When staying awake was no longer a challenge, Euphemia found a new hurdle in rising from the bed.

  She had been moving her legs from beneath the blankets. The canoness wondered if she could do the same now that she would rid herself of both comforter and brace. She stood up, a hand held onto the headboard, as the duvet and blanket spilled onto the floor. The bed frame was cool, not sticky, and there was no wetness. No scent lingered in this room; any perfume would have been easily subdued, then erased, by the cold she drew onto herself. So this was the consequence of losing control of how she recovers her magic. Costly repairs, all charged to House Schild. The price was never a concern. On the other hand, splintered furniture, frayed carpets, and cracked livery made too somber accommodation.

  She stood straight; her feet felt like sandbags. Hesitant to lift them at first, but she was confident upon feeling the warmth of blood coursing through her veins. Euphemia waved her hands and arms before her: brittle, starchy fabric of a hospital gown rubbed against her skin. Even her innermost tunic dress was not spared. Was her condition worth all the indignity she had gone through while unconscious, she thought. The cold feel of her armlet grazed her skin. It was left alone, not that anyone apart from the cleric could unclasp it from her. Faint lights and a dim swirl around the stones: it was gathering charge, and just as hungry for magical currents like the rest of her body.

  Atop the suite’s vanity table were the layers of her habit. She moved towards her outfit and held the dress against the light. The Empire at least had the courtesy to wash her clothes and give them a proper press, though something about the regular detergent scent made Euphemia think more could have been done. The contents of her dress pockets and pouches were empty. What would the military want with a prayer book, smelling salts, aspirin vials, and a few coins anyway?

  No matter. She had to freshen up. Would the bathroom have something she could use?

  ? ? ? ?

  How Luminberg still had running hot water, despite the crisis, was a mystery. Euphemia was thankful for it anyway. She slid onto her dress; the last button near her nape closed. She turned around, left, then right, double-checking the fit of her habit. Hair still damp. A brush on the table: was it the Empire’s courtesy, or was this room meant for another female guest? She wondered if that woman arrived at this suite or did she fall prey to the cruel machine that night. The guest ledger could answer that—if Euphemia was allowed to be anywhere close to it.

  Then came three knocks, followed by the clicking of the doorknob. Euphemia stood up and stared at the two guests, who looked more surprised at the sight of her. With a soft smile, she was ready to speak when:

  “You- you can move around already,” Rook interrupted.

  “The both of you... concerned about me.” She said, “I am touched, but you’re not supposed to enter while a lady is fixing her hair.”

  “We can- uh, leave, right away.” Kirk was confused whether he was to stand still or to head back the way he came. “We’ll wait until you’re done. Just ah, say the word.”

  “It’s all right. Please—sit.” Euphemia’s face shrank before she returned to face the mirror. “I’d rather that you didn’t look.”

  Rook froze at the doorway; eyes shot from the floor, the walls, to the ceiling. Anywhere but to look at the cleric. Kirk had to take charge and pulled the boy deeper into the room. They found a couple of chairs. Kirk took one by the backrest and pulled it, facing the opposite wall. Rook quickly followed suit.

  “You could have chosen a better spot, like the balcony.” Rook stared at the wall painting: a fruit basket, though the glass protector was recovering from mist.

  “I don’t think we’re going to face this wall for too long.” Kirk, like a sentinel, did not shift his eyes.

  “Can’t she just lose the cloth… what is that thing? Veil?” Rook thought aloud while trying to get a good view of the balcony. “Church ladies should let their hair out like other girls.”

  “Other… girls...” Euphemia whispered, but Rook’s ears were sharp, and Kirk quickly understood what was about to unfold. “This is something I’ve chosen for myself. Wearing this means I am here for a purpose. For other people. And for God’s work.”

  “You… want to be on duty, at work, all the time?”

  Rook couldn’t help but turn back, where he saw Euphemia’s hair mostly concealed by a cap. She was securing a wimple when her eyes caught him looking, which he immediately broke away from. Euphemia let out a soft sigh, but she reached for her pins and soon for the veil itself. She attached the last set of pins, binding the cap, wimple, and veil into a single head covering. The linen dangled all the way to her back, once again concealing much of herself from the world. An unassuming canoness became her image once again.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “With this, I can reach out to people more freely.” Euphemia said, “My head, when uncovered, draws out many things. A promise. A scandal. A symbol. A threat. Often more than one. Sometimes, all at once.”

  “It sounds that bad, huh?” Rook felt the cleric was looking at him, but he dared not look back.

  “I wish it wasn’t this unfair sometimes.” She let out a subtle sigh. “While I cannot say I’m always happy about it, I have accepted this as my choice with all my heart. Should I stay this way? I wish I knew the answer. If I ‘lose this cloth’, it’s because I no longer need it. Also, maybe, if the Creator no longer wants me to.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “You meant to give me freedom. I appreciate your effort.” Euphemia took two steps near the men. “More importantly, both of you can look now.”

