The Timeseer's Gambit (The Faraday Files Book 2) (10 page)

“You’re Heart Church’s Crone,” she said, finally.

The old priestess looked startled, blinking large eyes owlishly at them. “Why, yes,” she said. “Grandmother Harriet is my name, dear. Did Greta tell you about me?”

“No,” Olivia said with a conspiratorial smile. Before the Crone could ask further, Olivia swept past her and into the waterlogged back hallway. “Are the families all here?”

“Oh, well―yes, indeed they are, dear. If you’ll just follow…” But Olivia was already gone.

The poor old woman hitched up the skirts of her habit to hurry after her. “Oh, but Miss Faraday, that kind Officer Dawson also brought these reports―”

Chris ran his eyes through the sanctuary, with its stained glass windows and its vaulted ceilings. Mother Greta had her head bowed in prayer at the front with a small group of worshippers. For a moment, he swore he saw familiar silver hair and a strong back kneeling before the altar to Healfdene the Elder. Then he blinked, and the apparition was gone. He hurried after Olivia and Grandmother Harriet.

The water level had retreated during the hour they’d been gone, but they still sloshed to their destination. Chris’s shoes would be completely ruined.

Olivia didn’t seem to notice as she flipped through the files. “Hmm,” she said. “Two fiaran attacks, one sylph, and now an undine. No pattern of the type of elemental, so we can rule out one of those limited ‘binders.” She allowed Grandmother Harriet to move in front of her, leading the way. She turned a few more pages and then made a noise in the back of her throat. “Oh, now,
this
is interesting.” She stopped in her tracks, flipping back and then forth again through the pages. “All of the others died in their beds, late at night. Asleep. That’s… different.”

Grandmother Harriet turned back. Her eyes were dark and sad. “It would almost be better that way, don’t you think?” she murmured. “Poor, dear Lachlan. He deserved a peaceful end, like the others.”

“Mnn.” Olivia flipped through again and then closed the files. “Three asleep in their beds and one taking a bath. That
is
quite strange.” She shook her head and glanced up. Grandmother Harriet tilted her head, and Olivia flashed a smile. “Well,” she said. “Lead on, won’t you?”

The Crone blinked and then nodded, turning away and starting off through the waters again. Chris and Olivia followed.

“They couldn’t
actually
have gathered everyone so quickly, could they?” Chris murmured to Olivia.

She shot him one of her little grins. “Oh, never underestimate people who are curious, Christopher. I suspect they all came running full tilt to us.”

The Crone stopped before a door. “Here we are,” she said.

Inside was a large, well-appointed meeting room, and despite Chris’s doubts, there were four entire family units, minus one Mother who was attending the sanctuary.

Immediately, Chris opened his book and began making notes. He noted how one of the Youths, tiny with tightly curled orange hair, cringed away from them as they entered. He noted how the Maiden beside him put her arm around his shoulder and murmured something in his ear. He noted how one pair of Maidens and Youths sat almost indecently close together, fingers intertwined. He noted Sister Elisabeth, sitting near the back in a corner, apart from her family, face swollen from tears.

And then he noted that there were seven young people in the room.

Olivia had realized it faster than he had. “Aren’t three of you supposed to be dead?” she asked, folding her arms.

Twenty-two pairs of eyes blinked at her in confusion.

Olivia pulled the rolled newspapers out of her reticule and pulled off the twine, snapping them open. “All right,” she pronounced. “Which of you are from the Sanctum of the Father’s Sheltering Arms?” She pronounced the name with slight distaste, like there was something too salty on her tongue. A series of hands went up, one for each position. Olivia’s gaze zeroed in on the Maiden, the girl who’d wrapped her arm around the cowering ginger Youth. “I take it you’re
not
the dearly departed Georgiana Edison. Who am I looking at, then?” she asked.

The girl glanced around. When no help was immediately offered, she licked her lips and spoke up. “Penny Daniels, ma’am,” she said, and then, as if remembering herself, straightened a bit. “That is, I am Sister Penelope of the Holy Family of the Sanctum of the Father’s Sheltering Arms, Miss Faraday. What can I do for you?”

“How long have you held that position?”

“Four weeks, ma’am.”

