When I come to the final question on the first page, I hesitate.
Reason for Wanting to Become a Maiden:
“The need to know what you bastards did to Georgia and why”—that would be the most accurate, closely followed by “revenge.” I write down neither of those and steal a glance at Sabrina’s page. In a neat cursive hand, she’s answered the question with “So I can serve the Prophet.”
I know a similar answer is the key I need to unlock the Cloister. With a deep breath, I press my pen to the page.
Chapter 5
Delilah
Ruth never returns to the Cathedral, even though the rest of the women, or “wives” as they call themselves, arrive shortly after the end of church service. When they open the main door, scents of food waft through the air, and my stomach twists. I can’t remember the last time I ate.
The wives mill around for a few minutes, none of them meeting my gaze.
“Where’s Ruth?” I approach the pregnant one whom I’d encountered briefly the night before, when I first arrived.
She shakes her head.
“Tell me.” I grab her elbow.
“Not here.” She shakes her arm free. “Now lay off or you’ll get me in trouble.”
I approach another woman, this one with demure braids and large, expressive eyes. “Why didn’t Ruth come back?”
She doesn’t reply, but the ghost of an emotion—maybe pity—flickers across her face before dying. “I can’t help you.” Her small voice matches her steps as she backs away from me slowly. “I’m sorry.”
More than hunger eats away at my insides. Something happened to Ruth. It seems like every crutch I’m given falls away the second I put the slightest bit of weight on it. I’m the common thread in all of it. Maybe that’s why she’s gone. Maybe they saw her talking to me.
Some of the women change clothes and others use the bathroom. I watch them from a perch on one of the couches, though none of them dare approach me. Wait, Ruth had said to me so many times. I see why. Nothing here is under my control, and I’m at the mercy of the clock—always waiting for something to happen instead of making it happen myself. I grind my teeth and consider approaching another one of the wives. Surely, one of them will break free and say something helpful, or at least tell me what happened to Ruth.
I rise from the couch, resolve firmly in place, when a low, dull electronic bell rings three times, and the women line up at the doors, a tingle of electric excitement running through them like a current.
“What’s happening?” I step to the back of the line, trying to blend in with the wives as the row starts moving forward.
“Lunch,” the brunette in front of me whispers.
My stomach clenches again, and my mouth waters as the scent of freshly-baked bread dances around me like a wispy dream. It’s odd how specific your sense of smell becomes when you’re hungry—I mean the “haven’t eaten in days” hungry, not the “I’m jonesing for my next meal” hungry. I can even pick out the notes of browned butter and the unwelcome odor of baked broccoli.
We’re led down the main corridor, the guard paying me no attention. But I’m not fooled. I have no doubt that he knows exactly who I am. Whatever I’m doing, it’s being allowed by the Prophet.
The sense of nervous excitement grows as the women walk quickly out of the dormitory area. We file through the nursery corridor, some of the women cooing at the babies, then through the hall with children’s rooms on either side. They’re empty now, the dark rooms with their childish décor eerie and silent.
When we enter the dining area near the front door, the women walk quickly toward the tables, and I can see why. Children are seated at intervals, as if they’ve been assigned tables, and some of them amble around playing chase with their friends. The kids beam as the women—their mothers, I assume—rush to them and pepper them with kisses. The sweet tinkle of children’s laughter and the warm hum of mothers’ voices fills the room.
I follow a line of women who aim for a long table against the back wall. No children welcome them, and some of them glance with open envy at the mothers who hug their excited little ones.
The brunette who was in front of me sits near the end of the long table, and I take a seat next to her.
“No kids?” I ask gently.
“The Prophet has blessed me with his seed, but …” Her cheeks flush, and she clamps her mouth shut.
“I’m sorry.” The words are out before I realize it’s an odd thing to say. But it’s a reflex. I apologize because I’ve hurt her. Even though the horror of it all isn’t lost on me—she’s upset because she hasn’t become pregnant by her rapist, the Prophet. No matter how willing she may think she is, she’s not. The Prophet’s lies brought her here, and his armed guards and locked doors keep her.