In her century-long search for literature, Farilane had visited many monasteries. No two were ever alike. Breckon Moor was absurdly tranquil but nevertheless unfriendly to strangers, as if the outside world had no business intruding on their paradise. The Isle of Blue, being little more than a rock in the Blue Sea, suffered vicious storms that made its residents irritable and brooding. Farview, perched on a snowy mountain crag above the source of the Bernum River, lent its occupants an icy disposition. Far to the north, the Winds Abbey suffered from isolation and, with it, a fear of outsiders. Whitehall, in the south, ideally located along the lucrative trade route between Vernes and Haston, might have been the most open and social of the monasteries if not for the constant plundering by pirates that left the monks distrustful and surly. Thinking about it, Farilane realized that none of the Maribor monasteries were pleasant places. Each were inhabited by wretched, disagreeable shut-ins who worked with the speed and enthusiasm one would expect of people who hated their lives and lacked deadlines.

Already Farilane saw how Dibben was different. Besides being larger than all the other monasteries, the place was as alive as a spring beehive. Monks hurried about, swinging their arms and fanning the bottom of their tunics in their haste. They rushed over the wooden walkways and up the various stairs or along the covered terraces that connected the primary buildings. They carried sacks, pots, and armfuls of wool and wood. Some stood on ladders, trading out rotted thatch for fresh, while others weeded vegetable gardens.

Then the monks spotted her, and everything stopped. As with a herd of deer, one head rose and turned, then they all did, and silence descended on the hill. A bluebird sang in the field and was answered by another. Wind brushed grass and rustled the dry thatch—a sound Farilane hadn’t noticed before, but which now dominated.

“Um . . . hello?” Farilane offered, as she led the way like the lead goose in a minuscule chevron.

No one replied. Few moved.

Scared? Surprised? About to pounce and murder us? What?