The Church (The Cloister Trilogy 3)
She straightens up and laces her hands together on the table. “I will be blessed soon. The Prophet has told me so.”
So many replies dart across my mind—most of them involving the words “lying monster”—but I keep my thoughts to myself. None of this is her fault, and there’s no point railing against the Prophet to a true believer. It makes me wonder if I’ll ever be able to shake the wives free of their delusions, or if they’ll be like birds that have been caged for far too long—once you let them out, they can fly, but they don’t know it and never try.
Still, even if they refuse to believe the truth, I’m going to show it to them. Bringing this place down physically is one part, but breaking down the myth of the Prophet is the other. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I’ve resolved myself that I will die trying. Hearing Adam’s anguished cries from the cross cemented that future for me.
Adam. I close my eyes and see him again, hanging there helpless, a pinned butterfly in a display case. My heartbeat moves to my throat and thunders there, making it hard for me to breathe. The Prophet has to have let him down by now. He wouldn’t leave his eldest son there to die. It’s the only reassurance I can give myself.
“I heard it was lunchtime!” The Prophet strides in, his arms open wide as several children rush to him. Wearing a white button-down and khaki pants, you’d think he was just a normal middle-aged man, one that doted on his grandchildren and fell asleep watching football on lazy weekend afternoons. The illusion almost holds, shimmers, then shatters. That’s not who he is at all.
The children don’t yell “Daddy” but there can be no mistaking their lineage. He scoops up one little girl with blonde braids and kisses her on the cheek. “And how’s my Mary doing today?”
She giggles and throws her arms around his neck, hugging the monster tightly. His camouflage works perfectly on the children, all of them exuding happiness at nothing more than his presence.
Grace walks in behind him, her dark habit at odds with the pervasive baby blue of the walls and the sunlight streaming in through the high, barred windows just under the eaves. Head bowed, she still shoots her gaze around the room. When she catches me in her sights, she stops, her attention a laser beam.
He picks up another child and swings him in the air, the little boy squealing with delight as the rest of the children follow the Prophet to the center dining table. “I’m so glad to see you all on this Lord’s day.” He sits the little boy in his lap and pats the nearest child on the head. “So many blessings all in one place.”
Grace sits to his right, her back stiff.
Flicking his eyes up, he casts me a glance, then lets his gaze rove over the rest of the women, a king purveying his harem.
The women seem to hold their collective breath.
“Esther, Anna, Eve, and Judith.” He rattles off a list, and the handful of women respond, standing and walking to his table. They seem to have a jaunt to their steps, and one of them casts a smug look to some of the other women as she goes.
Disappointment flows in a river through the rest of the room, the other wives instantly deflated. The double doors to the kitchen open and Spinners march in with trays of food and drink. I can’t stop my mouth from watering.
“Father,” one of the wives calls out.
The room stills, all eyes turning to the woman who spoke. Her round face reddens, but she continues, “Father, there’s one more seat at your table. Who—”
“Leah.” The Prophet holds up a hand. “The Bible says that ‘a person’s wisdom yields patience.’” His tone is like a shallow stream running over hard, sharp rocks. “Were you aware of that passage in the Psalms?”
She swallows. “No, Father.”
“Do you find that you are exhibiting patience?”
She clasps her hands in front of her. “No, Father.”
“Do you need correction so that you may learn the ways of patience?”
Her wince telegraphs through the room, and my palms begin to sweat.
“I …” She blinks hard.
Say no, say no, say no. Nobody moves, everyone’s concentration hanging from her lips.
After another moment’s hesitation, she says, “Yes, Father.”
His mouth turns up in a smile, the cold kind that never really warms anyone or anything. “You shall have it. Come.”
She rises, her cheeks even redder than before, her steps steady though her chest rises and falls with rapid breaths.
The Prophet scoots his chair back, and Leah bends over him, her movements awkward as she settles across his thighs. No one speaks or makes a move as he lifts her long denim skirt and drapes it across her back, then rips her white panties down to her ankles.