Drex felt cold tendrils of horror running down her spine, as she realised she had been as much a puppet during her attempted escape as she had been under Lizaveta's power a few moments before.
Still, she thought, what does it matter, if they're going to kill me?
'I can't really bring myself to care about that, Lizaveta,” she said aloud. “You've got your rebel now, and you'll forgive me if I don't weep over what happens to her. If I'm going to die, at least I can die satisfied.'
This time, Lizaveta's laughter was long and loud, and the other nun joined in with an almost musical tinkle of amusement.
'We weren't after Melana, my dear; that was just a bonus. We were after you and your power. I only said that the Grivense street gamine, Drexelica, would die. In her place will be born a powerful and useful witch; a credit to the Order. You didn't really believe Melana's routine was the best we could do to subvert you, did you? I could always tell you were fighting back, even though you said the right things at the right time.'
'I almost lost my mind!” Drex cried. “Half the time, I didn't even know who I was! What more could you have done to me?'
'Plenty, my darling girl, but we didn't want to rush you.” Tears ran from the smiling Lizaveta's rheumy eyes and traced a complex path through the wrinkles on her face. “We always ensured you had just enough free will to think you had the better of us. The whole process was designed to make you burst from your shell, my dear, and it did just that. The real trial begins now. Once the genie has escaped from the bottle, it cannot be replaced.
'You were born a witch, but you were constrained by poverty, ignorance and rampant misogyny. We have brought out the full extent of your power.'
Now, at last, Drex saw the Prioress’ plan, as horror threatened to overwhelm her. They had only dulled her mind and confused her until she lashed out with the power she had denied and withheld for so long.
Lizaveta leaned back in her divan, still chuckling. “From now on, Drexelica, you will have plenty to eat and all the sleep you need. We must have you in good condition if and when your lover arrives.'
Drex felt her heart pounding, and she licked her dry lips with a tongue that felt like a piece of limp, dry leather. “You haven't beaten me yet, bitch. I'll resist you with every fibre of my being, and I'll curse you with every breath. At the first chance I get, I'll kill myself. You won't have me.'
'I already have you, sweet child,” the Prioress said, exposing a mouthful of perfect, gleaming teeth. “What do you think I did to you when I first entered this room? I can seize your own power and turn it on you whenever I want-now you've let it out, at last. You are very, very strong, and it would have taken a Great Spell to breach those defences at first. Now, I can use your own power and turn it to my own ends. You are mine, dear girl, and you will be for as long as you live.'
Drex felt sick, and her head swam. She had thought herself so cunning, fighting back whenever her mind had cleared, but she had been an unwitting pawn in Lizaveta's game all the time. She had lost the match as soon as she unleashed her spell on Melana, an equally ignorant piece in the well-staged fixture. She had known nothing of the power hidden within her until that time; the Sister had played her unknowing part in honing and exposing that force in a form that Lizaveta could use. Now, the old witch would use her as a weapon against her beloved Grimm. She had lost everything in a moment of misguided, useless anger.
Lizaveta made a show of inspecting her nails before speaking further: “Your first task will be to show our dear, misguided Sister, Melana, the grave error of her ways. That will begin tomorrow; she will be allowed the night to consider and rue her misdeeds.
'This is Sister Judan: a trusted member of the Anointed Score,” the Prioress continued, indicating the ruddy- faced nun at her side. “She will be taking over your training from now on. There will be no more chants and responses; I think you know them well enough now. Instead, she will be enhancing and encouraging your spell- casting abilities, to bring you to the peak of your potential.'
Drex felt the Geomantic power residing in the earth beneath the floor of Lizaveta's chamber, and she drew it into her like a breath of sweet morning air as rage rose within her.
Die, you shrivelled old hag! she screamed in her head, as she threw a bolt of magic at the ancient witch. You showed me the way, so enjoy the trip to Hades, you whore!
