[Suzerain of Sheol]

"et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen."

Looking up to her varlet, Amélie was at first bewildered by his apparent concern, and his need to disturb her repose, until she heard the words he'd spoken.

"Mon Dieu, the tourney!" she cried, pushing herself to her feet and wringing her hands through her sleep-mussed hair. "They're like to call me to the list any moment! And me, more sloth than knight, and profane no less..." She crossed herself in a hasty apology to the Lord for using the chapel as her bedchamber. No doubt, the monks had not the heart to rouse her, mistaking her wretched prayers for a piety they might envy.

Enough of that. The day demands.

"My armor, Kier," she spoke through a yawn, "At once, if you please. We cannot tarry, lest we dishonor the entire Ordo Humilis. And I'll need Sombre dressed and saddled. Spare my lance, I'd not kill whomever they set against me."

Looking out through the high windows of the nave, she attempts to discern the hour and fails. Looking back to Kier, she sighs. "I make of myself a disgrace. I am sorry."