On the seventh floor of the Conclave’s tower, Dart sat in a chair, hands folded in her lap. She tried not to stare at the row of girls seated in chairs along one side of the hall, and especially not at the dwindling number of girls that stood between her and the closed doors at the end of the hall. The sigil of the healers, an oak sprig, was carved into the door’s lintel.

In preparation for the night’s ceremony, they were to be tested, and examined, judged whether or not they were pure enough to kneel before the gods’ Oracles.

Dart already knew her fate.

Tears threatened, a mix of terror, guilt, and sorrow.

The door opened again, releasing another girl, a fourth-floorer, who fled along the rows of chairs like a frightened sparrow. But from the smile on her face, it was not fear, but delight that was the wind under her wings. On her forehead, she bore a smudged blue cross, a mix of oils and dyed unguents, marking her as pure by Healer Paltry. She could attend the ceremony this night, opening the way to being chosen as a handmaiden.

Matron Grannice appeared in the open doorway. All the seated girls stood. Dart did the same, well aware of the ache in her loins, a dull bruise of the former pain.

Matron Grannice waved for the next girl, seated nearest the door. “Come, Laurelle. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”

Laurelle curtsied. On this day, she would be the first of the thirdfloorers to be tested. As was custom, the sixthfloorers were checked first, then the fifth and fourth, leaving the thirdfloorers for last. It would be the first time for Dart’s class to be presented before the Oracles, the blind servants of various gods, who arrived with the first full moon of summer to pick handmaidens and handmen for their gods.

Draped in white silk, her feet slippered in snowy soft velvet, Laurelle crossed to the door. She was the embodiment of purity. While it was a rarity for a thirdfloorer to be picked, what Oracle, blind or not, could fail to see the perfection that was Laurelle mir Hothbrin?

Pausing at the threshold, Laurelle glanced back at the line of remaining thirdfloorers. The powder on her face could not hide the blush of heat in her cheeks. Nervousness. She tried to smile bravely at the others, but it came out sickly.

All eyes, including Dart’s, followed Laurelle as she disappeared into the healer’s chamber. The door closed.

Now one girl sat between Dart and the door: Margarite. Like Laurelle, Margarite was dressed in white finery, down to the flowered tassels on her slippers.

Dart fingered the simple white shift and sash she wore, trying to pluck some semblance of beauty from it. Still, no amount of linen, silk, or the finest embroidery could make her pure again.

“Quit fidgeting!” Margarite spat under her breath, quick-tempered from her own anxiety.

Dart’s hands settled back to her knees.

For the past seven days, she had hidden all signs of the attack. But it had not been easy. Ripped and sore, she had continued to spot her underthings and bedsheets for the first three days.

On the second night, it came to the attention of Matron Grannice. Dart had hurriedly told the third floor matron that the bleeding was from her first menstra. With a frown, the portly woman had pulled Dart into her private study.

Panicked, Dart had expected her corruption to be bared, but Matron Grannice had merely sat her down and spoken kindly and gently. “The bleed is nothing to be ashamed of,” she consoled. “It is your first step into womanhood.” She then went on to instruct Dart in how to control her seepage and keep herself clean. Afterward, the matron had given her a long hug, a rare showing of warmth and affection from the large woman.

Dart had cried. It was not just relief that drew out her tears. Wrapped in Matron Grannice’s bosomy embrace, Dart was reminded how much she was about to lose. It was more than the roof over her head and the warm meals in her belly. It was the familiar faces she had known since a babe, the everyday routines of the only life she knew. Here was her home, her family.

She had cried for a long time until finally Matron Grannice had gently shushed her, wiped her tears, and sent her back to her bed.

A few days later, here she sat, awaiting the end. She would be stripped and spread on Healer Paltry’s bench. Experienced fingers would touch her shame and find her broken and spoiled, unfit for a god, too corrupt to even walk the halls of the Conclave. She would be whipped and cast out to the streets, spurned by all.

Master Willet had ripped away more than her virginity and innocence on the floor of the rookery. His rutting had torn down the very stone walls around her, broken her home into a bloody ruin. Had the monster known this? Had this been part of his black pleasure?

