clothes in a collector. They will be cleaned and returned to one of your lockers.’ Charlonge’s mouth curved in satisfaction. ‘We are spared the mundane. It is one of Ixion’s – Lenoir’s – gifts to us. Our sustenance is provided; we have whatever we want as long as we adhere to his rules. They are few but absolute.’
Retra pictured the beautiful, frightening Guardian. ‘Why does Lenoir – why do they – do this? Make this place for us?’ she asked, her tongue loosened by the cool, sweet drink Charlonge had pressed on her.
Charlonge’s smile strained. ‘It’s not our business to ask such questions. They want us to take pleasure. That is all.’
She’d left, and now, as Retra lay listening to the sounds of others being admitted through the church doors, she wondered again why the Ripers chose to indulge their pleasure so much. What was it that Charlonge had said? Their conversation was becoming blurred. Faint. Then gone, as her mind drowsed without sleeping for some hours, trapped in a reverie of waking dreams – about Joel mostly, but other images as well: the wallowing barge, the uneven, moss-wet stone walls of her home and her father’s cold expression when he realised she’d run away and gone after her brother.
How he would hate her for it. How shamed he would be.
Two from the same family, the Seal Superiors would say, tainted with lust and the lure of profligacy. Seal families would shun her parents for it. None would offer solace.
Retra emerged from her waking dream state with a dull ache in the base of her throat. Mother, I’m sorry. She sobbed without noise: a silent, inner weeping.
Then her thoughts came sharply to the new place, the dreaminess passing. She sat up in bed and scrubbed her face with her fingers.
Candlelit bodies lay in the wrought-iron beds around her, drowsing in their satin and lace. Two were awake, whispering to another. They glanced her way but said nothing to her.
Retra left her bed and slipped barefoot from the room.
The sleeping chamber led to a hall and more rooms with doors firmly shut. Candles, melted in bizarre twisted shapes, lit her way. She touched the key on the chain around her neck and stepped softly. First she must find the clothes Charlonge had spoken about.
But when she reached the stairs, strains of music drew her further on, to the other end of the corridor.
Wall-mounted candelabra lit a grand indoor balcony in a blaze that banished shadows to high corners and revealed the muted colours of the many stained-glass windows. High above, vast arches with thick, decorative ribs marked the ceiling. Beneath her lay the sanctuary of the Church of Vank.
Retra gazed down at the largest apse, where a guitarist sat on an altar strumming something sad. Bodies lounged on a row of pews in the nave, listening and talking quietly. On one side a queue formed outside a curtained confessional: young girls mainly, dressed in black lace and silk, like Retra’s sleeping dress, though cut low and revealing. Some looked artfully torn, others were backless.
The memory of Charlonge’s words jolted Retra: Modesty is a sin on Ixion.
‘Well, I guess it’s only a small island,’ said a sharp voice in her ear.
Retra started and looked around. ‘Cal?’
The girl she had met on the barge looked different without her Grave tunic. Her long hair barely masked the gape in the neckline of her sleeping dress.
Retra’s eyes were drawn to the girl’s naked chest. Her face warmed with embarrassment.
Cal saw her reaction. ‘Get over it, Seal. No wonder your kind isn’t wanted here.’
The girl’s open hostility shocked her; made her wish that their paths had not crossed again. Yet she could not stop herself from asking, ‘Is Markes here?’
Cal shrugged and stuck out her lower lip. ‘How should I know? I lost track of him at the re-birth. What happened to you? Your boyfriend was looking for you.’
‘My b-boyfriend?’
‘Rollo, he said his name was. Asking everyone if they’d seen you. Got all worried you’d freaked and jumped over the cliff.’
‘I … wanted to see the churches. This one was the closest.’
Cal stared at her, her eyes glittering suspiciously in the candlelight. ‘I don’t believe you. I think you ran away from the re-birth. Seals can’t take their clothes off. They think flesh is sinful.’
In a quick movement Cal tugged at the neckline of her own satin shift, exposing one of her small breasts. Cal’s nipple was pale and soft like an exotic deep-sea creature.
Retra bowed