The Iron Queen

The Charity of Wolves

The first thing Prisca noticed was how the gates of St. Bartholomew opened without sound.

They were tall, iron-barred, and heavy enough to suggest effort, yet they parted inward as if guided by something unseen. No creak. No protest. Just a quiet release, like a mouth opening to swallow.

She did not look back at the city behind her. She had already learned that looking back changed nothing.

The car rolled forward along a gravel path lined with trimmed hedges and obedient trees. Everything here seemed arranged and disciplined into neatness. Even the air felt different, stripped of the chaos she associated with streets and voices and the life she had lost.

The building rose ahead, pale stone catching the afternoon light. Its windows were tall and reflective, concealing more than they revealed. A place that is meant to be seen from the outside. A place meant to impress.

“Here we are,” the woman beside her said gently.

Prisca said nothing. Her fingers remained curled tightly in her lap, nails pressing into her palms hard enough to leave crescents. She welcomed the pain. It reminded her that she was still here and had not disappeared with everything else.

The car stopped. The door opened.

Someone from outside reached for her hands, not roughly but firmly, and led her out. The gravel crunched beneath her shoes. The sound felt too loud in the quiet.

There was a woman in grey at the top of the steps. Not a nun, but not anything else either. Her face was wrinkled, not just because she was old, but with something sharper, like a habit. Discipline worn into the skin.

“Welcome,” she said with a soft voice, which was the first lie.

Prisca did not take the hand extended to her.

The woman did not seem offended. If anything, her smile got a little bigger, as if she had expected nothing else.

“I am Sister Agnes,” she said. “You will find that we do things properly here.”

Prisca stared at her. There was something about her eyes; they did not soften even as she smiled.

*******

Inside, the home smelled of polish and soap. Cleanliness, taken to excess.

The floors gleamed. The walls were bare except for carefully chosen paintings and landscapes, mostly with no people in them. Even the light seemed filtered, softened to remove any harshness.

It felt less like a place for living and more like a place for display. The other girls were gathered in a common room when Prisca was led in. They turned as one.

There were too many faces to take in at once. Some were curious, some were bored, and a few were openly assessing.

One girl whispered something to another. A quiet laugh followed. Another simply watched, her expression unreadable.

Prisca felt their attention settle on her like dust.

“She is the new one,” someone murmured.

“She looks like she might bite.”

“Or cry.”

“I do not think she cries,” another voice said.

Prisca did not react. She had learned, in the hours since that night, that reactions invited things she did not want. Like pity, questions and hands reaching where they should not.

So she stood still, her face empty, her eyes fixed somewhere beyond them all.

“Girls,” Sister Agnes said, her tone mild but carrying. “This is Prisca. She will be joining us.”

She made a pause. “You will treat her with kindness.”

The word 'kindness' landed strangely. Not as a promise but as an instruction.

“Yes, Sister,” the girls replied in unison.

The sound was practised and learned. Obedience was made audible.

Prisca understood then, though no one had yet explained it to her: this place had rules, and those rules were older than her.

*********

Her room was small. Two beds. One was already occupied, though its owner was absent. A narrow wardrobe. There was only one window that looked out onto the back garden, which was just as neat as the rest of the house.

Nothing personal. Nothing soft.

“This will be yours,” Sister Agnes said, indicating the empty bed.

Prisca nodded.

“You will rise at six. Meals are at fixed hours. Lessons in the morning. Duties in the afternoon. There is time allotted for recreation.” Her voice was steady, measured.

“As long as you follow the rules, you will find this place… comfortable,” she added.

Prisca’s gaze drifted to the floor. The boards were old. Slightly uneven. One of them near the wall bore a faint mark, as though it had been lifted before. She filed that away without thinking.

“Do you understand?” Sister Agnes asked.

“Yes,” Prisca said.

It was the first word she had spoken since arriving, and it tasted unfamiliar.

Sister Agnes studied her for a moment longer than necessary, then she smiled again.

“Good,” she said. “We will have no trouble, then.”

Prisca did not return the smile.

*********

The trouble began quietly. It always did.

The first girl to speak to her was called Elin.

She approached in the evening, when the others had settled into their routines, reading, whispering, and pretending not to watch.

“You do not talk much,” Elin said, sitting on the edge of Prisca’s bed without asking.

Prisca said nothing. Elin did not seem discouraged.

“That is probably smart,” she continued. “Talking too much gets you noticed.”

