The smell of dampness tightened her stomach.
It didn't come up, it just stayed there, low, sticky, like something that didn't want to come out.
Beyond the window, whiteness. Snow and fog where indistinguishable, as the milky void that swallowed everything covered all the land. But, as usual, with the shifting of the stars, the winds from the sea would sweep it away.
Her breath fogged the glass, and in that flickering blur, her eyes appeared: it didn't seem to be her own. They were open, alert, as if waiting for something. Her body, however, was curled up and defensive, as if the soul inside was a disease that needed to be contained.
She turned away sharply. The melancholy came anyway, suddenly, compressed in her chest as it seemed hard to swallow.
The stone floor bit her bare feet: the cold slowly, methodically, rose to her knees, her hips, right inside her bones. It wasn't a surprise, as it always came back in there.
The bell rang, a sharp peal. Then another.
The sound poured through the corridors of the sanctuary like liquid metal. The keepers would be moving soon. The same, shuffling steps, as every time.
She took a deep breath, and the cold air stopped halfway in her lungs.
She smelled of wet cloth and burned incense: the smell of every morning, as if time in there didn't advance but stagnated.
Her hand rose to her chest before she could stop it.
Beneath the rough fabric, the small wooden dart was cold, colder than she felt. The cord holding it hung frayed. It took little, a single mistake. Sometimes she feared his absence more than his presence.
She traced the object's edges with her fingertips, slowly.
Then she turned it, making the metal tip touched her skin. She pressed, again and again. A sharp, controlled pinch. The ivory of her flesh reddened with discomfort.
Warmth, finally! Minimal, but enough.
She brought it to her lips.
"Don't forget me today." she whispered, halfway between a prayer and a lament.
Before leaving the cell, she hesitated. Not out of fear, but out of a strange sense of incompleteness.
She closed the door behind her. The dry sound of the wood seemed final, more so than she would have liked.
The corridor was immersed in a whitish gloom. The high windows let in a cold light, which warmed nothing, but made the contours sharper and more severe. The shadows of the grates stretched across the floor, intertwining like marks designed to confuse anyone who followed them.
The keepers appeared one by one from the cells, dark figures who lined up without needing to speak to one another. No one was really looking at her, yet she felt a constant pressure on her, as if the silence itself was demanding something.
She touched the dart under her robe again. This time it wasn't as a plea, but like touching a familiar object before crossing a threshold.
As they entered the Vain, the world seemed to close behind them and for a moment she had the irrational certainty that, if she wanted to escape, that would be the last possible moment.
The service unfolded slowly, without haste.
Behind the iconostasis, a deep voice intoned a sacred chant, it was invisible, separated from them by the carved wood and the mythological images of their world.
The words were repeated, elongated and dragged out until transformed into pure sound without true meaning.
The smell of the myrrh rose thickly, enveloping the columns and icons, insinuating itself between the veils and the robes of the women in there. The candles flickered before the golden votives, and the shadows made the crowns of the figures seem to move slightly, as if pulsating.
The sweetish smell of frankincense clung to her throat, however persistent it was, and the heat of the flames mingled with the cold of the stone, creating a confused, almost dizzying sensation.
She remained still, her hands clasped in her lap as the sacred rite required. Her back was rigid, her gaze fixed on the ceiling. The only difference, bewteen her and everyone else, was that she never closed her eyes, remaining fixed on the golden details, the pearls and precious gems, all ornaments that belonged to the Pale Lands of the Dominium.
Her body reacted before her mind, betraying her.
It wasn't a clear image, nor a complete thought. Just a sudden sensation, warm and inappropriate, that slid down her belly like a shiver.
She instinctively clenched her thighs, as if she could contain something pressing to exist, and lowered her gaze, as her heart beated too fast. She felt exposed, as if the slightest movement could reveal her guilt.
The voices continued to flow around her, indifferent, as her attention slowly broke.
"Stand up straight." The voice came low from behind her. A hand rested on her back, pushing her slightly, but just enough to straighten her. Her fingers were cold, firm, unhesitating. "The posture reflects the soul," murmured the old Keeper beside her, leaning her face close to her ear. "And Providence sees everything."
Heat rose to her face, overcomed with shame.
The noises faded one by one, as if someone had begun to close them from the inside. The singing died away without a real conclusion.
They remained standing for a time she couldn't measure. The keepers didn't move, and no one gave the order to leave.
It was the sound of the candles that marked the end: a wick giving way, a faint pop.