Master Willet’s disappearance had not gone unnoticed by the Conclave. Talk, rumor, and innuendo had quickly spread: that he had been waylaid by brigands outside the Conclave and his body dumped in the Tigre where it was washed away; that he had taken a whore for a wife and fled the First Land; that he had been practicing some Dark Grace and been sucked into the naether, never to be seen again. The less fanciful supposed he simply took service with some other caste and had left before his current contract was contested. But there were three in the Conclave who knew the truth: Dart, Pupp, and the person who had sent Master Willet up the stairs to attack a lone girl.

This last remained hidden, as much an accomplice in that dark play as those up in the rookery. No one came and pulled her aside, accused Dart in private or public of the crimes in the high tower. But someone knew.

Dart’s eyes settled to the hall’s stone floor. Pupp lay curled, his body steaming gently, his molten brass surface glowing brighter with each breath, then dimming as he exhaled with a wheeze of flame. She had experimented with him in solitary moments, testing various humours to see if anything besides blood would allow her to touch his phantom form. Nothing did, not saliva, yellow bile, or even tears.

Only blood.

In the dark, she had planned horrible strategies upon the body of the one who had sent Master Willet up the stairs. But now she would be cast out before her vengeance was complete.

The door at the end of the hall opened again. Laurelle strode out, back straight, eyes flashing. None needed to see her satisfied smile or the blue cross on her forehead to know she had passed judgment. “Margarite!” Matron Grannice called from the doorway, startling them all. “Don’t drag your heels, child! Get in here!”

All the girls popped to their feet. Margarite hurried through the door. Dart moved two steps over and took the girl’s abandoned seat. It was still warm from the fear of each girl who had sat there before.

The door closed.

Laurelle stood a few steps down the hall, basking in the envy of her fellow pupils. “It was nothing,” she consoled the others. “It is no more frightening than the yearly physique. Only much more thorough.” She spoke this last with the authority of a master to apprentices, then pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I have never felt so completely tested, so sure of my purity and readiness to be a handmaiden.”

Murmurs of approval and assurances that she would be chosen wafted down the line of seated girls.

Her words awakened the terror in Dart’s heart. As she stared at the closed door, her eyes traced the oak leaves and acorns on the lintel. Normally the sigil signified the art of healing: soothing balms, calming teas, all the gentle Graces to ease a body. But now the meaning had darkened; beyond that door, her life ended.

A touch on her shoulder made her jump. She turned to find Laurelle bent before her. All the girls watched, ready to see what new mischief Laurelle meant to inflict on Dart for their amusement.

Pupp was already on his feet, passing through Laurelle’s gown, his molten skin roiling with agitation.

“I know your secret,” Laurelle whispered, so softly no other could hear. “I know about the blood.”

Dart tensed, her vision darkened at the corners.

Laurelle continued. “I overheard Matron Grannice. Having your first menstra is frightening enough, but to have it mere days before the full moon ceremony . . .” Her fingers found Dart’s hand and squeezed ever so gently, then let go. “You’ll be fine.”

The sudden kindness caught Dart unprepared.

Laurelle straightened. “It’s not like you have any chance of being chosen this night anyway.”

Snickers and giggles met her words.

But Laurelle seemed deaf to the others. As she turned away, she carried a haunted look to her eye, and a touch of something else, the hint of envy again.

Studying her closely, Dart watched Laurelle struggle for a more confident smile. Dart had always been the invisible one, the girl in the shadows, as much a phantom as Pupp at times. For the first time, she wondered how much of a burden it was to always stand in the light.

Laurelle moved down the line of girls, offering little words of encouragement and praise. But Dart saw how her shoulders trembled slightly, burdened by the weight of all the expectations placed upon her. Not only by the girls, Dart suspected, but by her family, too.

The creak of hinges drew all their eyes back around. Margarite appeared, head high, a blue cross shining brightly on her brow.

“Margarite!” Laurelle cried, rushing to embrace her. “You passed!”

The girls laughed, dancing in each other’s arms.

Matron Grannice shooed them farther down the hall. “Dart, you’re next. Let’s not keep Healer Paltry waiting.”

Dart stood, but with her first step, she came close to falling. Her knees had turned to porridge, her thighs to rubber. Only a quick hand to the wall saved her.

“It’s not a walk to the gallows,” the matron grumbled and helped her stand straighter with a grip on her elbow.

Dart was half led, half dragged over the threshold.

“Why does she even bother?” Margarite said behind her. “Who would pick such a weed when there are flowers like us to choose?”

Matron Grannice closed the door behind Dart, shutting out the rest of the thirdfloorers. Dart wondered if she’d ever see them again.