Prisca looked at her then. Elin’s face was open, almost kind. But there was something else there too: a carefulness. As if every word she spoke had been weighed before being allowed out.

“You are not from here,” Elin added.

“No,” she replied.

“Figures,” Elin said. Then she took a pause.

“You should know,” Elin said more quietly, leaning closer, “They watch everything.”

Prisca’s eyes flicked toward the door. It was still and closed.

“Who?” she asked.

Elin hesitated. Then she smiled. “Everyone,” she said.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

*********

The rules revealed themselves slowly. They were not written nor spoken, but enforced. Obedience was rewarded.

A girl who completed her tasks without question might receive an extra portion at dinner. A smile from Sister Agnes. A moment of gentleness.

Curiosity, however, had consequences. Prisca saw it happen on her third day.

A girl named Mara had asked about a door at the end of the west corridor, one that was always locked.

“It is just storage,” one of the matrons had said.

“But I heard…” Mara began.

That was as far as she got. She was taken away before dinner. When she returned, her eyes were swollen, her mouth set in a line too tight for a child. She did not ask questions again.

Prisca watched. She learned.

There were patterns. Certain doors remained closed, at certain times, the corridors emptied, and certain visitors arrived without announcement: the donors.

They came dressed in wealth, tailored suits, polished shoes, and smiles that showed too many teeth.

They walked through the home as if it belonged to them. Perhaps it did.

The girls were lined up when they visited. Clean. Quiet. Presentable.

“Such lovely children,” one man said once, his gaze lingering too long on a girl at the end of the row.

His hand rested briefly on her shoulder. Too brief to protest. Too long to ignore.

Prisca saw the girl flinch. No one else reacted.

Later, that girl was called away. “Special opportunity,” one of the matrons said.

She did not return that night or the next. No one asked where she had gone. Not out loud.

Prisca added her name to the list in her mind.

********

It was not until the second week that Prisca found the notebook, or rather, made it.

Scraps of paper, taken carefully from discarded materials. A stub of pencil, hidden in the lining of her dress.

She waited until night. Until the breathing of the other girls had settled into the slow rhythm of sleep.

Then she knelt by the marked floorboard. Her fingers traced the edge.

It lifted with only a slight resistance.

Beneath it was a hollow space. Small and perfect. She placed the papers inside and began to write: names, dates, times, who came, who left and who did not return.

She wrote in small, tight letters, each word pressed onto the page with quiet determination.

This was not a child’s diary. It was a record. A map of something she did not yet fully understand but would.

**************

Sister Agnes noticed. Of course, she did. It was not anything Prisca said. It was what she did not say.

The way her eyes moved. The way she listened.

“You observe too much,” Sister Agnes said one afternoon, as they stood alone in the corridor.

Prisca met her gaze. “And you speak too little,” the woman added.

A faint smile. “Dangerous traits, both of them.”

Prisca did not respond.

"Anger," Sister Agnes continued, her tone almost conversational, "is a wildfire." Left unchecked, it consumes everything. Including the one who carries it.”

She stepped closer. “I can help you, child. I can shape that anger into something… useful.”

Prisca felt something cold settle in her chest. “I do not need help,” she said.

The words were quiet and steady.

Sister Agnes studied her. For a moment, the softness dropped, only for a moment, and then it returned.

“As you wish,” she said.

But there was something in her voice now. A note of interest. As if she had found something worth watching.

*******

That night, Prisca wrote longer than usual. Her pencil moved faster; she wrote more names, more details, and patterns beginning to form.

She paused only once, when she heard footsteps in the corridor. It was too late for routine and too soft for matrons.

She froze.

The footsteps stopped outside her door.

Her breath caught.

Slowly, carefully, she slid the papers back beneath the floorboard, replaced it and stood.

The handle turned, and the door opened just enough to let a sliver of light spill into the room.

A figure stood there, not Sister Agnes, not any of the matrons.

A well-dressed man. He stood still. His eyes found hers immediately. He looked neither surprised nor concerned. He looked… pleased.

“Ah,” he said softly. “So you are the colonel’s daughter.”

Prisca did not move. Her heart hammered, but her face remained still.

The man stepped fully into the room and closed the door behind him.

The soft click echoed.

“I have been looking forward to meeting you,” he continued.

He took another step closer. “Tell me,” he said, his voice almost gentle, “what have you seen so far?”

Prisca said nothing.

But in that silence, something shifted.

Because for the first time since that night… someone was asking the right question, and worse…

He already seemed to know the answer.