“Just mumble along,” Clara whispered.

The other tables must have picked up a silent cue from the head table. They all closed their eyes, completed the sign of a cross, and recited Grace in Latin.

“Benedic, Domine, nos et haec tua dona quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi, per Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.”

It may as well have been sung by a choir. Clara was taken aback by the level of coordination required. That’s not something we ever did.

Instead, their dishes were brought in from the kitchen. The Tower had never been known for their culinary delights. Some things are constant.

Their roots within the Church meant they ate more like monks. There was a sizable piece of bread, a soup composed primarily of broth, and a small plate of steamed meat and vegetables.

In contrast to formal dining events, there was one fork, knife, and spoon. She glanced quickly at Julia who did not appear to be bothered by the simple meal. Whereas this singular event reminded her just how often she had seen this on the menu. They said that hunters rushed through their training just to expand their palate.

He slid back to her seat, one off from the centre, and Julia sat next to her. She noted that Walter had Adam at his side, a sign they elevated male acolytes over all others. The Reverend Mother Augustine would have torn them a new one.

“Thank you,” Clara said as she sat down.

Fortunately, she was spared the torment of sitting through a formal dinner. There were no awards, notices, nor the expectation of a speech. Verbal diatribes that people invariably forget after taking their first bite.

Instead, their dishes were brought in from the kitchen. The Tower had never been known for their culinary delights. Some things are constant.

They led her to an elevated platform, which was a new addition from her point of view. From there she was met by Walter, noting the absence of a senior female representative. She smiled as he took her hand, but a quick glance at those steel-grey eyes made her displeasure clear.

“Apologies,” Walter whispered. Too little and too late…

Clara was tempted to let her inner goddess takeover but thought better of it. At least they never bothered making an easily dismissible excuse. Such as there wasn’t enough time.

Their steps echoed through the platform as individual planks squeaked from the change in weight. The sound made them focus all the more on her, which led to a momentary loss of blood pressure. Why am I nervous?

Next came a chorus of gasps followed by a wave of whispers. That ceased when Walter cleared his throat, which highlighted his authority and the hold he had on the rank and file.

In her day, the Reverend Mother wore the same uniform as acolytes. It was a symbolic gesture to ensure hunters were not overshadowed by her authority. The men didn’t feel the same way.

The head of men wore the garb of a cardinal, which also highlighted that they had their place in the church. We usually kept to ourselves.

Clara was more aptly dressed like a nun, with notable exceptions. Even though her feathers were black, as was the uniform, those wings were hard to ignore.

The room went silent when Clara was escorted into the main dining hall. In her time, there would be no more than sixty people on site, including a handful of hunters back from a mission.

Tonight, every table was filled with students and hunters. The room was hot and humid, even with the massive hearths at both ends of the vaulted chamber containing nothing more than ash.

“They were waiting for us,” Clara whispered, low enough that only Julia would hear.

No one was eating, which was by itself unusual. Acolytes had chaotic schedules that forced them to be creative and adaptable. She remembered grabbing bread on the way to class, or skipping a meal entirely to make a timing. Some had nervous breakdowns while trying to adjust.