Behind her, Pupp pushed through the door, trotting to Dart’s side. The healer’s illuminarium was bright with candles and smoky with burning stems of dried herbs. The scent of witchweed and briertail almost made her swoon.

“Come, child.” Matron Grannice led her past the cramped antechamber and into the illuminarium proper.

The room was circular in shape with small cots aligned along the wall like the markings on a sundial. The beds normally comforted the ill, but they had been emptied for this hallowed day. Privacy was necessary to adequately judge the potential servitors to the gods.

In the center of the room, a single bench rested, shaped like a reclining figure, arms and legs spread. Dart had never seen such a bench, but she had heard of it.

Along with the four sacred illuminaria that surrounded it.

Above the bench, a chandelier blazed with fist-sized bulbs; the glass globes held small drizzles of a fire god’s humour, burning brightly. Below, a crystal basin brimmed with water, its surface stirring in a constant whirlpool, blessed by a single tear from a god of water. And to either side rested the remaining two illuminaria: a small glass terrarium containing a full-grown, miniature oak tree, perfect down to its pin-sized acorns, and a lightning box that held a billowing cloud behind glass, flashing and roiling. They represented loam and air respectively. Each aspect was represented to verify the purity of the supplicant.

As Dart stood at the threshold, she sensed her doom. Even if she could somehow hide her shame from mortal eyes, the four illuminaria would reveal her corruption.

“Off with your clothes,” Matron Grannice said with a trace of impatience and boredom. “Pile them on the bed over there, then return to the bench and lie down.”

Dart undid her buttons with shaking fingers. “Mistress . . .” she began, sensing she might fare better if she revealed all now.

“Shush, Dart. Now is not the time to speak. Here comes Healer Paltry.”

The head of the Conclave’s healing caste entered through a back door. He was dressed in a simple robe of blue silk with a hatching of oak leaves around the collar. He was not a tall man, barely Dart’s own height. His eyes were the deepest blue. His hair, long to the shoulder, was as dark as any raven’s feather. Though barely thirty years past his birth, his skills in the Arts were known throughout Myrillia. It was said he even ministered to Chrism himself at the Grand Castillion. And here at the Conclave, there was many a girl who feigned fever or stomach churns just to be near him.

Even Matron Grannice tugged a loose strand of hair into place behind an ear, smoothing it down as he strode to them.

Though busy, Paltry still offered Dart a tired smile. “Be welcome, child. There is nothing to fear here.”

Nodding despite the lace of terror around her heart, Dart shimmied out of her outers. Then after a moment’s hesitation, she stripped bare of all, even her scuffed slippers. There was no reason for shyness with Healer Paltry. Twice yearly, the man gave the girls their physiques, confirming their intact virginity. He was always gentle, teasing with light words, his hands always warm.

“Onto the bench with you, child,” Matron Grannice said with a nudge, bumping her back to the moment.

But Dart found herself frozen in place, knees locked together. “Mistress . . .”

Paltry cupped her chin. “This will be quick.”

His calming touch released her from the spell of her fear, and she stumbled stiffly to the bench. With gentle directions, she lay back, spreading her arms out and her legs along the joists. Her hands nearly touched the illuminarias of loam and air. Overhead, the fire globes blazed hotly, and below, unseen, Dart felt the stir of the basin’s waters in her own stomach.

Now it would all end.

Paltry leaned over her, holding four thimble-sized jars. “This unguent is made of the blood of the four aspects. You might feel a little tingle, and the corresponding illuminaria will shine brighter if you are accepted. You must pass all four. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.” She squeezed closed her eyes. In her ears echoed the cries of ravens.

A finger touched her brow four times: top, bottom, left, and right. The points of a cross. Only if she passed would the marks be connected with blue oils, sealing her purity.

Dart shook, knowing that would never happen.

As the fourth mark blessed her forehead, Paltry spoke near her ear. “Now to judge the purity of your spirit and—”

Glass exploded with a shatter. Dart cried out, curling in a ball. Overhead, shards rained down from the chandelier.

Matron Grannice yelped, ducking away. Pupp raced in circles around the bench, eyes ablaze, jumping and leaping, as startled as any of them.

All around light blazed from the four illuminaria, near blinding in their brilliance.

Paltry stood, bleeding from lacerations on his face. His eyes were huge. “By all the gods . . .” he swore under his breath. The light quickly faded from the four exploded illuminaria. “I’ve never seen such a response.”