Chris glanced up, looking over at Olivia, who was wearing her thinking line between her brows. “Georgiana Edison died four weeks ago,” Olivia pointed out, as if the room didn’t know. “She was the Maiden of your church.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And you’ve been the Maiden of your church for four weeks?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Olivia looked around the room. “All right,” she said, clearly bemused. “Is it just me, now, or is that a
ludicrously
fast turnover?”

One of the Crones spoke up. She was a wizened old thing, and Chris would put her age at past eighty, at least. Despite how her mouth trembled as she spoke, and how her hands looked like sticks wrapped in birch bark in her lap, her eyes were sharp and flinty. “Do you know where we come from, Miss Faraday?” she asked. Her voice was like someone slowly folding old paper.

Chris knew Olivia well enough to see her swallow a smile. “Oh, what a question,” she mused, miming a philosophical pose: one finger on her cheek, head tilted, brow furrowed. “I suppose you would say that we were created by the hands of the Three and Three, though some Lowry folk have differing opinions, and―”

The old woman continued to speak, not raising her voice over Olivia’s playful baiting. “In the old days, before Richard Lowry, priests were third and fourth sons. Daughters who didn’t want political marriages, or didn’t have enough dowry to make them. We were people who had no other place to go.” She cracked a smile and her eyes glittered. “Well, that much hasn’t changed. We’re still outcasts needing a place. Except now, it’s not about inheritance, politics, or marriages. It’s about proficiencies.”

Olivia had given up her attempt to rile the gathered priests and was regarding the old woman with a sort of respect. The closest she came to respect. Only the most stubborn minds refused to be baited by Olivia Faraday. “And who are you?” she asked.

“Grandmother Eugenia, with the Church of Eadwyr and Healfdene’s Loving Embrace.” The Crone smiled. “I don’t really remember my family name. I’m sure you understand.”

There was a twinkle in the woman’s eye. Chris suspected that she remembered it full well, especially since it would technically be shared by the even older man sitting beside her, her Elder who she’d married back when they were raised to Mother and Father. But she was on to Olivia’s game of using their surnames, and wouldn’t let her play.

A smile fluttered around Olivia’s lips. “All right, Eugenia,” she said, tapping her foot. “Continue your explanation, please, though I
do
already know all of this.”

“Not so well as you think, young one.” Grandmother Eugenia gave a gummy, toothless smile of her own. “You know as well as anyone that someone who finished categorization without a proficiency emerging is sent to the Church, correct?” At Olivia’s nod, the old woman echoed the motion. The jowls under her chin trembled as she did. Chris watched in horrified fascination. He’d never actually been around someone so old. His grandparents had passed in their seventies, and Fernand had worn his age so well… “I’m sure you’ve read that proficiencies are weaker every day. Haven’t you considered that there are also a wealth of young folks coming out of that room without a gift at all?”

“Ahh,” Olivia breathed, and she shot Chris a look. He knew that look.
I hope you’re getting this down
. “You’re suffering a surplus.”

“There’s at least a hundred young men and women waiting for placement with a holy family.” Grandmother Eugenia nodded. “And we Crones and Elders”―she patted her husband’s hand, and he nodded absently―“well, we’re not dying nearly fast enough to get them into the ranks.”

“So the moment Miss Edison died,” Olivia finished, “Miss Daniels stepped into her shoes. Is that right?”

Sister Penelope nodded. As did most of the room.

Olivia looked around. “All right,” she said. “All of you who replaced one of the deceased, stand up.”

Sister Penelope was the first to her feet. Her Youth clung to her hand despite their difference of height, and she patted him encouragingly. Another girl and a boy also stood. The girl was reedy, pinch-faced, and looked as if she’d been crying. She made the sign of the Three and Three the moment she reached her feet and looked straight ahead at nothing. The boy was the one who had been sitting closely with his Maiden. He was a tall, blond, handsome bloke, and looked more like an actor treading the boards as a romantic lead than a priest.

“You can leave,” Olivia said, smiling with an edge and indicating the door. “I have no interest whatsoever in anything that you have to say!”

The reedy girl nodded. “Very well,” she murmured. “I shall pray and assist Mother Greta with her duties.” She headed for the door as the handsome fellow leaned down and whispered something in his Maiden’s ear. She smiled and nodded, patting his hand as he made for the door.

