Page 5 of Insolence (Eisha’s Hidden Codices #1)

Itissa

T he refectory’s sconces and candelabras have been snuffed, the tables and sideboards cleared when I poke my head inside. But enticing aromas linger, inspiring another grumble from my empty stomach.

Hunger drives me to venture into the auxiliary kitchen at one end of the rectangular dining hall.

When I peek through the doorway, I’m greeted by a cozy space with a pitched timber ceiling, a staircase spiraling downward in the near corner, and a fire crackling in the hearth.

A wooden table with bench seating is arranged in front of it.

The room is otherwise cloaked in shadow.

The sight and smell of stew bubbling at the hearth lure me closer. Inside the crock, I find chunks of beef, carrot, and potato swimming in rich broth. I’m so preoccupied, I fail to notice the woman at the table, partly swathed in darkness.

I’m mid-scoop when she says, “Too hungry to sleep?”

I start, clenching the bowl so tightly it nearly sloshes.

“Ooh, careful, it’s hot! It’s good though, I promise.”

I turn slowly, feeling like a burglar caught in the act. “I must have missed dinner.”

She licks her spoon clean, drops it into her empty bowl, and regards me.

She’s around my age and strikingly pretty, with bright blue eyes peering out of a heart-shaped face.

Her porcelain skin glows with rosy undertones.

Half of her yellow-blonde hair is coiled into a bun at the back of her head, the rest of it falling past her shoulders in soft curls.

“You’re not in trouble, and I’m not the kitchen constable,” she smirks. “I won’t send you to soup jail, I promise.”

I laugh, a fraction of my tension evaporating. Sliding onto the bench across from her, I dip my spoon into the steaming stew. “I’m Itissa,” I say, blowing on it. “Everyone calls me Tiss.”

“Pleasure, Tiss. I’m Sadrie.” She gives a dramatic flourish of one hand. “Short for Sadrielle.”

“Pleased to meet you.” I take the hand and squeeze it. Her skin is warm and vellum-soft beneath my fingers. “Sorry to intrude if you were trying to get some peace and quiet.”

“Not at all! It’s nice to see a new face. Truth be told, most days I’m so bored I could cry.” She scrunches her nose adorably. “When did you arrive?”

“Three days ago. Finally feeling up to exploring a bit now that my headaches resemble, well, headaches rather than dynamite blasting my skull.”

“Ah, well, rest assured the pain should be mellowing soon.”

“That’s what Elodie said.” The statement slips out unplanned.

“Oh?” Sadrie inclines her head. “Is Elodie a friend of yours?”

“Can I ask you something?” I gesture with my spoon. “Did one of the high priestesses offer to make you a cold compress for your headaches? With, um, herbs?”

“With herbs , even,” Sadrie breathes, eyes sparkling in the firelight. “And here I am, never having seen the priestesses. Much less received medicinal propositions.”

“Interesting.” I take another bite, savoring the information along with the food.

Sadrie watches me, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“You can’t leave it at that and expect to move on, you know.

” She places her elbows on the table when I don’t reply.

Lacing her fingers together, she props her chin on them and bats her pretty eyes.

“Oh, come on, Tiss. Entertain me. Please ? Bored to tears over here. I might have mentioned.”

“Since you insist.” Talking through the food in my mouth, I launch into the disturbing scene I witnessed in the gardens yesterday and the abrupt way I was stopped from pursuing Cara.

“Goodness!” exclaims Sadrie, her hands dropping to the table with a bang . “Do you know what happened?”

“I haven't the slightest. And nobody will tell me.” I go on to relay how I was collected from the rooftop earlier, thoroughly insulted by Sister Ailen, and paraded to the Second High Priestess’s chambers with great haste—who, of course, turned out to be the greenhouse woman.

Filling Sadrie in on the rest of it, I choose to keep the mortifying kiss to myself.

It’s a complete mystery how I can know, deep in my bones, that society disdains those of us attracted to our own gender. Especially women who love women.

Meanwhile, I have no clue with whom—man or woman—I’ve shared intimacy in the past. Well, aside from a supposed husband the sisters mentioned when I first awoke, who passed on at some point in my mysterious past.

The notion of having a husband in general seems absurd.

“That’s it?” asks Sadrie. “She wanted to make sure you’re drinking water ?”

“And sleeping. Apparently.” I split a chunk of potato with my spoon, focusing on the table’s rough-hewn boards worn smooth over time.

The terrible scene between Kerrigan and Rosalie is looping through my mind again. On top of the aching emptiness in my chest, it forces tears to my eyes.