The High Keeper took a step forward; she was the oldest.
"Follow me." It wasn't an invitation.
She unclenched her hands from her lap with difficulty. Her fingers felt slow, as if they had learned a new resistance.
They left the Vain in silence. The doors closed behind them silently, absorbing the echo of their footsteps. The side corridor was narrower and the cold air was back.
They walked to a windowless room. The walls were bare, interrupted only by a stone shelf and a dark table fixed to the wall. On it, neatly arranged papers, dried wax, and a quill.
The High Keeper pointed to the bench. "Sit." She obeyed; the dard was cold even under her velvet robe.
The other took a paper. She read it without really looking at it, as if she already knew what was in there.
When she spoke, her voice was flat. "Aveline." It wasn't a question. "Your stay here has been granted." A pause. "Not guaranteed."
She looked up. The caretaker's eyes were clear, devoid of hostility, but there was no interest either. "You have been granted time." She felt the dart press under the cloth, as if it recognized the sentence. "Time must now be returned."
The Keeper placed the paper on the table. Next to the quill, next to her. "Providence does not force," she said. "It takes note." She said nothing else.
Then, she simply looked at the paper. The words were small, regular, carefully drawn. She didn't really read them. It seemed to her that they spoke of her as if she were something to be purchased.
She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. "And if-" she began, then stopped.
The old woman inclined her head slightly. A minimal but studied gesture. "If you don't sign," she said, "it will be necessary to find another suitable place for you."
She looked down at her hands, they were red and stiff from the cold. Her body, again, became present, like she finally understood how visible she was.
She thought of the white beyond the window, of the snow she couldn't distinguish from her skin.
The Keeper didn't prompt her. She remained standing, her hands clasped in front of her, as if time were something that didn't concern her.
She brought her fingers closer to the quill. She didn't pick it up immediately. The wood was smooth and lighter than she expected. "Can I-" she said, then fell silent, taken aback by how hoarse her voice had sounded.
The other woman raised her chin slightly. "Ask?" There was no irony, just observation.
She closed her eyes for a moment. She felt the pulse in her chest, too close to the surface. "Can I have more time?" The sentence hung between them.
The old woman looked at the paper again, as if considering a foreseen change. "Time is a measure," she said finally. "Not a concession." She slid the paper aside; not toward her, but away.
She felt a sudden, almost painful easing. Not relief, not salvation, just a delay.
She rose from the bench with a controlled movement.
The Keeper then knocked on the wall, a brief but precise signal, and somewhere, someone silently answered.
The corridor greeted her again with its disciplined cold. She walked without speaking. The Keepers didn't surround her: they preceded and followed her, leaving her just enough space to avoid tripping.
They didn't return to the cells, the passage they entered was lower. The walls were rougher, the light became irregular, interrupted, as if coming from unaligned sources. The air there smelled different, a scent of wet feathers, cold wax and untouched stone.
The Keepers on guard didn't even glance at her.
They stopped in front of a door narrower than the others. It had no markings, no symbols, only wood darkened by time.
One of the guards placed her hand on the surface but didn't knock.
"Mother has been informed." The sentence hung in the air, not as an announcement, more like a statement that needed no confirmation.
The Keeper's hand didn't immediately withdraw, she remained leaning against the wood, flat, as if measuring something that didn't fit through the door.
Her body reacted before she could command it to stay still. A brief, suppressed shiver.
The door opened silently: not inward, but downward. The opening revealed a narrow and old staircase, carved from the living stone. The steps were uneven, worn in the middle; there were no handrails. Light filtered through deep niches, shielded by veils of opaque wax that didn't flicker.
They descended. She couldn't tell how long, time down there couldn't be counted. The air grew warmer with every step, but also thicker, as if offering the slightest resistance to her breathing.
The smell became more distinct: feather, dust, resin. It was the scent of something animalistic.
The corridor ended in a larger cavity. Not a constructed room, but a space left intact, as if the rock had simply been accepted as it was. In the center, a low structure of rough stone. Above, layers of cloth, worn, stained by time. Veils, sheets, swaddling clothes that no longer had any function other than to cover.
The Keepers stopped at a distance, none of them taking a step further.
"Mother." one of them whispered as an invocation.
Beneath the cloths, something moved. Not a rising, but a diffuse, irregular stirring.
The sound came immediately after: a multiple, dry rustling, like wings brushing against each other without taking flight. The cloths billowed slightly, then fell again.
