Page 48 of Insolence (Eisha’s Hidden Codices #1)

She wrinkles her nose at the berries. “No, thank you. Wine?” She grabs the bottle, uncorking it when I answer in the affirmative.

“It has everything to do with your question. But there’s context your temple-approved curriculum hasn’t yet covered.

Some of the things I’m about to share will come up soon.

Some won’t. Either way, you’re getting ahead of your classmates today. ”

With warmth seeping through my chest, I motion to the tin of hot food. “Split this with me?”

She opens it and starts divvying up the fried sausage. “You remember Maida saying the Ceremony of Induction is a form of Divination, right?”

“Mm-hmm. I also remember studying it for my exam. Sortilege, if I recall. The drawing of lots.” I flutter my lashes in a way that would make Sadrie proud—and promptly ignore the pang in my heart.

“Very good.” Elodie flashes a roguish grin.

Her approval sends lightning spiderwebbing through my nervous system. I watch her strong fingers work, cutting the stubborn sausage with nothing but a butter knife.

“And you know by now that mages, such as yourself, draw the white spheres.”

“Of course. And the betrothed drew the black ones.” I keep my eyes on those steady hands while they scoop portions of sausage and mashed potato onto each of our plates.

“Well, what you don’t yet know is the betrothed are actually another type of changeling entirely. One Maida and I aren’t exactly permitted to lecture about. Not that we let that stop us, in the long run.”

Another kind of changeling? My cup pauses on its way to my lips. “Why not?”

“Because. They aren’t actually human.”

“Excuse me?” I sputter, setting my wine back down. “What do you mean they aren’t human ?”

“I mean, they’re literally not human.” She takes a few more bites, lifting her shoulders in far too calm of a shrug.

“Well? What are they?”

“Arcane beings. Preternatural, unearthly creatures wrought of chaos and magic.” Her gaze rests on me, weighty with expectation. “But you probably don’t remember the story of the Dead God Máiréad.”

“No.” Curiosity burning through me, I wait for more. But I’m clear-headed enough to realize I’m not only being rewarded today.

No, this is also a further test. It seems to involve accepting what answers she’s willing to give without arguing.

Determined not to crumble under provocation, I clamp my mouth shut, smile, and wait. When she continues, it’s as if she hadn’t brought up this Dead God business at all.

“We call these creatures demuns—that’s with a U-N-S. And no, it’s not an accident the word is so close to demons with an O-N-S. It’s meant to be disparaging, but I think it’s actually a bit intimidating. Lethal.” She winks.

“Wait.” My forehead wrinkles. “But mages are human, right?”

“Right. And I can see I’ve gone and confused you already.” She twists around as if looking for something, then gets to her feet. “Truth be told, this part’s usually up to Maida and her trusty blackboard.”

Grabbing one of the long wooden dowels bundled in the corner—presumably meant as plant supports—she turns her attention to a disused flowerbed.

I watch, my thoughts swirling, as she traces the stick through the soil, rendering and labeling what looks like two overlapping circles.

Embodying every ounce of calm collectedness I can muster, I brush off my fingers and join her at the empty bed. “You teachers and your visual aids.”

After a moment of examining her rudimentary diagram, I say, “So mages are half-human and half-demun?”

“Not quite. Changelings are born at random. You can’t exactly breed us.

It’s not a genetic trait, as far as we know.

That said, mages are essentially halfway between natural humans and demuns in society’s eyes.

We’re still biologically human. But we can also manipulate life-force, which sets us apart from natural humans.

Because of that, when folks speak of changelings, they’re referring to demuns and mages both. ”

“Ah,” I say, understanding dawning.

She scratches away her drawing in the soil before we resettle at the table.

“As you’ve likely noticed spending time around the betrothed, demuns are physically pretty much indistinguishable from natural humans and mages. A demun’s proclivities don’t manifest until her eighteenth birthday.”

I place my chin on my hand. “What ‘proclivities,’ Elodie?”

“Very simple ones: demuns are equipped to kill. Quickly and efficiently.” She chews a piece of bacon and sips her wine.

Stunned, I can’t begin to determine which of the seventeen questions banging around my head to ask first.

“Unintentionally sometimes,” she continues, as casually as she may. “Sometimes very intentionally, due to what they are. It’s in their nature. Demuns are largely the reason all changelings are distrusted.”

“I see.” The delicious fare turns to sawdust in my mouth. “ How do they kill?”

