The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)

Insane laughter careens around my thoughts. Don’t be rude. God, that’s so fucking rich coming from her, and in this place. Still, I need to bide my time, so I pick up my silverware and scoop a bit of mashed potatoes into my mouth. I swallow them far more quickly than I intended, their buttery softness so delicious.

The room falls into a quiet hum of chat broken by the raucous sounds of children here and there. Our table is silent, perhaps waiting on the Prophet to speak.

I eat a bite of roast chicken, and then another, unable to resist my simplest need. But I glance at the Prophet. He eats slowly, methodically, only one thing at a time. His chicken is first, and he makes square cuts to the meat, forking cubes into his mouth and chewing slowly. If I didn’t already know what a pyscho he was, his surgical manner of eating would have been a dead giveaway.

The silence lasts a few more minutes, and I almost finish the food on my plate. It’s nothing spectacular, but it’s so much better than what I’m used to at the Cloister that I feel as if I’m eating a five-star meal.

When the Prophet clears his throat, I still.

“Delilah, I have good news for you.” He sets his knife and fork at perfect angles on the edges of his white plate.

I can’t imagine what news he has for me that could ever be good.

“Senator Roberts has agreed to acquire you, despite your unfortunate situation.”

My food threatens to make a reappearance.

Grace clangs her fork down on her plate. “Sir, that’s the reason I asked for some time with you. I need to—”

He turns toward her with a quick twist of his head. “I wasn’t finished.”

“Apologies.” She pins her lips together and stares into my eyes, as if turning her scolding into hatred meant only for me.

“As I was saying,” the Prophet continues, “he has agreed to take you on and to marry you as soon as possible. I expect him to take delivery within the week.”

No. The word is on repeat in my mind. But my voice seems to have deserted me. I grip the knife harder. It’s a simple butter knife—dull and curved. How much force would I need to shove it into his neck and twist?

“I believe this is the part where you thank me, Delilah.” He grins, his eyes narrowing with a snakelike quality. “After all, I have delivered you to a bright future despite your damage and worthlessness.”

The room takes on that eerie quiet once again, the women looking at me as their children prattle on, oblivious.

My palm is slick with sweat, but if I can generate enough force, that won’t matter. The knife will plunge deep, severing something important. A child behind me giggles. Can I murder their father right in front of them? The thought cools my fire. I can’t damage them. Not like that. I won’t turn into the monster, won’t hurt them like that. Even if they are his blood, they are innocent.

“Well?” His voice carries an edge far sharper than that of my butter knife.

I loosen my grip. “Thank you.” The words burn, singeing their way from my lungs. I promised myself I wouldn’t cower, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be smart. When the moment is right, I will strike, and I will not falter. This is not that moment. Not yet.

“That’s better.” The Prophet returns to his food.

The room seems to relax, the women returning to their food. I’ve completed the subservient dance, bent to the Prophet’s will, and now everything is as it should be. No discipline need be meted out, and the Cathedral will continue running smoothly. Their world is safe. Like cattle waiting to be slaughtered, the wives breathe and eat and ignore the reality of their surroundings—will they even protest when the saw comes down on their necks?

After a few moments, Grace says quietly, “May I?”

“Go on.” The Prophet draws off a square of potatoes and scoops it up.

“Delilah is not ready, especially not for an assignment of this magnitude.” She dabs at the corners of her mouth with her starched white napkin.

The Prophet swallows and turns to her, his eyebrows inching up his forehead. “You want her to stay?”

“No,” she responds quickly, then tempers her words. “But, if she is to serve and further your glory, she needs more time.”

He shakes his head, his confusion wafting over the table and making the nearest wives look up from their food with worried eyes. “You’ve wanted her gone, Grace. I know what’s in your heart. Your jealousy and hatred.”

Grace’s face blanches, but she continues. “I am fallen, a woman descended from Eve, and cursed like all women to be self-centered and foolish.”

He nods, her self-loathing perfectly in line with his misogynistic teachings. If I had the ability to pity Grace, I would have done it right then. But she lost any chance at my pity the moment she broke my finger, or likely before that.