"Am I expected to be shocked by that?" Harrow says, the thin smirk on her face developing into an equally thin but steady smile. "I know my great-aunts were disabused of the notion fairly early on, but it's laughable to think there was ever a time anyone thought you might become a nun of the Tomb." It's distant enough that Harrow can only barely remember it herself, Gideon beside her learning the same devotions, the blind and ancient sisters leading them in prayer.

"You were always meant for the sword, Griddle."