She tries to fight down her terror. She can wait no longer. She must move. She transfers her blade to her left hand and eases herself slowly up the steps, bracing herself against the wall in case someone should lunge down at her. The light gathers in strength as she walks towards it, but still she cannot see where it is coming from. Cautiously she winds her way up and up, until the light bursts full upon her.
She is staring into a tiny open chamber, not much bigger than a recess in the wall. A man in monk's robes kneels with his back to her. In front of him is a table on which stands a carved and painted figure of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus in her arms. The child's hands are outstretched as if begging to be plucked from his mother's grasp. Three slender candles burn around the base of the figure. Encircled by their trembling flames, the painted scarlet mouth of the Virgin smiles as if she knows what is about to happen, and it amuses her.
The monk lifts his head like a hound scenting the breeze. He seems to realise he is not alone. He scrambles up, turning towards her with a look of terror. She puts her finger to her lips, warning him not to cry out. She takes a pace backwards down the stairs. She means to leave him unharmed. She will not hurt him, not a holy monk. But the terrified monk seizes the heavy wooden statue in both hands. Holding it over his head, he charges towards her with a shriek. The sleeves of his robes fall back and she sees the muscles bulging in his arms, bracing themselves to strike.
She knows she must protect herself. She knows she must strike first, but he is a monk. She cannot harm a man in holy orders. The grinning face of the Virgin hurtles down towards her head. Instinct takes over. She thrusts her blade up towards the monk, meaning only to warn him to stay his hand. But even as she does so she sees a shadow looming up behind him. The monk's arms freeze in the act of striking. He arches backwards with an agonised cry as the point of a sword emerges from his chest. He falls to his knees, pitching forward straight on to her blade. The Virgin and Child fly from his hand and shatter against the cold stone wall. As he falls, the draught of his robes instantly extinguishes the flames of the three candles, as if the devil himself has snuffed them out.
She is standing in utter darkness. She can see nothing. But she feels hot liquid on her hands, and she knows the holy blood of a monk is dripping from her fingers on to the sacred stones.
Elena woke with a cry and sat bolt upright, breathing so rapidly that she felt as if she'd been running. The blood pounded in her temples. Her body was slippery with sweat and the cover of the thin straw pallet was as wet as if she had thrown water over it. It took a few minutes for her to calm herself and try to rid her mind of the images in her head.
The heat inside the sleeping chamber was suffocating. She hadn't been able to get cool all day. Now that the sun had begun to dip behind the buildings and the shadows were lengthening, it would have been cooler to sit in the garden, but she hardly dared leave the sleeping chamber any more. She was terrified that the bailiff and his men would return and walk in on her as she sat outside, before she had time to prepare herself. She knew that if the bailiff asked her anything she would give herself away in a word.
Luce had dyed her hair and eyebrows with a paste containing walnut juice to darken them. Ma's orders. It was a pity, Ma had told her with a sigh, for men liked copper-heads and would pay more. Elena couldn't get used to the sight of herself with black hair. It made her face look paler than ever and she felt as if she was staring back at a stranger whenever she glimpsed herself in one of the silver mirrors the girls shared. She wondered if Athan would even recognize her, much less think her pretty now.
The door opened and Luce stuck her head round it, searching the beds. 'Here,