The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)

I shrug. “Evan’s a powerful man. If I can use him, I will.”

He swallows. “Because of Georgia?”

I push him away and meet his gaze. “Yes. All this is because of her. And because I don’t want any other girls to fall into the trap of the Cloister. I know this is what she’d want.”

His blue eyes are glossy. “I know.”

Something inside me melts, and I can feel my connection to Noah. “You loved her, too, didn’t you?”

He blinks, his lashes wet. “I don’t think I was capable of it then. I was too blinded by my father. Stupid, you know? But now…” When he blinks again, a single tear escapes. “Now, yeah. I think I loved her.”

I wrap my arm around his neck and pull him close. He holds onto me, and he shudders just once, his tears falling on my pillow where no one can see. We stay that way for a while, lost in thoughts of her and what could have been.

“Please tell Adam I love him,” I whisper. “In case I don’t get the chance.”

“He knows.” His voice is clipped, thick. “He loves you, too.”

When he clears his throat and gently pushes me back, he says, “I need you to know I’m not on the fence anymore. Not about Georgia or anything else. Whatever happens tomorrow, I will get justice for her and for us.”

I nod, and a vow is created between us. A bond forged in pain and loss. A bond that cannot be broken.

Chapter 23

Delilah

Grace floats into my room at the crack of dawn on Sunday. “Wake up. Today is your day.” She stands at the foot of my bed, a smile on her face. A real one that shows what she could have been. Beautiful in another life, but in this one, there is only spitefulness. I wonder who died to make her so happy, but I don’t ask.

“Your wedding gown.” She drapes a white dress over my comforter and holds a flowy white veil. “Get up. Get ready. It’s going to be a big day.” Her tone is chipper, which sends a shiver down my spine as I stand and walk to the bathroom.

Looking in the mirror, I see the lack of sleep has taken its toll, not to mention what the horrors of the Prophet have wrought on my face and body. Aged ten years, too thin, and dull—I am a ghost of myself. No longer the glowing Firefly, I’m an apparition, one that can pass unnoticed.

When I’m done in the bathroom, I find Abigail walking through my door, her makeup case under one arm.

“I’ll take it from here.” Grace grabs the case and shoos Abigail out.

I sit on the bed, unsure of this new, happy Grace.

“Perk up.” She opens the case and pulls out a hair brush. “It’s your wedding day, after all.” Pushing the case back, she sits next to me and turns my shoulders so she can brush my hair. She hums a little as she runs the bristles through the tangles, the knots created from tossing and turning during my sleepless night. Her touch is firm, but she doesn’t hurt me any more than she has to. I have to wonder why. But I don’t ask.

“White hair.” She giggles and focuses on the ends. “Some heathen women would pay for this sort of color. Platinum blonde they call it.” She makes a pfft noise at the silliness of anyone wanting hair like mine.

This Grace makes more sense to me. Ridicule has always been one of her favorite weapons.

“There, that’s better.” She drops the brush into the case. “Turn around. I’m going to add some color to you.”

I obey, watching as she digs through Abigail’s limited color palettes. She chooses a compact with a variety of pinks and another with light browns. The colors are jarring, reminding me of another time, another place.

“You can pull off just about any color, you know?” Georgia leans down and looks at me in her vanity mirror. “Like a blank slate.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” I try to hide my nerves. Mom doesn’t want me wearing makeup. She says it gives the wrong idea and always looks garish on me. Then again, when I’m with Georgia, I’m away from Mom’s prying eyes. Playing a little couldn’t hurt, not when I can wipe it right off.

“It really is.” She digs through the stacks and stacks of pallets in her top drawer, some of the colors worn down to nothing and others not even touched. “My coloring means I have to stay away from blues and reds. Blues just look terrible no matter what, because they clash with my eyes. And reds highlight the pink undertint to my skin. It’s a mess.”

“Mmhmm.” I’ve never noticed any ‘undertint’, but there’s no point mentioning that. I’m well acquainted with Georgia’s ability to lay out each of her perceived flaws and lament over them for hours on end.