“What happened?” Matron Grannice asked, accusation in her voice, her eyes fixed on Dart.

“I didn’t . . . I couldn’t . . .” Dart said. “I’m sorry.”

Paltry wiped his face, picking out glass, then did the same for Dart. “It’s not her fault. While normally the illuminaria wax only slightly brighter, I’ve witnessed more brilliant displays over the years. Yet nothing of this magnitude. The strength and clarity of her spirit is without question.” Finished with his ministrations, he glanced up at Grannice. “From this radiant response of the illuminaria, I see no need to perform a physique.”

Dart felt a surge of hope. Without an intimate exam, her terrible secret would remain hidden. Perhaps for another half year, until the next physique.

But such hope was dashed with Matron Grannice’s next words. “You must, Healer Paltry. A supplicant before the Oracles must be cleared spiritually and physically.”

Paltry stared at the ruined illuminarias. “Of course, you’re right. But let’s be quick about this. I must study in more detail what happened here.” He waved for Dart to stretch back on the bench. He examined her with swift efficiency, hurried, with none of his usual gentleness.

Dart trembled under his touch as he checked her body from brow to toe. Lastly, he crouched between her spread legs and reached toward the ache in her loins, probing toward the root of her shame. “She’s been bleeding,” he said.

“Her first menstra,” Grannice explained, arms folded.

By now, tears rolled down Dart’s cheeks. She awaited the end of her life.

With a clearing of his throat, Paltry straightened and gained his feet. “Everything appears fine,” he said, patting her inner thigh. “She can attend the night’s ceremony.”

Dart gasped in shock, struggling to speak.

“Up with you then, child,” Matron Grannice said. “Into your clothes.”

Dart stared between the portly woman and the healer as he marked her forehead in blue oil. “I . . . I passed?”

She could not keep the incredulity out of her voice. Was she healed? Maybe the attack in the rookery had been just some horrible nightmare. She could almost believe it, wanted to believe it. At times over the past days, it had even felt that way. Or had some Grace secretly blessed her, made her pure again?

“Pure,” she repeated aloud. In her heart, the word also meant home and family.

“Yes, yes,” Matron Grannice scolded, “it’s indeed a blessed miracle. Now get yourself dressed. You’ve much to do before the full moon rises.” The matron turned to Paltry. “What of the other girls? Those still in the hall?”

Paltry shook his head. “I can test no others. It will take some days to acquire another four illuminaria. As such, they will not be able to attend this moon’s ceremony.”

Grannice hurried Dart into her clothes. “See what you’ve done, child! Ruined it for all the others!”

“But I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s truly not her fault,” Paltry pledged in her defense.

Dart nodded vigorously, tugging on the last of her clothes. She could only imagine the anger of the remaining thirdfloorers. There would not be another choosing until midwinter.

Frowning deeply, Matron Grannice led the way to the door. Dart hopped after her, trying to get her foot into her last slipper. Pupp, thinking it a game, jumped and nipped at her loose footwear. She shooed him away.

The matron reached the door and tugged it open. As Dart pulled into her slipper, she heard the matron’s announcement and the shocked responses that followed. Wincing, she stood in the shadows, sheltered behind the large woman’s bulk.

Healer Paltry placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder and leaned to her ear, speaking low and urgently. “I don’t know what you did with Master Willet, but I promise you I’ll find out.”

Dart gasped. Understanding struck her immediately. She had passed the healing wards on the seventh floor on her way to the rookery. The room tilted, and her vision darkened. Paltry was Willet’s partner. The healer had lied about her purity a moment ago. She remembered his fingers . . . in her, probing . . . possibly even appreciating his partner’s bloody handiwork.

A shudder passed through her. She felt violated all over again, her momentary hope dashed into ruins. She felt unmoored, terrified, trapped.

“I’ll be watching you, Dart.” His voice was as gentle as ever, but his fingers dug deeper, painful, threatening. “In the meantime, it seems we both have secrets to keep.”

Matron Grannice spoke above the babble of shocked voices from the hall. “Come, Dart. Night won’t wait on you forever.”

With a small cry, Dart fled the healer’s grasp and into the passageway. Forty pairs of eyes narrowed at her in angry rebuke. None came to congratulate her on the blue cross on her forehead. She felt a bone-deep urge to flee to the nearest privy and scrub the mark off. But for now the cross was all that stood between her and banishment.

