The Maiden (The Cloister Trilogy 1)

The churchgoers erupt, a volcano of approval for both the Prophet and Miriam. She struts off the stage with a wave, her white teeth glinting like the stage lights in her eyes.

I chance a glance at the Prophet as he begins his sermon, but my gaze is drawn to the right. Adam stands to the side of the stage, obscured from the crowd but visible to some of the Maidens. It’s difficult to see through the veil, but his attention seems to be locked on me. His dark eyes pinning me with something akin to curiosity—or perhaps disgust. I shouldn’t care which it is, even though I do. Adam isn’t a man for me to be interested in; he’s just another obstacle I’ll have to defeat on my way to the truth.

Dropping my gaze, I focus on the edge of the stage. I don’t listen to the Prophet. I never have. That’s not what I’m here for.

I take my plate of vegetables and a tiny portion of meat and sit at one of the tables in the dining hall. Smaller than the banquet hall, this room is strictly utilitarian—metal tables and chairs, tile floors, and a full kitchen staffed by Spinners. We eat lunch and dinner here. The Head Spinner told us that the Prophet believes breakfast is for the weak; therefore, we skip it at the Cloister. I suspect the lack of breakfast and the low quality of food has more to do with keeping us tiredly compliant, or perhaps attractively thin. Maybe both.

Another Maiden sits next to me and opens her milk carton. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I spear a piece of droopy broccoli and put it in my mouth.

“I’m Melin—I mean, I’m Sarah.” She smiles, her dark hair curling around her forehead. She looks barely old enough to drive.

“Delilah.”

“Where are you from?” She cuts off a corner of her meat chunk and gingerly puts it in her mouth.

“Louisiana. You?”

“Birmingham.” She wrinkles her nose but swallows.

“How old are you?”

She smiles and spears a green bean. “Old enough.”

I glance up and see another Maiden watching us. “Hello.”

She drops her eyes—one of them with a black half-moon beneath it—and picks at her food.

“That’s Eve. She was—”

I jump as Sarah yelps.

A Spinner stands next to her, a short baton in her hand. “No speaking during mealtimes.”

Sarah clutches her bare neck where she’d been struck and cringes against me. I wrap my arm around her. The Spinner rears back again. I flinch as the baton lands against the side of my neck.

“No contact between Maidens!” She scowls as I release Sarah.

“I’m okay.” Sarah sniffs, a tear running down her light brown cheek.

My neck stings, but I refuse to touch the sore spot. I won’t give the Spinner the satisfaction.

She threads her baton through a loop on the belt of her skirt and walks toward the kitchen, her long black skirt almost touching the ground.

I reach under the table and squeeze Sarah’s knee. She gives me a brief nod, then begins eating again.

I wonder about the women who signed up for this under the delusion that the Cloister would be some sort of sisterhood-paradise. Have they come to terms with what it really is? After last night, I can’t imagine any of them still believe in the Prophet, in the safety they were promised. But as I glance up at one of the Maidens, the smug satisfaction in her eyes as she gazes at the welt forming on my neck tells me that some of these women are exactly where they want to be.

“Training begins in five minutes.” A different Spinner stands at the hall door, her voice a harsh bark. She doesn’t look a day over thirty, but, given her air of authority, she appears to be in charge. Her hair is hidden beneath a black habit, and her eyes seem to bore through anyone she looks at too directly. I drop my gaze, lest she see the true me.

I down what I can of my lackluster food. By the time I’m done, the rest of the Maidens are filing out the door. I join the line as we wind our way along the corridors, the Cloister like a honeycomb. When we emerge into a large room, some of the women gasp.

Three high tables—the type you see at doctor’s offices—sit to the right, a Spinner at each. Then another set of three tables with some sort of odd IV bags hanging on their corners, a large sink at their back. Beyond the tables is a wall covered in a dark lattice. Whips, clamps, crops, chains, and a large selection of dildos dangle at intervals. In the corner is a large wooden structure in the shape of an X, and the straps along the top and bottom of it tell me it’s not just for decor.

“God smiles on women who please their masters. You must be precious in His sight.” The Head Spinner spreads her arms wide. “This is your training room. You will spend quite a bit of your time here every morning. The afternoons will be spent in prayer or performing chores. And your nights belong to your Protector.”