She looks thoughtful for a moment. Finally saying, “That's a better question for another day, I think.”

“All right.” I heave a sigh and drain most of my cup. “Are the betrothed girls… I mean demuns … mortal?”

“All changelings can die, yes. Although we’re much longer-lived than natural humans. Mages will commonly live to a hundred and twenty or so. Some demuns live to see two hundred years before expiring of old age. If something more violent doesn’t kill them first.”

A gasp escapes me. “All right, that’s a lot to take apart and examine, priestess!”

“Oh, there’s more,” she says and refills my wine.

“All demuns possess preternatural strength and keen senses. Unfortunately for them, the ritual blunts those abilities, along with memories. The prioress keeps them sedated most times, as you’ve likely noticed by now.

To keep them otherwise under control. If there’s one thing Deirdre loves,” murmurs Elodie, “it’s complete and total control. ”

Gods, that’s brutal . Those poor creatures. Heartbreak wells up inside of me on behalf of the betrothed girls. “That hardly seems fair, even if they do kill. It isn’t their fault they are how they are.”

“Oh, I agree. But life isn’t fair. It doesn’t help that changelings always happen to be wasted women.”

“Wasted women?” I incline my head. The term almost sounds familiar. So much so that I know if I grope, the headache will come barreling back.

“Right.” Elodie sighs. “It’s an old-fashioned term used for women who love other women” —women like you and me , she doesn’t say.

But it drifts in the air between us just the same.

“What it means is a woman who’s abandoned her duty to the realm—her duty being to keep her true desires hidden, to marry and have children anyway—instead choosing to indulge selfish cravings.

More or less rendering herself a waste of flesh. ”

“Oh, hell.” I slouch in my chair. Aside from revealing that horrible phrase, the Second High Priestess basically just told me that we’re all wasted women here at the temple. Then again, that does make a strange sort of sense.

She goes on to say the reverse isn’t true at all; not all wasted women are changelings. But the correlation certainly doesn’t do us any favors.

There’s another term for us, too. “Slag” is shorter and easier to say, but it’s pejorative to the point of being a slur.

“As if women in general don’t already have it bad enough,” I finally say.

She huffs in agreement and takes a long swallow of wine.

“Things are slightly better for the mages who end up here. By becoming high priestesses, we somewhat redeem ourselves in society’s eyes.

We prostrate ourselves before the goddess.

Pledge ourselves to her mercy. We take our vows and at least keep up outward appearances. ”

“Not that half the temple isn’t secretly screwing around,” I can’t help but murmur with a sardonic snort.

“Any given year.” She raises her cup and takes another sip. “But we serve a purpose, so most folks at least pretend to tolerate us. Some natural humans even revere us, few though they are, so don’t fret too much.”

I frown, chewing my food along with the steaming heap of knowledge she just dumped in my lap. The next time I look up, Elodie is glancing around her beloved enclave, a look of contentment softening her features.

Rain drums on the glass. The gray, waterlogged world outside contrasts starkly against our cozy indoor picnic. The flowerbeds overflow with jasmine and viola and pansy, chrysanthemum and primrose.

But the enticing perfume that’s teased my nostrils since I first sat down wafts from the strangely familiar striped roses. They climb the trellises behind the table, scrabbling up the wooden window frames and clinging to the crossbeams directly overhead.

I haven’t had another episode like the first time I came in here, although the aching nostalgia that accompanies their floral-citrus fragrance is still strong. Closing my eyes, I drag in a deep breath, attempting to let the feeling wash over me.

Elodie makes a noise in her throat. “I’d love to paint you sometime.”

She’s gazing at me and looking half-stunned by her own words when I open my eyes.

“If you want,” she adds hastily. “Truth be told, I don’t have supplies. But I could get some. If you wanted.” She rakes a hand through her loose hair, wearing a look of raw, open longing that thrums down the incorporeal cord connecting us.

“Let me think about it,” I say. How does her attention incite so much heat, so much euphoria? After the heavy conversation we’ve had, it has absolutely no right to and is the furthest thing from fair.

Under the table, I press my thighs together against my throbbing core. Behave, Tiss .

“They’re called thousand-petal roses,” she says. Leaning hastily over, she yanks one of the stunning flowers from the trellis, probably thinking she’s too sly for me to notice when she rubs the tip of her nose on her shoulder.

“They’re gorgeous.” I smile, unable to stifle my slight satisfaction at the effect my pheromones have. “I love them.”