"This place feels bigger inside than it looks from the outside, but I've never heard anyone mention it. Have you, Dominic?"
The monk with a Holy Pick hanging from his belt raised his lantern and looked up at the ceiling of the corridor. Large floral designs and painted angels decorated the spaces between the ribbed arches, keeping this passage between the living quarters and the storerooms from feeling too monotonous.
Since it was indoors, the intricate patterns, painted by artists who'd had to crane their aching necks, had only Dim Fading—not enough to make the heavenly scenes and starry skies against the red and blue backgrounds unrecognizable.
Even though this corridor rarely saw visitors besides those responsible for chores, the brushwork was still soft and fine, precisely outlining every detail.
He'd taken a few basic medical courses at the Church's school. A large proportion of patients suffering from spinal and neck problems came from those who painted ceilings.
"We weren't even born twenty years ago. If it was shut down because of some scandal, it's no surprise we've never heard of it." Dominic glanced up at the paintings. Even judged by the standards he'd acquired while studying in Dunling, they were quite impressive.
A local church could hardly have raised enough funds on its own to build a monastery of this size and detail. Any monastery that had received special patronage would surely have been recorded.
Students like them, who lacked family connections, usually began looking for somewhere to go long before completing their studies. They'd even heard of church organizations in some remote regions.
If there were a large, abandoned monastery near Westminster, rumors of its reopening would probably surface every year.
Strangely, they still didn't know what this monastery had been called.
It was as if its builders