here to worship?”

“That’s exactly what I expect, Tiss.”

“Wait.” I watch her swear softly and make her way toward the end of the tiny glasshouse. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

Raised beds of winter flowers occupy either side of a narrow aisle. On her way down it, the woman stoops to snatch up two discarded gloves from the flagstones.

Beyond her, a pair of planter boxes with trellises occupies the structure’s rear. I give a sharp gasp when I notice the climbing roses.

Almost gaudy in their beauty, their bunches of creamy petals are streaked and striped with mulberry pink.

They scramble up the lattice trellises and beyond, scaling the wall of windows and clinging to wood muntins.

Their citrus-sweet perfume teases my nose through the thick air, carrying with it a nostalgia so powerful tears spring to my eyes.

No. Not just nostalgia . Familiarity flashes through me.

My breath strangles while I inhale again, Kerrigan and Rosalie fading to the background. I don’t know where the nebulous feeling comes from, or how, or why. I know nothing beyond the resounding sense of before that has me in its grip .

Stunned, I plop down on one of the two wrought iron chairs by the door with a huff.

Trying to remember, groping backward, is as instinctual as breathing. I don’t think before I’m chasing my own history through the corridors of my mangled mind. Like every prior attempt, the effort only intensifies the agony in my skull.

Blessed Aodh, Father of Creation. When the flash dissipates, I’m left gasping and stunned as my unknowable past trickles through my fingers.

I reach up to massage my temples, refocusing on the striking, albeit hostile, woman who’s made it quite clear she expects me to ignore the horrid business I just witnessed. “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

She’s kneeling at the roses with her back to me. “I didn’t give it.” Her murmur, low and rich like black velvet, stirs something unnameable up within me.

Tools are scattered on the floor around her. By her casual attire, she’s definitely not a sister.

My attention goes to the condensation-coated glass, the direct sight line to the compost shed. It’s obvious she was tending the spectacular roses when she saw what happened. She waited until I confronted Cara to fling off her gloves and stop me.

I incline my head, studying her.

That’s an awfully protective gesture for someone who won’t give me her name . Or tell me how she knows mine.

This notion, and the existence of the mysterious roses, emboldens me to linger. “Will you at least tell me if we know each other?”

She gives a quick shake of her head. “We don’t.”

I’m opening my mouth to ask another question when something snags, carving into the center of my abdomen.

It stretches between us—a taut wire wrenching me toward her with enough force that my muscles strain to resist. “ Gods ,” I hiss, one hand going to my midsection.

Like a fishhook lodged in my very essence, my first instinct is to wriggle against it. Something within me says if I try, it’ll only cut deeper.

“What’d you say?”

“Um— How old are you?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind.

“Thirty-six,” she sighs. “ Why ?”

“I’m twenty-five,” I say thinly, holding my abdomen and feeling like an idiot.

“I’m aware.” She hacks at the soil. “And I don’t remember asking.”

A simple ceramic stove glows in the far corner. The low creaks and pings of metal expanding and contracting are the only sounds.

“You seem to know a lot about me for someone who says she doesn’t,” I finally say. “Might you have any idea why those roses seem so terribly familiar?”

She goes still for a heartbeat, maybe two. “Not remotely.”

“Did you plant them?”

“We are not friends , Tiss. Nor are we going to be, understand?” She glances over her shoulder, her gaze penetrating. “You’re finished with your questions now. It’s safe to leave, and I have work to do.”

Another tug goes through me, pulling from behind my navel like iron shavings to a magnetic field. But I’ve had enough bewildering, hair-raising shit for one day.

The greenhouse door slips from my slick palms, slamming harder than I intend. I lean against it, blowing a shaky breath toward the winter sky.