Lizaveta's eyes sprung wide open, and the Prioress slumped back in the couch. For a brief moment, Drex felt a shock of success, revelling in the joy of the release of the strength she had pent up for so long. Her inner fire was soon quenched, as she saw the old woman sit up, wearing a seraphic, almost atavistic smile.
'That was beautiful, my dear. Such gorgeous force; such lovely anger! But you have forgotten one thing I told you: your power does not belong to you anymore. It is mine, to use as I will.
'You have lost, dear girl. Never doubt it!'
Drex slumped, knowing at last that she was beaten. Despair washed through her like an all-conquering wave, and she tried to turn her own power back on herself.
'I am afraid I cannot let you do that, my dear,” Lizaveta said. “Not yet. So I deny you the gift for the nonce. You may not cast any more spells until I will it.'
Drex dug deep into her fast-fading reserves of strength and found it slipping from her mental grasp like heavy, greasy tendrils of silk sliding through numb, unresponsive fingers. She despaired that she had been denied even the scant comfort of taking her own life.
'I see you are no stranger to physical pain, Drexelica. We women are strong, are we not? What man can ever understand the protracted agony of childbirth? Bodily pain is a useful tool, but a poor method of trying to control the darkest, inner recesses of a woman's mind. But there are many other ways to hurt a woman, are there not? However, I do not wish to harm you; you are far too useful to me. I am so glad you came here. Tomorrow, you will no longer be Drexelica, the common beggar girl, but a full Sister of the Order, willing and compliant.'
'Roast in Hell, bitch,” the girl breathed, with the last vestiges of her defiance.
Lizaveta shook her head, in the manner of a regretful mother denying a wayward child's demand, and she rose to her feet. “I have made other arrangements, I'm afraid,” she said. “Come with me, Supplicant: I have something to show you.'
Drex, denied sleep and food for many days, knew she was no match for the two women before her, and she stood up, all traces of defiance gone. Her legs felt weak, but she refused to allow them to tremble as Lizaveta led her out of the chamber.
The room led into the temple in which she had first appeared in Rendale, but it was now bare and featureless except for the gaudy throne. The gentle-looking nun, Judan, opened a door Drex knew well: the door to the grey, forbidding Lower Chapel.
'What do you think, Sister Drexelica? We have decorated the Chapel in honour of your accession. Note the tasteful, new appointments.'
Drex looked into the depths of the room she had learned to hate so much. Apart from a ragged, red flag on the wall opposite the door, she saw little difference in the Chapel since her last, painful visit.
'It looks no different to me except for the flag,” she said, her voice contemptuous and dismissive, until a dry, hacking moan brought her to her senses. That was no fluttering flag; it was a wet, red, writhing simulacrum of a human body.
'You see, Sister? Sister Melana just insisted on being present at your conversion.'
The ghastly vision burned into Drex's brain: the exposed, glistening muscles and tendons; the occasional pale gleam of bared bones; the pleading, agonised eyes, the pupils compressed to black dots at their centres… Drex's mind refused to accept the ghastly reality of what she saw for a few moments, but her stomach recognised the true horror of the spectacle, voiding its meagre contents onto the flagstones in a sudden spasm.
She's still alive…
Long after the thin remnants of the thin gruel she had last eaten had been expelled, Drex retched in helpless agony, unable to take her eyes from the hanging figure.
'Now, that's no way to greet an old friend, is it, Sister?” Lizaveta said. “Still, I imagine you're tired now, and you need your sleep. Tomorrow, you'll have hours and hours in Melana's company, and I expect you to help to teach her well the errors of her ways. Sleep well, Sister…'
Drex tried to resist as the Prioress’ mental clamps fastened upon her, but her debilitated state precluded any last attempt at defiance.
As if in a dream, she heard herself say “I live to serve, Reverend Mother. I am yours.'
Drexelica felt as if scenes from her life were rushing from her body: the drab orphan; the enslaved seamstress; the wretched beggar. All flew away from her like handkerchiefs torn away through the window of a
