Astrid led her across a courtyard, in the centre of which lay an empty podium. Various red-robed followers of Godhand moved about their own business, some giving her cold stares while others were too afraid to look at anything other than the gravel path they followed.

Astrid flung a finger sideways. “That is a proper school.” she said, “Our private education far exceeds anything those mentally deranged ‘teachers’ at that hovel can achieve,”

Phantasia wanted to ask Astrid why she wasn’t attending lessons here, if the teaching at Torsten Academy was so terrible, but figured it would be best not to antagonise her. Reaching Bishop Wotan was more important than understanding his daughter’s odd situation and she could always try and ask him – it wasn’t like Astrid would give a decent answer!

They reached the far end of the courtyard and stopped. Phantasia was reminded of her own church: the tall doors were adorned with carved figures and framed by stone guardians, while the windows told colourful tales. Astrid continued on her way after admiring the display, Elizabeth and Vespa on either side of Phantasia, perhaps concerned that she might try some fancy trick. She entertained the idea in her head, rather than listen to Astrid’s increasingly repetitive spiel about how wonderful the manor was. How would any of them be able to stop a faerie, after all?

Inside the church-like antechamber they ascended a set of spiral stairs, leading to the floor above where yet more large doors confronted them, while behind them a balcony overlooked the vast courtyard.

“This is where you will understand your sins,” explained Astrid, hesitating before the doors, “And I expect your pathetic little friends to follow.”

This final room was the most exquisite of all. Red and gold-trimmed velvet drapes framed artistic displays and artefacts dated back centuries with more care than she’d seen before. The archaic relics were locked and preserved in spotless glass cases, much unlike the old cabinets used in the school, where the relics were often brought out in lessons for the students to handle. Above the displays sat a rim of stain-glass windows, featuring images of saints and miraculous deeds. The appearance of obvious demon forms suggested these legends reflected more recent history than those from the millennia-old church. As her gaze continued upwards, it settled on a dark window high up the far end of the chamber, beyond which she could make out the shadows of the clock tower’s skeletal beginnings. When Astrid came to a sudden stop, her eyes fell down to the dais that adorned the end of the room. Flanked by curtains and two cowled guards, Bishop Wotan sat presiding over her arrival on an ornate wooden throne.

“The albino heretic,” said Astrid, bowing to one knee before her father.

“That will be all, Astrid,” he replied with a curt gesture, motioning her to leave.

“Can I not help with the interrogation?” she asked, shocked.

“I would prefer to be alone with this girl,” said Wotan, motioning for his guards to leave also. He stood and looked down at his daughter and her companions, “You three girls return to your school. There is nothing more for you to do here.”

“But, Father, I-” Astrid clutched her dress around herself, her knuckles white.

Wotan’s expression remained unfazed by the sight of his pleading daughter, as if his face were etched in stone. “You have your orders,”

Chapter 14
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