“And this makes you uncomfortable. You, a veteran of a hundred battlefields!”

“Then there’s the sameness. Everywhere I look I see the same corridors, the chambers, the decorations—even the same faces, it seems. Though beautiful faces—those haunting eyes, like slate—I feel buried in this pit of yours—turned around, dizzy. It isn’t for me!”

“It isn’t meant for you,” she said sharply.

The little ceremony began at last, Agrippina blushed prettily, and her gravid mother held her hand. Agrippina dedicated her childish clothes to the matres by feeding them into a brazier, and was given her first adult stola, simple white with a fine purple line woven in.

But when it came to the point where Agrippina was to burn a scrap of linen stained with a little of her first bleeding, Regina stepped forward.

“No,” she said loudly, into a shocked silence. She had had time to think through her first instinctive refusal of this event, and she thought she understood what must be done. She took the scrap of linen from Brica, and held it up. “This is to be destroyed, but not celebrated.” She fed it into the brazier, and as the little flames licked she heard the shocked gasps of those who watched. She took Agrippina’s hand and placed it over Brica’s swollen belly. “This is what is important. This, your unborn sister.

“Agrippina, your bleeding is no shame. But you are to hide it from others, and you will not remark on it. Your life belongs, not to your daughters, but to your sisters—the one here in Brica’s belly, and those born thereafter. When Brica’s blood dries—well, perhaps then your turn will come to serve. But until then, if you choose to bear a child, then you will bear it beyond these walls.”

Agrippina looked terrified. “You would exile me for becoming pregnant?”

“It is your choice,” said Regina. Though her tone was gentle, she knew the menace in her words was unmistakable. She turned and faced the watching group. “Do not question this. It must always be so—not because I say it, but because it is best for the Order. Sisters matter more than daughters.”

For a moment Brica faced her, and Regina thought she saw a spark of defiance in her daughter’s eyes. But Brica was heavily pregnant, worn out by fifteen years of pregnancies—and besides, she had been defeated by Regina long ago. Her shoulders slumped, she led a weeping Agrippina away.

Regina felt a twinge of guilt. Why did it have to be like this? Why did she have to inflict so much pain on her children? . . . “Because it is for the best,” she muttered. “Even if they cannot see it.”

The group broke up, avoiding Regina. Only Ambrosius was left watching her, his eyes wide.

Later, in her office, they drank watered wine. Ambrosius was cautious, watchful.