The urge to grab the children and run snakes through me, but they watch along with everyone else. When one of the girls tries to speak to another child nearby, her mother hushes her and turns her attention to the Prophet.
The Prophet lifts his hand. “‘Prudence is a fountain of life to the prudent, but folly brings punishment to fools,’ so sayeth the Lord.” He brings his palm down hard on her ass. She barely moves as he strikes her again and again, the loud slaps echoing around the room as everyone watches Leah’s humiliation.
My hands turn to fists, every bit of rage inside me crystallizing into a hate so real that it’s almost corporeal, a ghost of my anger that I can see and touch.
She doesn’t yell, doesn’t do anything but take the recurring hits until the Prophet’s face is tinged with pink, his front locks of hair falling across his forehead, and his breath coming in gulps. He gets off on this. And the way all the women stare—maybe they do, too.
He finally stays his hand and yanks her panties back into place, then shoves her skirt down. “Now go in the light of my love, and with the wisdom to be patient.” His voice is breathless, the hellish light in his eyes still bright.
She turns, tears streaking down her blotchy face, and retreats to her seat. I can feel her shame like a punch in my gut. And the scornful looks of the other women heap more of it on her head. The children seem unfazed, their little minds already full of abuse and torment—their mothers nothing more than objects for the Prophet to play with and set aside as he sees fit. I tell myself they’re salvageable, that time away from here will reverse whatever damage has been done. Children are resilient; adults are the ones who can’t change.
“Now.” He waves at the Spinners who begin serving plates of food as if the brief interlude was nothing more than someone pressing pause on a movie, inconsequential and temporary. So callous to the abuse, they would likely stand still and watch even if the Prophet murdered Leah before their eyes. After all, they did just that when Sarah—no. I can’t think about Sarah right now. Letting grief derail my rage isn’t an option.
The Prophet scoots to the table as a Spinner places his plate before him and drapes his napkin across his lap. With a sharp glare, he turns his eyes on me. “Delilah, would you please join me?”
Ice shoots down my spine, and openly envious gazes turn toward me from every corner of the room. The woman next to me elbows my side.
I rise and sidestep the nearest Spinner, her sharp eyes watching me as I ease toward the center table. Throwing a glance to the door, I find a guard there. Not that I’d have any chance of escaping this place. The Prophet keeps a tightly closed fist around the Cathedral, an even tighter hold than he has on the Cloister. Lowering myself into the seat next to him, I keep my eyes down, examining the plate of food before me—roast chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a small roll. My stomach gives another ugly twist.
“Bow your heads.” He holds a hand out toward me.
Revulsion courses through me, and I have to bite back an avalanche of hatred as I take his hand. But it’s either do it or face the same punishment as Leah. Or maybe worse. He takes my clammy hand in his dry one, and I clasp palms with the wife to my right. A prayer ensues, one that I don’t listen to. Instead, I think about Adam, about his plans for us to escape. They’re all burned away now, ash just like the cinders from the winter solstice bonfire. Then I picture Georgia, her warm smile. She is burned away, too, destroyed by the Prophet one way or another, even if his son Noah was the one who struck the final blow.
“Amen.” The word reverberates through the room, and I pull my hand away from the woman to my right. The Prophet, though, won’t let go. His fingers clamp around me, my bones grinding against each other. “So happy to have you here, my dear.” He pulls my hand to his mouth and brushes his lips against my knuckles.
I clench my teeth together, only taking a breath when he releases me. Wiping my hand on my skirt, I drop my gaze to my plate again. I want to ask about Adam, but I know that won’t get me anywhere. The Prophet wants me here for a reason, but he’s a snake that only slithers when he feels the time is right. Wait. Ruth’s word again. Ruth. Where is she?
“Eat.” Grace points her knife at my plate. “Don’t be rude.”