Doom: Beyond the Veil of Shadows

3

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.