But Sister Penelope was held back by the orange-haired slip of a boy tugging at her hand. “Penny, please, don’t leave me,” he whimpered. Sister Penelope knelt to murmur into the boy’s ear. Reluctantly, slowly, he released her hand and sniffed. Sister Penny nodded and shot Olivia an accusatory look, which was ignored. Moments later, the door closed, all extraneous Youths and Maidens expelled from the gathering.

Olivia consulted her newspapers as the clock on the wall ticked and the gathered holy families watched her apprehensively. “Timothy Lane,” she pronounced at long last. “The first to die. Could his family please identify themselves?” She gave Chris that look again. He knew how important his work was in this situation. This was the largest group that they’d ever interviewed together, and Olivia was terrible at remembering exact details. The larger the group, the worse she was.

Grandmother Eugenia was the first to raise her trembling hand. Her constantly bewildered Elder didn’t react, but the Mother and Father and Maiden sitting with her did. Chris noted that the Elder seemed to be on the verge―or in the embrace―of senility. He thought again of how long these pairs had spent their lives together. Was it hard for Eugenia to see her husband like this? Did she often think of the strapping Youth he’d once been? He wondered who was older, who had joined the Church first, who had shepherded the other. Or had they joined at the same time?

“This is Grandfather Orville,” Grandmother Eugenia said, patting his hand once again. He patted her back, but said nothing for himself. “My daughter and son, Mother Lily and Father Lowell. And, of course, our Maiden, Patricia.”

The Mother and Father were completely unremarkable in appearance and manner, but Sister Patricia arrested Chris’s attention. Her face was remarkably pretty, her hair golden and soft-looking, her poise flawless. Patricia was the sort of woman who anyone would turn their head to watch. A fine match for the Youth she’d sat with, their heads bent together. It occurred to Chris in a flash of insight that the Maidens and Youths were really his age or older, not adolescents. Fresh from categorization, just… not categorized.

And what had that been like?

He remembered in a flash. Electricity coursing through his body, his back arching, panting and begging.
Please, stop.
But they hadn’t stopped, not for two full days. Not until he’d felt something snap inside, and suddenly, slashing across the ceiling, cutting through plaster and paint,
STOP IT PLEASE LEAVE ME ALONE STOP IT STOP PLEASE
. A week later, he’d been given his categorization card, his name, his date of birth, and a tiny worldcaught representation of his face all hovering above the word
WORDWEAVER
.

He wondered how long those men would have kept going if the words hadn’t appeared across the ceiling.

The beautiful Sister Patricia would know the answer to that question all too well.

“Tell me about Timothy Lane,” Olivia said, her voice very slow and considering.

“Brother Timothy was―” Grandmother Eugenia began, but Olivia held up a hand. She sharpened that hand into an accusatory, pointing finger, and she stuck it at Sister Patricia.

“
You
tell me about Timothy Lane,” she said.

Sister Patricia could hold Olivia’s gaze only for a moment before dropping her eyes. Her lashes were very long. “Brother Timothy and I were assigned to the Church of the Maiden’s Pure Heart at the same time, when the previous Crone and Elder died together in an accident. That was two years ago.” Which made Sister Patricia roughly a year Chris’s senior. How odd, that their designation as children to the Church turned them into children in his eyes, as well. “Mother Lily and Father Lowell were married and raised. Timothy and I assumed our positions together.”

“Hmm,” Olivia said. She studied Sister Patricia closely. “You just told me absolutely nothing about him.”

Patricia averted her eyes again. “He was a steelcutter’s son. He had a rough upbringing and was quite poor. He…”

“You know that isn’t what I’m looking for!”

“Miss Faraday, I―”

“Oh, leave her alone,” Grandmother Eugenia interrupted. “We try not to speak ill of the dead, especially the
unfortunately
dead. Patricia is a good girl. Let an old bitter woman do it instead.”

A smile played at Olivia’s lips. “Well, then. By all means.”

“Brother Timothy was a bleeding duffer, and that’s the truth of the matter. He was a damned mean blighter to his core, he lied more than he told the truth, and we even caught him stealing from the plate more than once. Not a one of us was heartbroken when that fiaran did him in.”

Sister Patricia looked pained. “
Grandmother
―
” She breathed.

Eugenia waved her off, scoffing under her breath. “Oh, you know it as well as any of us, Patricia. Maybe even better. There wasn’t a single thing to recommend Timothy. Brother Alexander is an upgrade in every single way. If that makes me a monster, so be it.”