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    As soon as she spoke, Edith knew that that was not true. The lady had noticed every tiny thing. She could see the folk of air, and hear them, too.
    She was wise. Britain was in her, or she in it—Edith could not tell which it was. She was very, very strong.
    â€œI am a Guardian of the Isle,” said the lady in her soft cool voice. “You will learn what that means—among many other things.”
    â€œDoes Mother know?” Edith asked her.
    The lady’s brows lifted, as if she had not expected that.
    â€œMother thinks I’m going to Aunt Christina,” Edith said, “to learn to be a nun.”
    â€œAnd so you are,” said the lady, “but there is more to the world than some will admit.”
    That went without saying. Edith closed her eyes. She had not been counting days, but there had been more than five and fewer than twenty. They were very close now to the abbey— and to somewhere else, somewhere strong. She could feel it inside, ringing on a deep note.
    Deep in the heart of her, a hard knot loosened. Much of it escaped her in a gust of air. Here was where she was meant to be.
    The guards had drawn away for once, so that she could see where she was. The broad plain stretched to the edge of the sky. Clouds tumbled above it, full of glimmering shapes.
    A ring of stones rose ahead of them. It was very old. Powers gathered to it, and all the roads led there.
    They rode past it. The guards barely glanced at it, but the lady bowed her head as they went by.
    Something in the way she did it made Edith want to do the same. One paid respect to the Powers. Her nurses had taught her that, although her mother would have been very angry to hear of it. Her mother had no use for any powers but the Lord Christ and his Church.
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They passed the ring of stones at midmorning. By noon they came in sight of the abbey: a stone wall and a low square tower, crouched on a hill beside a river. The water was high, the current swift, running down toward the walls and roofs of a town.
    Edith had not expected that. She had thought the Lord Christ’s house would be far away from anywhere, like the ring of stones; but it stood not far at all from the town’s walls. People were coming and going on foot or on horseback or in wagons. Voices were singing and shouting. She even heard laughter.
    Within the walls was silence. Sounds from without were muffled; as she left the guards and the horses in the courtyard, they faded to nothing.
    Even more than the silence, she noticed the smell. It was familiar. Her mother’s chapel was the same, a mingled scent of stone and cold and incense, and something that she could not put words to, that made her think of a rabbit in a trap.
    She turned to the lady, to take comfort in a familiar face, but the lady was gone. Edith had not even felt her leave.
    The nun who led her away from the horses was an old woman, gaunt and stiff, with a face that had long since forgotten how to smile. Not that the lady ever smiled, either, but there was a lightness on her that Edith could not see anywhere in this place.
    Only one thing kept Edith from turning and running: the glimmer of an inhuman face perched on an arch of the cloister above her. The folk of air had kept their promise. They were with her even here, in a place that racked their insubstantial forms with pain.
    Edith gave the creature a bit of herself, a flicker of strength to take the pain away. It sighed in relief and fluttered above her as her guide led her on down the cloister.

CHAPTER 2
    The Abbess Christina surveyed her niece with a cold blue eye. She looked older than her sister Margaret, and taller, and much thinner. Years of prayer and devotion had made Margaret more beautiful, but Christina looked as if she had withered in the bud.
    Edith did her best to seem harmless and humble. Maybe it worked. Christina sniffed audibly and said, “You look like your mother. I trust she has raised you