She continued down the hall, refusing to look back. She had won back her home for a short time—but was it even worth it?

Laurelle and Margarite met her at the end of the hall. They stared at her as if she had been freshly dredged up from the muddy bottoms of the Tigre.

“What happened back there?” Laurelle asked.

Dart shook her head. She had a more important mystery to ponder: What was she going to do now?

Dart huddled with the crowd of other supplicants in the hall below the High Chapel. In the center of the room, a spiral brass staircase wound up to the sacred domed chamber above, but the way remained locked, awaiting the rising of Mother moon’s full face and the chiming of the oracular bells.

Earlier, after sunset, Dart and the others had been sent here to prepare themselves. Small altars dotted the walls of the hall. After fasting the entire day, the supplicants to the Oracles were required to burn a stick of incense, sending their prayers up into the aether, while dropping leaden weights into deep watery troughs to shed their sins into the naether below.

With this final purification complete, only the waiting remained.

Dart stared around her. Off by the staircase, in a place of honor, the young men and women of the fifth and sixth floors gathered, stubbornly struggling to look calm or bored, but Dart saw their terror. Time ran short for members of this group. It was the very last ceremony for some of them, the last chance to be chosen.

On the other side of the hall, the fourthfloorers chattered merrily, wide-eyed and still fresh to the ceremonies, excited by the pageantry of it all.

Closer at hand, a sea of boys surrounded her, all thirdfloorers, dressed in the traditional black breeches, tucked into gray boots with loose gray shirts. The likelihood of being chosen was slim for those of such tender age. As such, their attention was focused away from the spiral staircase and toward the odd trio of small girls in their midst: Laurelle, Margarite, and Dart.

Word of the incineration of the illuminaria had spread rapidly through the Conclave. A few glared at Dart with murderous intent, others seemed merely intrigued, while most simply found it all too amusing.

“So they blew up?” Kessel asked, motioning with his hands and whistling. “I wish I could have seen poor Healer Paltry’s face!” The boy screwed up his own face into a mock of outraged shock.

His young attendants almost burst from trying to stifle their laughter, patting him on the back, holding their sides, and trying not to make too much noise.

“It was not funny!” Laurelle huffed at him, pinning the others with a baleful glare. “The . . . the accident ruined the chances for the other girls. Now they have to wait half a year, until the midwinter ceremony.”

“That only leaves more chances for all of us!” Kessel said with a shrug. “We should be thanking that girl.”

The gathered gazes focused back on Dart. She tried to shrink away.

“Don’t worry,” Margarite said heatedly. “The other girls will be thanking her later up on our floor.”

“That’s if she isn’t chosen first,” said a boy in the back. Dart did not know his name, but she had noticed him before. He was new to the Conclave, arriving only last year. He was taller than the others, his skin a deeper bronze than theirs, suggesting he came from one of the lands far to the south. But he never said exactly where, not even to his fellow thirdfloorers.

“She’ll never be chosen,” Margarite shot back. “Look at her, wearing hand-downs from storage. She smells of mothguard and mold.”

Dart kept her arms crossed over her black dress, tucking down her frayed gray half cloak. Even her boots were mottled white with age, not like the rich gray leathers of Margarite’s and Laurelle’s footwear.

“It is not the cut of one’s cloth that will be judged here,” the bronze boy said, turning away dismissively.

Dart appreciated his support, but it was futile. Despite the blue cross on her forehead, she was not pure enough to kneel before the Oracles of the Myrillian gods. It was not only mothguard and mold that would be sniffed out by these blind seekers of handmaidens and handmen. They would surely know of her corruption. The servants in the High Chapel were not mere boxes of old humour, like the illuminaria. They were the very senses of the gods.

The best she could hope was not to be exposed. And if she did indeed escape such ruin, what then? The punishment that would surely be inflicted upon her by the other girls was nothing compared to the terror that awaited her in the empty halls, where Healer Paltry would be waiting.

She had only one other hope.

Pupp appeared out of the crowd of boys, winding around some, passing straight through others. The crowds had him all excited. He pranced to her side, glowing brightly, his brass-plated muzzle steaming, a tongue of flame lolling from his razored mouth. At her side, he shook out his mane of copper spikes, ruffling them like real fur.

As she reached a hand to him, chimes began to ring overhead.

