“I’m not who I’m supposed to be,” Madeleine said brokenly. She looked at the wall of the confessional, where someone had helpfully tacked up a copy of the Act of Contrition, which you were supposed to recite when you were done confessing. She’d memorized a version of it as a child. She never needed to read it.

“None of us are,” the priest reminded her. “But what sins have you specifically…”

“That’s all I remember,” Madeleine whispered. What now? What did she say now? “For these and all my sins I’m truly—truly⁠—”

Truly sorry. Say you’re truly sorry. Then let him give you penance so you’ll know what to do to wipe away your sin and get rid of who you are, and say the Act of Contrition. You’ve done it all your wasted life⁠—

“I can’t,” she gasped. She scrambled to her knees so fast she nearly hit her head on the low ceiling of the confessional. “I’m so sorry. I can’t right now. I’ll come back later.”

“My child⁠—?”

Madeleine crossed herself and bolted from the booth. She kept her eyes on the floor so as not to look at other parishioners who were waiting to confess. The church door seemed miles away, but she reached it eventually and emerged onto the streets of Kirkwall. Unconfessed, unabsolved, still drowned in mortal sin. Drowned worse than Hæra feared Madeleine would be in the sea.

Madeleine hurried down the streets, past the shops and restaurants, wondering how, even on land, waters could close over your head.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Hours ago, Hæra’s left wrist had not seemed significant. Tonight, long after Madeleine had departed for her “mass,” Hæra looked at it while sitting on the edge of her bed.

It had always looked ordinary, as human wrists went. Slenderer than a man’s, but not as delicate as Madeleine’s. This could be no ordinary wrist, however. Not after Madeleine had touched it.

Touched it of her own free will, no less. Hæra hadn’t reached for her first. This time, Madeleine had touched Hæra unprompted, and she hadn’t needed to. She’d just asked Hæra what time it was. Hæra had been about to tell her. There had been no reason for them to touch.

How wonderful, then, that they had.

Hæra stroked her fingers over where Madeleine’s own fingertips had circled her so briefly. She couldn’t have guessed how it would feel. Was this how Madeleine had felt every time Hæra had touched her, “grabbing” her?

Now I’m the rude one, she’d said, clearly meaning it was the same thing. So she must have felt the same. Every follicle of hair on her body must have stood to attention.

Madeleine must…want her.