Free Mortal Heart by Robin Lafevers

desire hits me, so strong that it causes my hands to tremble. I want to use this blade. All the blades here in this room. That this could be taken away from me leaves me nearly breathless.
    Then an entirely new realization dawns on me, and the fingers clutching the slender stiletto’s handle grow white. What if this is a test from Mortain Himself rather than from the convent? A test for me to prove my commitment to Him, prove my unwillingness to be diverted from His plans for me?
    What if, instead of surrendering, I am supposed to fight for what I want? For surely Mortain does not fashion His handmaidens into such strong weapons and then expect them to topple in the first stiff breeze.
    And how am I to know which it is?
    Next to me, Sarra rubs her nose with the back of her hand before reaching for another knife. “You look like you’re planning to stab someone with that, not polish it.”
    Keeping the knife clenched in my hand, I look up at her and allow every bit of anger and frustration I am feeling to show in my eyes. She blinks and leans imperceptibly back.
Good,
I think, then smile, a movement so brittle it is a wonder my cheeks do not shatter.
    The armory door opens just then, admitting a gust of frigid air and Sister Thomine. When she steps into the room, her gaze goes directly to Matelaine. “The abbess would like to see you in her office,” she says.
    Matelaine looks shocked, then worried, and I do not blame her, but something in the way that Sister Thomine will not look at me causes an alarm to begin clanging inside me like a distant bell.
    Matelaine rises to her feet and brushes back her long, bright red hair. “But of course,” she says in a contrite tone, already apologizing for any wrong she has done.
    As she and Thomine leave the room, I carefully resume polishing the knife. I feel the other girls glance my way, curious that Matelaine is being called to attend the abbess. Even Sister Arnette’s gaze lands upon me, but I carefully keep my head bent and do not look up. For some reason, I think of Sybella and how she was sent back out before she had fully healed. All of us, even the nuns, could see that she wasn’t ready yet. For a while, I thought it was due to the innate skills she’d arrived with, and perhaps tinged somewhat by the fact that she and the abbess clashed from the very beginning, like an angry cat dropped amidst a pack of dogs.
    And then I remember Ismae, who had no innate skill except for the thin veil of anger she wore and her resistance to poison, and I am filled with a sudden desperation. I glance over at Sister Arnette. She is helping Loisse, who has managed to cut herself on a blade in spite of knowing better. Like a single ray of sun forcing itself through the clouds, a realization dawns—I no longer care, at least today, if I anger Sister Arnette or any of the nuns. An urgent need to know what the abbess is discussing with Matelaine drives me to my feet and pushes me toward the door.
    I stop where the corridor branches off into the short hall that leads to the abbess’s private chapel, but no one is around to see, not with the bitter wind howling down the hallways like an angry wolf.
    As I settle into position, I hear the murmur of voices. I recognize the abbess’s low, calm tones and Sister Thomine’s shorter, louder responses. It takes my ears a moment to adjust to the low cadences so that I can understand the actual words being said.
    “. . . tells me you have shown great improvement.”
    “I am honored that she thinks so, Reverend Mother.”
    “You should feel honored that Mortain has seen fit to bless you with such skill,” the abbess says. The reproof in her voice is mild, but it is there.
    Matelaine murmurs something I cannot hear, then the abbess speaks again, this time her voice soothing, as if comforting the wound her earlier words have just made. “Because of your great improvement and your renewed dedication to your studies, you are to be rewarded with your