The oracular bells.

The room immediately went silent. Laurelle and Margarite grabbed each other’s hands and pulled in close.

At the top of the spiral staircase, double doors were thrown wide. The musky scent of darkleaf flowed down from the open doorway, accompanied by bright moonlight. The beaten silver doors shone like shields of pure light.

The ceremony had begun.

The fifth- and sixthfloorers headed up the brass stairway, winding around and around. They would be presented first, followed in order by the other floors. As everybody waited to mount the steps, tension in the room grew thicker. Many were already in tears, wiping them away quickly lest they appear weak. One boy from the third floor ran to an altar stone and emptied his belly with a splash of fluid. None derided him. All felt the same.

Now was the moment when dreams were either lost or fulfilled.

As the last fifthfloorer disappeared into the vast vault that was the High Chapel, the fourth floor’s group headed up the steps, their earlier chatter strangled away by the austere moment.

At the base of the staircase, the boys from the third floor had already gathered. Their faces craned upward, bathed in moonlight. Only one remained bowed, eyes on the floor: the bronze boy who had come to Dart’s defense. His lips moved in silent prayer.

Dart found herself staring at him. In the moonlight, his skin appeared even darker, a bronzed sculpture in prayer. Then his group began the winding climb to the High Chapel. He unclasped his hands and followed.

Dazed, Dart continued to stand there, frozen in place, a statue, too.

A small hiss drew her attention. Laurelle motioned to her. She and Margarite, still hand in hand, were heading for the stairs. Pupp followed after them, sniffing at the edges of their dresses.

Dart found her feet moving on their own. She hurried to the girls, finding comfort in the familiarity of her fellow students. As she joined them, Laurelle reached out with her free hand and gripped Dart’s. All past sins forgotten in the terror of the moment. Even Margarite nodded to her, eyes wide.

The last thirdfloor boy mounted the stair.

The girls stared at one another. Who would go first? Laurelle took a deep breath, steeled her grip upon her two companions, then let go. She crossed stolidly to the stairs and climbed them. Margarite was right at her heels.

Pupp planted his forepaws on the lowest step and wagged the stump of his brass tail. He stared back at Dart. For the briefest flicker, she again saw a strange, dark intelligence shining from his eyes, studying her. Then it was gone, snuffed away by unseen winds. Dart headed to the stairs. Laurelle and Margarite were already two steps ahead. She hurried to close the gap. Her boots clanged on the brass stairs. The rail was ice to her fingers.

She stared at the line of boys vanishing away through the blindingly bright doors overhead. Nothing could be seen beyond. The line of supplicants continued to be swallowed away.

At last, Dart and the other two girls reached the top of the stairs. The open doors lay ahead. Laurelle glanced back to them, her face drained of blood. Tears brimmed her eyes.

Words came to Dart’s lips. It was the first she had spoken since entering the hall below. “Be strong,” she whispered.

Laurelle closed her eyes for a breath, opened them, and nodded. She turned and strode through the smoky doorway. Margarite ran after her. Dart moved more slowly, led by Pupp.

The group marched through the clouded nave. They passed braziers piled with dried darkleaf, the leaves crisping and curling in flame, roiling with thick, acrid smoke. In the chapel beyond, a single greatdrum beat in slow rhythm, guiding their steps forward. The sonorous beat thrummed against the rib, against the heart.

Once past the braziers, the smoke cleared as the domed chapel opened before them. It was like stepping out of a tunnel and into open air. The High Chapel stood atop the tallest tower of the Conclave. It was said that the only higher tower was Chrism’s own keep.

Dart’s gaze immediately drew upward to the glass eye in the domed roof. The full face of the lesser moon shone down at them. The greater moon had long set, leaving the night sky to the beauty of its pregnant sister.

The illumination of the moon limned the entire room in silver. There was no other source of light. Then again none was needed. It was nearly as bright as midday.

Dart trailed the others into the chamber.

Tiered rows of seats and balconies circled the High Chapel, climbing half the wall. The highest tiers had long gone rotten and were blocked off from use. Shadowy shapes filled the lower benches and balconies: the mistresses and masters of the Conclave, the cloistered entourage that accompanied the great Oracles from far-off lands, and the families of supplicants with wealth enough to be here.

Dart noted Laurelle searching around, a hopeful glow on her face.