  “Now I know that rats debating with prayer ladies can give this much of a headache.” Kirk stood up and shook his head before facing the cleric.

  “I was thinking maybe a little wind in her hair can help.”

  Euphemia covered her lips, hiding an attempt at laughter. She nodded at them and led the way out of the holding room, where a pair of guards were waiting in the hall.

  ????

  Constables guarding the three from the sides: Euphemia and her companions were still under suspicion, but the state knew better than to make a big fuss about her identity. There was no reason the Empire would deny her the right to walk around.

  Less than a dozen meters into the road was a restaurant; the caps and insignia of civilian volunteers in charge told that the establishment's owners were nowhere to be found. Three men stood around the newly cleaned table. Suits, with ties and cravats: merchants, probably from the eastern reaches of the Empire. All three took their seats; one of them made a crooked grin before lighting up a cigar to plug into his mouth. A woman in an apron approached them, handing them three bowls and three mugs: stew and hot tea. One of them, a fat man sporting a monocle, began speaking:

  “The Kaiser is taking the situation too lightly. These syndicates are doing whatever they please here. Who knows when they will decide to make the capital their next battlefield?”

  “I’m more worried about this tea water, Max,” a blonde man sitting opposite him said, “You’re just feeding off your paranoia again. I’m sure that the Field Police will get to their senses and sort this out for real.”

  “I’m not too confident about that. I watched my business in Altrecht burn, and they stood there doing nothing.”

  “Do you have to tell that story every time we move from one city to another?” Another man, this time with a large mustache, spoke up. “We understand you, of course, but you must…”

  They passed by the round church where Euphemia intended to visit. Imperial soldiers stood watch on the doors of lodges that housed affected Luminbergers. The fires did not spread badly around the sector; one could see the clear outline of Brillanz and the Academy looking to the northwest. The church kept much of its viridian calm, though some of the outside foliage showed wilting yellow. Euphemia faced her companions, who had not spoken a word and were content looking around the place. She turned around to face the two and said:

  “I haven’t been speaking much, but thank you for being all the way here with me.”

  “Rook and I here could use a good walk.” Kirk stepped clear of the entrance path. “Besides, with the Empire watching our every move, we can’t do a thing without you around.”

  “If you won’t mind, could you two… Help me around this place?”

  “Uh… can lend a hand or two, maybe,” Rook answered.

  Those running pell-mell were not the faces of Luminberg parishioners. A chaplain from Blaurosen and an assortment of servants from different orders attended to the needs of the half-conscious Luminbergers. There was work to be done as daylight climbed higher.

  ????

  The afternoon was on its way to retire when most of the work was done. From cleaning ash and dirt, feeding staff and patients alike, to guiding recovered citizens out of the compound. The day and much of people’s energy was spent, but it hardly reduced what was left to do around the place. All this, for only the city’s southeast sector; a larger ongoing ordeal was left for the rest of the city.

  But she had to make her devotions, like many of the Church’s people who found rest in prayer. The winds traveled in a cold current that soothed many a sweaty worker. Not even Luminberg's fall temperature lowered the tension felt by volunteers, soldiers, and survivors alike. The silence was ideal, though it carried a sorrow that reminded everyone why they were there.

  Euphemia knelt before the holy icon; its many faces glistening even in the aftermath of the disaster. With no prayer book in hand, she had to borrow the large scripture text from the Luminberg church’s bookshelf. Though the altar was silent at that time of day, she read a passage with a whisper:

  “Listen to me... in silence… together, let us gather in the face of the Final Hour…

  “...in the quaking of the ends of the earth…

  “I am with you, have no fear… I will strengthen you, I will help you… with my victorious right hand…”

  Her hands trembled. Euphemia put the good book down. Cold tears slid down her face; a desire to speak her mind, to bring thoughts even the texts from scripture failed to express on her behalf. Hands clasped tightly together, she prayed:

  “I come before You not as a servant, but as someone whose burden is too heavy to bear alone.

  “I couldn’t protect this place, nor release my father from the clutches of his captors.

  “Am I being tested? For what purpose did You bestow upon me... this gift?

  “Must I be handed defeat this way? See someone I love in pain, yet stand still, helpless, to do anything? Witness the suffering of an entire city to humble me?

  “Am I not humiliated enough—when I awake to cold rooms, borrowed breath, and strangers paying for my failure?

  “Why this pain? Why me?”

  Fear. Anger. Confusion. Emotions spinning, sinking into a raging vortex inside the canoness’ mind. All mindfulness swept away; in its wake was a tearful, sobbing woman with a clenched fist and a head that leaned on the pew.

  Kirk and Rook were close by; both took a few steps to approach Euphemia, but the former stopped midway. He barred the boy from going further; Rook looked at him, scowling. All Kirk could do was shake his head. It looked painful, but this was something only Euphemia could sort out in her mind’s space. Both frowned, thinking of what else they could do for their friend.