‘These are for Armageddon,’ she says. ‘Each link represents a Sister lost at Tempestora, or Helsreach. Or out in the wastes.’

‘And this chain?’ I ask, though I am certain I know the answer.

She holds up what she has made so far, the dozens of tiny links flashing under the flexi-lumen mounted on the workbench. ‘This one is for Ophelia VII,’ she says.

We fall quiet then, and stay that way. I remain with Haskia until her work is done, and then I hold the start of the chain in place for her while she wraps the length of it around her left vambrace over and over again. I try to keep count of the tiny links as she does so, but there are so many of them that I lose my place after three hundred and six.

The place Eugenia chooses for our meeting is her quarters. As I make my way there with the Vow’s bones groaning around me and the weeping following at my back, I realise that I am uneasy, and that it is not just because of the pressure of the warp, or because of my destiny.

It is because of Eugenia.

When I reach Eugenia’s quarters, she welcomes me inside without hesitation. Like mine, Eugenia’s quarters are spare and mostly dominated by a rack for her weapons and armour, the armoury circle, and the low cot that sits in the corner. Against the opposite wall there is a simple devotional table made of heavy-grained wood with a tall candle sitting on it that fills the air with thin, spiced smoke. Around it stand a handful of small trinkets made from candlewax. Fleur-de-lys and red roses and a small, perfect eagle, its wings spread wide.

I am so distracted that it takes me a moment to realise that Eugenia is speaking to me.

‘Sister Superior?’ she asks. ‘Is everything all right?’

I drag my eyes from the table, and look at her. Eugenia is kneeling on the floor of her quarters, a frown creasing her brow. Her eyes are wide. I see concern in them, so I smile.

‘Of course,’ I say, and I go to kneel with her.

‘I confess,’ she says, ‘I am not quite sure what you would like me to say.’

‘Just be honest,’ I say. ‘Tell me something of yourself. Something true.’

Eugenia does not frown, but I can tell she wants to. She still has the careful composure given to her by the schola progenium. That eagerness to give only perfect answers that tempers with time and experience. She hesitates.

‘It is not a test,’ I tell her, because I know that is what she thinks this is. ‘I am not here to judge you.’

Eugenia nods slowly. ‘Then I would like to speak of the time before the scholam. Before the convents. The first time I felt the God-Emperor’s divine guidance.’

I cannot help but feel a certain weight in her words, given that the God-Emperor’s guidance is exactly what I am searching for.