Sadrie’s warm hand on my forearm startles me. “You weren’t on that roof for the view earlier, were you?” Her question is gentle, almost cautious. “Tiss, I know we hardly know each other, but if you feel like that again—”

A choking sound escapes me. “It’ll pass. I’m adjusting .”

“All right.” She keeps her hand in place, not a hint of judgment anywhere on her. “I’m around if you ever need to talk. Just don’t do anything rash.”

“Thank you.” The idea of having a friend helps, and a grateful tear tracks down my cheek. “Please don’t tell anyone what I told you,” I whisper, dashing it away.

“Don’t worry. I’m no snitch.”

“How do you know that? You could be the snitchiest snitch who ever lived and have no idea.”

“I’m making a determination right now.” She gives my arm a warm squeeze, and something interesting zings between us.

Neither of us breathes. Her wide eyes, fringed with thick, dark lashes, wander over me while I gaze at her in turn.

Something adjacent to hunger unfurls within me, worming its way through my muddled emotions. Which makes no sense because I’ve put away nearly an entire bowl of stew and been dwelling on random acts of violence and my own suicidal urges for gods’ sakes.

I lift my chin with a sniffle. “But are you entertained? About the Elodie thing, I mean. The rest of it is pretty awful.”

“Very much so,” she snorts. She changes the subject, to my eternal gratitude, telling me about her time here so far.

She’s twenty-three and has been at the temple for ten days. She arrived with a large group of women but remembers none of it now. She tends to be an early riser and has trouble sitting still, to the extent that she’s been avidly exploring the temple grounds.

Today, she walked to something she calls “the orrery.”

“Sorry, but what is an orrery?”

Her excitement bubbles up. “It’s an enormous clockwork model of the solar system.

It’s spectacular , Tiss. You have to see it as soon as possible.

It’s inside a building at the base of a footpath that goes up to the Observatory.

I haven’t been up there yet, but I plan to soon, if there’s enough time.

Oh, that’s right.” She snaps her fingers.

“If you weren’t at dinner, you missed the big announcement!

” She sits up tall on her bench, pausing dramatically and watching my reaction.

Which is ultimately laughter. “Well? Are you going to tell me what it is?”

She tosses her head, letting out a delighted giggle that makes my heart glow.

“The sisters announced all new initiates will begin orientation classes tomorrow. Well, and chores too,” she mutters with less enthusiasm before rushing on: “But the most exciting thing is the Ceremony of Induction will take place in four days!” She lets out a little squeal, clapping her hands.

Her glee is infectious, and I can’t help but smile, at least partially freed of the cares weighing me down.

After Sadrie and I part ways for the night, I go to bed with warmth pulsing in my veins.

For the first time since the ritual, I don’t cry myself to sleep. I don’t wake up screaming from half-remembered nightmares the following morning.

T he next day is clear and cold. Birdsong fills the air.

A majestic clock tower stands between the bathhouse and Sanctuary Hall. I pass its 24-hour clock face to join the mass of initiates filtering into morning prayers.

Once past the foyer, I stop short, the same way I’ve done every day since waking up here.

Proud on her pedestal, a bronze statue of Eisha occupies an altar in the center of the room. Rows of benches fill the hall on either side, facing the goddess as she presides over her worshipers.

Once again, I puzzle through the motto emblazoned on the statue’s base:

Wife to Aodh and Queen of the Gods. Patron goddess of builders and craftsmen, in particular blacksmiths. But today, for the first time, something new sparks in my mind:

Mother of Destruction and Regeneration.

The ritual must have eliminated it before, because the inevitable headache starts up.

Someone calls my name, and I spot Sadrie on the end of a nearby bench. As soon as I slide in next to her, Sister Ailen sweeps inside, alongside another sister I haven’t yet met, who introduces herself as Delia. We are ordered to bow our heads so prayers can begin.

As worship drags on, the rock-hard bench beneath me grows uncomfortable. Like the other mornings spent in this hall, this feels unnatural, as if something is misaligned.

I keep glancing at the statue. Eisha holds the traditional yew branch in one hand and cradles a finch in the other. Slowly, more of her motto surfaces in my butchered brain:

Killer of … Maker of … and Giver of …

The rest of it remains frustratingly out of reach, drifting just beyond the blank shroud of amnesia. What the hell did they erase?

W hen we pour out of Sanctuary, we’re directed to an enormous tree.

The ancient thing sprouts from the center of the courtyard, its numerous trunks springing from the same origin point in the ground. Wild, gnarled branches shoot in all directions, the tallest reaching beyond the roof of our residence.