Strange, how uncomfortable it made me feel to see even a hint of Celane’s private self. I did not like to imagine what lay behind her controlled mask of a face, who she might be in her quiet moments.

I found the bathroom and washed my hands and face. The whole exercise had not wasted nearly as much time as I would have liked, and now I was faced with the prospect of returning to the parlour or waiting here until dinner was announced. Neither option seemed very appealing.

I sighed. Maybe Millie had given up on Ilva by now.

But as I was leaving, I noticed that the door across the hallway stood open. Through the gap, I could see rows of bookshelves and a large leather armchair. Celane’s personal office.

I glanced down the corridor. If there was ever a time to pry into the Reverend’s business … I quickly stepped inside.

The room was cozy, lit by three wicker-covered lamps and pleasantly warm. A window seat overlooked the lawns. Celane’s book collection was modest, but well-organised. Judging by the selection of plays and novels on the shelves, she really did have an enthusiasm for the arts and theatre. I ran my eyes over the spines. Also quite the interest in Golden Age lacework applications, the miracles the Order had been capable of in the past. Some of these texts must have been borrowed from the restricted sections of the Department of Memories; it wasn’t the kind of material readily available to ordinary Sisters.

A lone book lay on the pedestal table beside the armchair, multiple velvet bookmarks poking out from between the pages. I picked it up. Memories of Our Mothers. Celane’s current reading looked cheerful. I opened to one of the marked chapters.

 … could be viewed as sacred, both in terms of our heritage as custodians of Aytrium, and in terms of our function, that of deliverers-of-the-peace. When those two roles are brought into conflict—such as when violence is demanded in order to fulfil our duty of upholding the continent—civilian unrest inevitably rears its head. Our power, as any Sister knows, is both the well of our custodianship and the furrow that draws endless antagonism toward us.

How, then, to maintain order in the absence of reverence? Why, faith must be performed.

Again this applies in a dual sense. “Performed” in that our actions must confirm and renew faith; i.e., we must actively use power and let such power be witnessed. And then, the second sense, “performed” in terms of spectacle. We must inject theatre, artistry, and ceremony into such demonstrations of power, for therein lies the road to the civilian’s heart. Tell them a story and tell it well—power is performance.

Our failings, on those occasions where the Sisterhood lacked the foresight to …

A little dry for my tastes. I lowered myself into the armchair and flipped forward to the next bookmark.