“Black widow spiders, fatted on corpse flies. Glue little threads to them and the other ends under the edge of the sitting-hole in his privy. When he dangles down …”
Serevkis clapped her hands. “Wonderful. It would rot like an old sausage, wouldn’t it? But it might not kill him.”
“True. But there are other ways to finish him off. After all, the candles might kill someone innocent—the girl who cleans his chambers, or another of his victims.”
“Or I could leave him to live with a rotted poker,” Serevkis said. “Clever, Sister Mule.”
“Thank you.” She glanced back at her boiler. “Look!” she exclaimed. “See! It curdles!”
Serevkis got up to see.
A solid white mass had formed in the pot, shrinking slightly as it did so, so that it pulled away from the edges of the container. It floated there like an island, surrounded by clear, yellowish liquid. Anne inserted a wooden skewer into the solid part, and when she withdrew it, the hole remained.
“The thick part is the curd,” Anne explained. “The rest is whey.”
“What worked this change?” Serevkis asked, suddenly interested. “What broke the milk in two?”
“Rennet, taken from a cow’s belly.”
“Appetizing. What else might it clot, I wonder? Blood? I suppose I see why you find this interesting.”
“Of course. It once was one thing—milk—and now it is two.”
“It still doesn’t look much like cheese.”
“True. There is more magic to be worked.”
“You know,” Serevkis mused, “when I was young, we had a servant from Herilanz. She had the pretense of religion, but in fact she was pagan. Once, she told me her god, Yemoz, created the world from milk.”
“Separating curd from whey, sea from land,” Anne mused. “It makes a sort of sense. After all, the saints did separate the world into its parts.”
“Saint Mule, the woman who brought curd and whey from milk,” Serevkis said, and laughed. “You are like a goddess now.”
“You may laugh,” Anne said, “but that’s the point. When we learn to create these things—your poison candles, my cheese—we partake of creation. In a little way, we do become like the saints.”
Serevkis pinched a skeptical frown. “You’ve been listening to Sister Secula too much,” she said.
Anne shrugged. “Cruel she may be, but she knows everything.”
“She put you in the cave!”
Anne smiled enigmatically. “It wasn’t so bad.”
Everyone had been surprised at Anne’s composure when they brought her up from the shrine of Mefitis, and Sister Secula had given her more than one suspicious look and remarked on her color. The matter hadn’t been pursued, though. Anne didn’t expand now to Sister Serevkis. She hadn’t even told Austra. She felt somehow that what happened in the cave and beyond were her secrets, and hers alone.
It certainly would not do for Austra to know that she’d sent a letter to Roderick; though it wasn’t a violation of the oath, Anne still suspected Austra would be anything but pleased.
Cazio had been good to the first part of his word. When she cast the letters down from the window her first evening back in the coven, he’d appeared near sundown, waved to her, and taken the correspondence with him. Time would tell if he was truly honest.
Meanwhile, she was content. Everything was suddenly interesting to her, and she’d begun to understand what Sister Secula meant when she called Anne’s presence at the Abode of Graces a privilege.
She still hated the mestra, but she’d begun to grudgingly admit that she was worth listening to.
“Now what?” Serevkis asked.
“Now we cut our new-made world into cubes,” Anne replied, “to let the whey still within it seep out.”
With a sharp ivory knife, she did just that, slicing it first lengthwise, then crossways, then at an angle toward the bottom of the crock. When she was done, and had stirred it once, a jumble of neat cubes floated in the yellowish whey.
“Now we cook it a little longer and put it in a mold and press. Six months from now, we eat it.”
“Creation takes a long time,” Serevkis said. “I’m hungry now.”
“That’s why saints are patient,” Anne told her. “But there’s plenty of food around—”
Austra, dashing into the creamery from the garden outside, interrupted her.
“Have you heard?” the blonde girl said excitedly.
“Hello, Sister Persondra,” Anne said, rolling the rs comically.
“I have heard,” Serevkis remarked. “I continue to.”
“The news, I mean,” Austra said. “The girls are all talking about it. We’re going out.”
“What do you mean?”
“To a grand triva in the country. The casnara there hosts an annual fete for the women in the coven, and it’s happening in three days’ time!”
“Really?” Anne said. “I can hardly see Sister Secula allowing that.”
“No, it’s true,” Serevkis confirmed. “The older girls have spoken of it. It’s said she throws a lovely ball, albeit one without men.”
“It still sounds fun,” Austra said, a bit defensively.
“If it’s not,” Serevkis replied, “we’ll make it so.”
“What sort of party can we have with everyone dressed in these habits?” Anne wondered.
“Well, you have your things, Sister Mule,” Serevkis said. “But I’ve heard the countess keeps gowns enough for all of us.”
“A borrowed gown?” Anne said distastefully.
“But not for us,” Austra exclaimed. “As Sister Serevkis says, thanks to your stubbornness, we at least may wear our own things.”
“You may,” Anne replied. “I brought only one dress, and I gave that to you.”
Austra’s mouth hung open for a moment. “But your other chest. It’s even heavier than mine.”
“That’s because my saddle is in it.”
“Your saddle?” Austra said.
“Yes. The one Aunt Fiene gave me, the one I rode Faster with.”
“You worked all night and earned the mestra’s displeasure for a saddle?” Serevkis asked.
Anne merely nodded. She didn’t feel like explaining.
But Austra, of course, would not let the matter rest.
“Why?” she demanded, that night in their room. “Why did you bring the saddle? So you could run away?”
“That was one reason,” Anne allowed.
“But you dragged it up the stairs, after you promised me you wouldn’t try to leave.”
“I know.”
Austra was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again it seemed almost as if her voice crept out of her reluctantly. “Anne, are you cross with me?”
Anne sat up in her sheets and looked at her friend’s face in the faint moonlight. “Why would you think that?” she asked.
“Because you—you’re different,” Austra answered. “You spend so much time with Serevkis, these days.”
“She’s my friend. We’re studying the same subjects.”
“It’s just—you never had any other friends in Eslen.”
“You’re still my favorite, Austra. I’m sorry if you feel neglected, but—”
“But I cannot discourse of the same things you and Serevkis do,” Austra said flatly. “You learn sorcery while I scrub pots. And she is gentle born. Naturally you prefer her company.”
“Austra, you silly diumma, I don’t prefer her company to yours. Now go to sleep.”
“I don’t even know what you just called me,” Austra murmured. “You see? I’m stupid.”
“It’s a sort of water spirit,” Anne told her. “And you aren’t stupid just because you don’t know a particular word. If you were allowed to study what I do, you would know it. Enough of this! Austra, I will always love you best.”
“I hope so,” the younger girl said.
“Just think how you’ll look at the ball. The only girl in her own gown.”
“I’m not going to wear it.”
“What? Why? It’s yours.”
“But you don’t have one. It wouldn’t be right.”
Anne laughed. “As a lot of people—you included—have been fond of telling me, we are not in Crotheny anymore. I am not a princess here, and you are not a maid.”