She felt her heart slow, heavy, as if searching for a rhythm different from its usual one. Her legs trembled, but did not give way.
The veils parted just enough. There wasn't a body, there were bodies: birds huddled together, dark and pale at the same time, compressed into a shape that had no center. Thin beaks and bright eyes, devoid of a single direction. They moved as a coherent whole, but no one guided the movement. There was no face, no place to gaze.
A sense of vertigo passed through her, quickly. Not fear, not disgust, something more akin to a misrecognition.
The voices rose. "Aveline." They had gently called her to them. "Stay." The rustling slowly quieted. It didn't stop completely, but it remained like a constant background, a breathing that didn't belong to a single chest.
When the voices spoke, it didn't speak immediately. It let her stay there long enough to feel its presence become a problem.
"If you have to choose," Mother said, "it's better if it happens soon." The sentence had no urgency, it was a given. "Time, above, is not as still as it is here."
She swallowed, the dart moving, barely scratching a patch of skin on the upper part of one of her breasts.
"That man is waiting for you," the voices continued. "Not here." She didn't name him; there was no need. "He wants to take you away." A brief pause. "It's a common mistake." The rustling of the birds changed rhythm, imperceptibly.
She felt her neck tense, warm, as if her name had been called.
"What overflows in you," Mother said, "is not corrected with another body beside you." The words weren't harsh. They were expert. "It isn't calmed by possession and isn't dissolved by function."
She felt a sudden dizziness.
"Marriage is not a form of containment," the voice continued. "A structure that will hold you together." A more pronounced rustling, like wings spreading. "But what passes through you does not obey the surveillance of a man." Silence. "I know." She didn't explain how. "The soul that cannot contain itself," Mother continued, "it becomes more unstable when entrusted." The term wasn't sin, but instability. "Here," said the voice, "we do not promise healing." A longer pause. "We promise management."
The Keepers remained motionless, distant, they did not intervene.
"If you enter the novitiate," Mother said, "Your surplus will be distributed." The word was precise, technical. "Diluted, recorded, and monitored."
A bird detached itself for an instant from the crowd, it did not fly but it merely shifted, as if marking a point. "If you leave," the voice concluded, "you will be asked to pretend that nothing of who you are exists." The rustling grew fainter. "And it will return," they added. "More disorderly."
She felt her lips move before she could stop them. "I-"
"You don't have to answer now," Mother said, without actually interrupting. "But know this, your body will not become simpler elsewhere."
The birds recomposed themselves under their veils. The mass closed, leaving only the background sound. "Choose what can hold you, not what will use you to hold itself." Then, more softly: "Now go."
Before she could catch her breath, a Keeper placed her hand on her back to remind her where she was. When she turned, her legs were still shaking.
They climbed back up without speaking.
The returning cold felt different. No longer foreign, but familiar, like something that had already measured her weight.
The hour of quiet didn't come suddenly. She slipped into the cell slowly, as the cold did.
She layed on the bed without removing her robe. The fabric clung to her skin differently than usual, as if it had lost the function it once knew. The ceiling was invisible, just a darker spot in the darkness.
Her body was present in a new way.
Every time she closed her eyes, she heard Mother's voice return: not the whole words, just a few. Measure, excess, management; terms that didn't hurt, but also didn't leave room for any remorse.
Her breathing stopped again halfway, like in the morning. She inhaled more than necessary, as if afraid the air might run out at any moment. Her hand slid across her chest without her noticing. Her breasts were warm but not sore, her thighs tightened slightly. The gesture seemed foreign to her, yet inevitable.
It won't get any easier, Mother had said. She felt a subtle irritation rising in her stomach, nor anger nor fear, but a kind of disagreement that didn't know how to oppose.
She turned her head on the pillow: the melancholy she felt was stronger, more personal.
She felt as if the cell, deprived of the noise, had begun to breathe.
She thought of the man. Not of his face, not of his affection, but of the function she had been assigned. The thought didn't repel her, but was tiring.
Again her mind shifted to the dart resting on her skin. She pulled it out slowly, as if extracting something alive. The metal tip reflected a thread of light, she placed it beside her: for the first time in a long time, she didn't immediately return it to her chest.
She remained like that, her arm stretched at her side, her body slightly open, as if waiting for an action that never came.
She closed her eyes and didn't pray or ask anything to the Providence, for the first time. She just let her body do what it did best: hold.
When sleep finally came, it was light, broken: she dreamed of birds that didn't fly but remained suspended, flapping their wings just enough to avoid touching the ground.