“Why not? He’s passed his apprenticeship.”
“Yes, but he still has a lot to learn. Even I wasn’t a master until I was twenty-five.”
After eight years of study and work, Remi was being told he had to wait another five at least. “How did you feel at his age?” I ask.
The architect smiles, though it’s a bit strained. “Arrogant. Fullof myself and grand plans. Unable to appreciate those around me.”
“Well, then he’s right on schedule.”
That earns a chuckle. Magister Thomas stands and tugs a stray curl by my ear. “Do me a favor and make repairing the model your priority for the next few days.”
“It’ll take weeks.” Starting with several days of just cleaning up the mess.
The architect bends lower to look me in the eyes. “And valerian tea aside, the more time you spend with the venatre, the more likely it is you will say something you don’t want to. You’ve given him your account. That’s all that’s necessary.”
I nod in agreement as much as in obedience, and the magister departs.
By the time Remi passes through the workroom for the Sanctum, I’ve swept nearly everything that can’t be saved into a barrel. After that, I divide the remaining stone blocks into piles according to their size. The model’s cornerstone is still intact. Everything can be rebuilt from that point, but first the table will need to be fixed.
The front window is propped open for light and air, and all morning, people pause and look inside. Around noon I’m sitting in the center of the room, scraping mortar off blocks when another shadow stops to stare. I’ve ignored everyone until now, but something makes me look up this time.
It’s Simon of Mesanus.
“How are you feeling today, Miss Catrin?” he asks cautiously.
“Well enough, sir.” His expression is so much like a child who expects to be scolded that I look back down to hide my smile. “I slept over twelve hours.”
He clears his throat. “The tea wasn’t meant to be that strong. I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted.” I glance up. “But I remember telling you to call me Cat. Everyone else does.” Except Mother Agnes. And Remi.
“That’s actually why I’m here,” Simon says. “May I come in?”
I nod and indicate the half door, unable to refuse a venatre’s request, but also curious. “It’s not latched.”
Simon pushes it open and steps inside, his strange eyes sweeping over the ruins. “What happened in here?”
“It was a model of the Sanctum.” I stand and brush dust from my hands. “One side of the table collapsed, and, well…”
I shrug. It’s another half-truth. Perrete had kicked out one leg and smashed a second.
He studies the tiny shards of colored glass the architect had been arranging. “It must have been extraordinary.”
I point to the year stamped on the cornerstone. “It was as old as the Sanctum itself. We updated it with every expansion.”
Simon picks up a tangle of twigs and reeds from a pile. “Even the scaffolding?”
“Even that. It was useful for reference.” I wait for him to set the splintered pieces back down. “What is it you wanted?”
He walks around the broken table, hands clasped behind his back. “Something was bothering me yesterday after you left, but I was so tired I gave up trying to figure it out. After a good night’s sleep and sorting through all of Juliane’s notes, I realized what it was.” Simon reaches the far side of the room and turns to face me. “Your name is Cat.”
“And?” I rub my sweaty palms on my work apron.
“‘Go home, little Cat.’” Simon quotes. “That Selenae man was talking toyou.” When I don’t say anything, he takes a few steps closer. “And you realized it. That’s why you were so upset.”
Simon’s face is all planes and angles except for the end ofhis nose, which is rounded and slightly turned up, giving him a boyish look despite his seriousness. “What difference does it make?” I ask, then lie for the first time. “I didn’t hear him.”
“But that means he was watching you, and likely followed you. That’s very interesting.”