But there was not much time to scan the gallery. Already the other students were filling the supplicant stoops. The kneeling benches were raw squallwood, arranged in an oval, facing inward. Dart kept in step behind Margarite, but with her eyes on the chamber, Dart’s foot knocked into the corner of a stoop. She flew forward, arms outstretched. She bumped into Margarite, who kept her feet.

Dart was not as fortunate.

With a startled yelp, she landed on her hands, skinning her palms raw and landing flat on her belly. Dart quickly pushed up amid small sounds of amusement from those in attendance, but it quickly hushed. Dart scrambled to her feet, ignoring her stinging hands, and hurried after the two girls.

Margarite glanced back at her, mortified. Laurelle simply covered her mouth. Dart motioned them forward. They hurried after the last boy and took the three stoops beside him. Dart noted it was the bronze boy. He glanced at her, then away, his face unreadable.

Dart gratefully sank to her kneeling bench, resting her elbows on the rail. There were many empty stoops, as vacant and dusty as the upper balconies, more than could be accounted for by the missing thirdfloor girls. The school must have been more populous in the distant past.

Before Dart could consider this oddity, the bells chimed one final peal. From a door opposite the supplicants, a row of white-draped figures drifted into the room.

The Oracles.

A small red-liveried servant attended each figure, guiding their blind masters. As each Oracle entered the chapel, their snowy cowls were tossed back. They bore red strips of silk across their eyes, or rather where their eyes should have been. From her studies, Dart knew that the Oracles’ eyes were burned to empty sockets by the blood of the god they represented. Emblazoned on their foreheads was the sigil of the god they served.

No one knew how many Oracles would show up at each ceremony, seeking replacements for their lieges’ handmaidens or handmen. It was a matter of utter secrecy. Even the Oracles themselves had no foreknowledge of how many or what manner of servants were needed in other gods’ households. Handmaidens and handmen, called collectively Hands, lived exultant but short lives, exposed to powerful Graces that slowly altered their bodies. Replacements were needed regularly by the households of the hundred realms.

The Oracles were led into the center of the chapel, surrounded by the supplicants’ stoops. They faced the hopeful group, abandoning their red servants for the moment, concentrating on the circle of young men and women, boys and girls.

Dart noted the sigils: Yzellan of Tempest Sound, Isoldya of Mistdale, Dragor of Blasted Canyon, Quint of Five Forks, Cor Ven of Chadga Falls, and on and on. The number of Oracles was not large, but they represented some of the finest houses.

A small murmur spread through the assembly as the last Oracle entered the chapel and revealed himself. It was a very old man, borne by two servants and still needing a cane.

Dart squinted at his sigil on his forehead—ҁ—and gasped with recognition.

Chrism.

Here was the Oracle of Myrillia’s eldermost god. It had been three years since Chrism had called for a new servant.

As this elderly Oracle took his place among the others, another servant ran in from the hallway. He searched the room, then hurried to one of the Oracles. The two bent in whispers. As the Oracle straightened, his cowl was drawn back over his head. He withdrew with the new servant, leaving the chapel amid fervent murmuring from the gallery.

Dart had read the sigil on the departing Oracle. Meeryn of the Summering Isles. How odd. She could not recall an Oracle ever withdrawing in the middle of a ceremony. Something drastic must have transpired in Meeryn’s household.

As Meeryn’s Oracle left, the greatdrum began to beat again, slow and solemn. It filled the vast space, making it seem larger, yet at the same time more intimate.

It was the signal to begin the choosing.

Dart knew what to do from here. Kneeling, with her elbows already on the rail, she pushed out her hands, palms up, and bowed her brow to her forearms in the posture of supplication. As she did so, she was acutely aware of the sting of her abraded hands. It was shameful to offer such soiled palms, but then again, it was somehow fitting, considering the corruption of her body and spirit.

With her head bowed, she saw nothing. Still, she closed her eyes to staunch the hot tears that threatened. She heard the shuffle and brush of robes as the Oracles spread out among the supplicants, searching with the senses of the god they represented, seeking the perfect match to fill their need.

Dart’s hands trembled. The stoop was all that kept her upright. Around her, she heard startled cries from the other students as they were chosen.

After so much pageantry, the selection was a simple matter. The Oracle would simply place a small gray slate stone, the size of a dol-jin tile, into a student’s upraised palm, claiming the supplicant for their god. There was no appeal or argument allowed. In the High Chapel, under the first moon of summer, the Oracles were their gods.

