Sister Dulcinia bobbed a quick bow and scurried from the room. When the door banged closed, Warren chuckled.

"Seems you're falling right into the job, Verna."

"Don't you start with me, Warren!"

The grin left his face. “Verna, calm down. It's just a couple of horses. The man will find them. It's not worth you getting yourself in a state of tears over."

Verna blinked at him. She touched her fingers to her cheek and felt that they were indeed wet. She let out a tired groan and flopped down in her chair.

"I'm sorry, Warren. I don't know what's come over me. I guess I'm just tired and frustrated."

"Verna, I've never seen you like this, letting a matter like some silly pieces of paper get you so worked up.

"Warren, look at this!" She snatched up the report. "I'm a prisoner in here, approving the cost of hauling away manure! Do you have any idea how much manure those horses produce? Or how much food they eat, just to make all that manure?"

"Well, no, I guess I would have to admit that…"

She pulled the next report off the stack. "Butter — "

"Butter?"

"Yes, butter." Verna scanned the report. "Seems it went rancid and we had to buy ten peck to replace it. I'm to consider this and determine if the dairyman has asked a fair price and is to be retained in the future."

"It must be important to have these matters checked."

Verna picked up the next paper. “Masons. Masons to fix the roof over the dining hall that leaks. And slate. A lightning bolt broke the slate, they say, and near to a square had to be torn off and replaced. Took ten men two weeks, it says here. I'm to decide if that was timely, and approve payment."

"Well, if people do work, they've a right to be paid, haven't they?"

She rubbed a finger on the gold, sunburst-patterned ring. "I thought that if I ever had the power, there would be changes in the way the Sisters do the Creator's work. But this is all I do, Warren: look at reports. I've been in here day and night reading the most mundane of things until my eyes glaze over."

"It must be important, Verna."

"Important?" She selected another report with exaggerated reverence. "Let's see… seems two of our 'young men' got drunk and set fire to an inn… the fire was put out… the inn sustained quiet a bit of damage… they would like die palace to reimburse them." She set the report aside. "I'm going to have a long, loud talk with those two."

"Seems the right decision, Verna."

She selected another report. "And what have we here? A seamstress accounting. Dressmaking for the novices." Verna picked up another. "Salt. Three kinds."

"But Verna — "

She plucked another.”And this one? ' She waved the paper with mock solemnity. "Grave digging."

"What?"

"Two gravediggers. They want to be paid for their work." She scanned the tally. "And I might add that they think highly of their skill, by the price they're asking."

"Look, Verna, I think you've been cooped up it here too long and need a little fresh air. Why don't we go for a walk."

"A walk? Warren, I don't have time — "

"Prelate, you've been sitting in here too long. You need a little activity." He canted his head while rolling his eyes in an exaggerated gesture toward the door. "How about it?"

Vema glanced toward the door. If Sister Dulcinia did as she was told, then only Sister Phoebe would be in the outer office. Phoebe was her friend. She reminded herself that she could trust no one.

"Well.. yes, I guess I would like a bit of a walk."

Warren marched around the desk and lifted her by the arm. "Oh, good, then. Shall we go?"

Verna pulled her arm away from his grip and shot him a murderous glare. She gritted her teeth as she spoke in a singsong voice. "Why yes, why don't we."

At the sound of the door, Sister Phoebe hastily stood to bow. "Prelate… do you need something? Perhaps a bit of soup? Some tea?"

"Phoebe, I've told you a dozen times now that you don't need to bow every time you lay eyes on me."

Phoebe bowed again. "Yes, Prelate." Her round face flushed red. "I mean… I'm sorry, Prelate. Forgive me."

Verna gathered her patience with a sigh. "Sister Phoebe, we've known each other since we were novices. How many times were we sent to the kitchens together to scrub pots for. .?" Verna glanced to Warren. "Well, I can't remember for what, but the point is that we're old friends. Please try to remember that?"

Phoebe's cheeks plumped with a smile. "Of course… Verna." She winced at calling the Prelate «Verna» even if it was under order.

Out in the hall Warren asked why they were sent to scrub pots.

"I said I don't remember," she snapped as she glanced back down the empty hall, "What's this about?"

Warren shrugged. "Just a walk." He checked the hall himself, and then flashed her another meaningful look. "I thought that maybe the Prelate would like to visit Sister Simona."

Verna missed a step. Sister Simona had been in a deranged state for weeks — something about dreams — and had been kept in a shielded room so she couldn't hurt herself, or some innocent.

Warren leaned close and whispered. "I went to visit her earlier."

"Why?"

Warren jabbed his finger up and down, pointing at the floor. The vaults. He meant the vaults. She frowned at him.

"And how was poor Simona?"

Warren checked the corridor to the right and left when they reached an intersection, then looked behind again. "They wouldn't let me see her," he whispered.

Outside, the rain roared in a downpour. Verna pulled her shawl over her head and dove into the deluge, dancing over puddles, trying to tiptoe across the step-pingstones set in the soggy grass. Yellow light from windows flickered in the pools of standing water. The guards at the gates to the Prelate's compound bowed as she and Warren trotted by, making for a covered walkway.

Inside, under the low roof, she shook the water from her shawl and draped it across her shoulders as the two of them caught their breath. Warren shook rain from his robes. The walkway's arched sides were protected only by open lattice thick with vines, but the rain wasn't driven by wind, so it was dry enough. She peered into the darkness, but couldn't see anyone. It was quite a ways to the next building: the squat infirmary.

Verna slumped down on a stone bench. Warren had been ready to be off, but when she sat, he did, too. It was cold and the heat of him right next to her felt good. The pungent smell of rain and wet dirt was refreshing after being inside for so long. Verna was not used to being inside so much. She liked the out-of-doors, thought the ground made a fine bed, the trees and fields a fine office, but that part of her life was over now. There was a garden just outside the Prelate's office, but she hadn't had time to put her head out to see it.

In the distance, the incessant drums thundered on, like the heartbeat of doom.

"I used my Han," he said at last. "I don't feel the presence of anyone else near."

"And you can feel the presence of one with Subtractive Magic, yes?" she whispered.

He glanced up in the dark. "I never thought of that."

"What's this about, Warren?"

"Do you think we're alone?"

"How should I know?" she snapped.

He looked around again and swallowed. "Well, I've been doing a lot of reading lately." He pointed again toward the vaults. "I just thought we should go see Sister Simona."

"You already said that. You still haven't told me why."

"Some of the things I've been reading have been about dreams," he said cryptically.

She tried to gaze into his eyes, but she could only see the dark shape of him. "Simona has been having dreams."

His thigh was pressed against hers. He was shaking with the cold. At least she thought it was the cold. Before she realized what she was doing, she had put her arm around him and pulled his head to her shoulder.