The chosen would then be raised from the stoop by the red-liveried servant and brought to stand by his or her new master. Only then could they look upon the tile and know which of the nine Graces they had been assigned. The primary quadricles were the most exalted: blood, seed, menses, sweat. But none would shun any of the secondary quintrangles: tears, saliva, phlegm, yellow and black bile. It was an honor to be chosen at all.

The choosing stretched painfully long. Dart heard Oracle after Oracle pass her station with a brush of robes. Her palms stung worse and worse. No cool tile was placed there to numb the pain.

Then the beating of the greatdrum ceased on one resounding crash, and it was over.

Dart raised her face, noting the empty stoops. Margarite still knelt beside her. But beyond was an empty station.

Laurelle had been chosen.

Margarite began to sob with the realization. Both of them searched the gathered Oracles to see who had chosen her best friend. Already the servants were pulling up their masters’ cowls, preparing to leave.

Dart was the first to spot Laurelle. She covered her mouth in shock and delight. Laurelle stood in the shadow of the elderly, bent form.

“It’s Chrism . . .” Dart whispered in awe.

Margarite sobbed harder, a bitter sound.

Noting their attention, Laurelle nodded to them and touched the corner of her eye. She was signaling the Grace to which she had been chosen.

“Tears,” Margarite half-wailed, shedding her own for her friend and for her own loss.

It was the best of the secondary quintrangles, an honor for one so young.

Dart simply kept her mouth covered. She allowed the pleasure of the moment to well through her, happy for Laurelle. She read the bright expression of relief on her face and could not help but be delighted.

“All of our sisters should have been here to witness this,” Margarite hissed, grief quickly firing to anger, needing a target.

Dart’s momentary happiness dimmed. Margarite was right. It was a success the entire floor should have shared.

The Oracles began to file out of the room with their charges. Dart noted the bronze boy leaving with the Oracle who represented Jessup of Oldenbrook, a distinguished house of the First Land. The dark boy did not seem to notice her attention, but she followed him with her eyes as he departed. No other thirdfloorers had been chosen.

With her attention focused elsewhere, Dart barely noted the slow, assisted passage of the ancient Oracle. He and his entourage crept past Dart’s station. Laurelle waved to her and Margarite, wisping a kiss in their direction, tears running down her face. But Laurelle’s eyes also spent a long time searching the tiers and benches.

Dart noted her lack of discovery. Her family was not in attendance.

But Dart had her own concerns. With the ceremony over, she had to face the ruins of her own life. How long could she stay hidden here? What of Healer Paltry, lurking in the halls?

The bent-backed Oracle stopped before Dart’s station, leaning heavily on his cane, resting a breath. Servants supported him on both sides. His head swung in her direction, blind and swathed in silk. But Dart sensed him staring at her, like a weight upon her heart.

A crooked finger rose and pointed at her.

Another servant rushed to her side and grabbed her by the shoulder.

Dart pulled away, knowing she had been found out, her inner fears heard by the blind seer. Weak from dread, she did not fight as her arm was yanked forward.

The Oracle stepped heavily toward her, stabbing his hand out at her. She stared wide-eyed, taking in every detail: the yellow nails, the parchment-thin skin, the spiderweb of veins. It was more claw than hand.

A cry built up inside her. All eyes were on her. She would be debased before the entire assembly.

Then a stone dropped into her palm. Reflexively she caught it, closing her fingers. Her arm was released.

Murmurs of shock and surprise echoed from the gallery.

“You are chosen.” The servant at her side spoke solemnly. “Rise and take your place.”

Dart could not. She simply trembled. “I can’t . . . mistake . . .” She tried to push the tile back toward the Oracle.

The ancient one ignored her and stepped away.

Laurelle took his place. “Be strong,” she whispered, returning Dart’s words to her. She offered a free hand.

Slowly, on wobbling legs, Dart stood. She slipped around the stoop and stepped to Laurelle’s side.

Margarite looked on, her face aghast and drained of all color.

“What Grace have you won?” Laurelle asked.

Dart numbly glanced to her closed fist. She opened it and stared down at the painted Littick sigil:

Her hand trembled, almost dropping the slate.

Laurelle steadied her with a hand. “Well?”

Dart could not speak. She showed her tile to Laurelle. The disbelief on the other girl’s face matched her own.

It was the one Grace above all others.

Blood.