by Celia Aaron
“I’ve been trying to get to Chastity to talk her out of her plan, but she’s slippery these days. I’m going to try again when I leave your room. If she could just hold off, maybe Mom will take out Dad, and then we can sort of work it out from there.”
“What does your mom want to do with Heavenly once your dad is gone?”
“That’s more complicated.” He sighs. “She wants to keep it going. Different, but really the same.”
“Keep it going?” I clutch his shirt. “Why?”
“She has her reasons. But I’m hoping Adam and I can talk her out of it.”
“It has to burn, Noah.” Acid rises in my throat. “All of it. We can’t let it go on.”
“I know.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I know, okay? But we have to get through tomorrow first. Once we do that, maybe we’ll see the right way to shut it down.”
This news changes the entire game. Maybe I don’t have to marry Evan to get what I want. But it all rests on the edge of a blade, and if I don’t marry him, I run the risk of getting cut. “What about the senator? And my mom?”
“Depends on timing.”
“We’re supposed to get married at the start of the service,” I hiss.
“I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “It all depends on what Mom does.”
“I’ll have to go through with it, then.” I take a deep steadying breath, and remind myself that this was my goal all along—getting out and swaying Evan. All these other webs could fall apart. So I need to stay strong and follow through.
“Maybe.” He hugs me again. “But we’ll sort it all out afterwards. You won’t have to… you know, stay with him or anything.”
“We’ll see.” I bite back my bitterness. Noah’s dangled a way out in front of me, but I can’t take it. Not yet. Not until I know for sure that Heavenly will be destroyed.
He rests his chin on the top of my head. “You’re kind of crazy.”
“What?”
“This whole thing you’ve got cooking to take the place down. I mean, it’s brilliant but also insane.”
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.
“But you, everything’s even and perfect.” She peers at my nose. “I don’t even see any pores.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s amazing, and I’m jelly!” She returns to her drawer of colors and draws out a pallet of browns and another of pinks. “Let’s start conservative, okay? Maybe once we’ve done the subtle look, we can start over and go for a mermaid look or—” her eyes widen. “A peacock look!”
“Subtle sounds better.” I lean back.
“Don’t be a ninny.” She tilts my chin up. “Now close your eyes.”
“Close your eyes.” Grace stands above me, a hint of impatience showing through her too-bright countenance.
I do as she says and wait as the tickling brush does its work on my eyelids. Like this, I can pretend it’s Georgia again, delightedly highlighting and contouring and doing God knows what else. But I didn’t mind it. Because it made her happy. I mind now, because it makes Grace happy.
“Better.” She dabs some pink on my cheeks. “Too much.” Grabbing the hem of my dress, she wipes some off. “A little bit goes a long way on your corpse-white skin, doesn’t it?” She scrubs a little with my dress then drops the fabric. “You look alive now, at least. Let’s do something to your lips. They’re like two starved worms. And that eye—” she frowns at the bruise the Prophet left when he couldn’t get hard. “I think
there’s some concealer in here.”
She works for a few more minutes, adding mascara and some other touches to make me look “like something other than a dead body.” When she’s done, she stands back. “You’ll never be beautiful, but this is as close as I can get.”
“You’re so beautiful, Firefly. With or without makeup.” Georgia’s voice tiptoes across my heart.
“Now, your dress.” She snaps her fingers. “Up. I want to see it on you.”
I stand, tired to my soul. “I thought you wanted me to stay? Now you’re happy I’m going?”
She cuts her gaze to me. “I did want you to stay. But things are different now. It’s a new day. You can go. I’m happy for you to disappear.”
“Why the sudden change?” I know why. She believes today is the day when the Prophet falls.
“Can’t I just be happy for you?” She holds the dress up to my shoulders. “You’re getting married. That’s something to celebrate, right? Now, take that dress off and let’s see how this one looks.”
I grab my hem and lift my dress over my head. Her apprizing gaze takes in every inch of my emaciated body.
“At least you lost some weight while you were here. Not enough, though.” She steps closer. “Arms up.”
Once the dress is on, she stands back. “Perfect.”
I look down. I’m wearing what could be considered a boxy white sack that flows down to my ankles. Not that I care what my “wedding gown” looks like. Even if I wind up marrying Evan today, in my heart, I’m already wed to Adam.
“I picked out a veil for you, too, but we can put that on at the church.” She smiles again, her teeth reminiscent of a crocodile even though they’re straight and smooth. “Get your shoes on.”
“We’re leaving now?”
“Yes. The senator wants a little time with you before the service begins.”
I slip on my flats. “I thought it was bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding.”
She laughs, the sound explosive and loud.
I stare at her, trying to parse through whatever is going through her mind. Reading her is impossible, but I know something wrong is simmering just underneath the surface of what I can see. Everything is off-kilter. A queasy feeling slithers through my stomach.
She tapers off her giggles. “Oh, I think you’re right about that tradition. It will definitely be bad luck.”
Chapter 24
Noah
I shove Chastity against the wall, her choked cry just what I was aiming for. “Call it off.”
She recovers, her eyes shuttering, her face going stoic. “Not a chance.”
“Why?” I glance down the hallway. The Cloister’s walls have ears, but we’re alone for the moment.
“Why?” she asks, incredulous. “I can give you a million reasons. All of them good.”
“To murder innocent people?”
“They aren’t innocent.” She shoves me back.
I let her. “The children are. The people who are fooled by the Prophet—”
“You mean the ones who are fine with oppressing everyone who isn’t like them? The ones who agree with the Prophet that homosexuals should be imprisoned, women who’ve had abortions killed, and mixed race marriages annulled?” Her voice shakes with fury. “Those people? The ones who are raising their children in this cesspool, who are teaching them the same values as the Prophet?”
“They still have a chance. To learn. To choose differently. To get out!” I force myself to keep my voice down. “If you sit in judgment of them and wipe them out because of it, you’re no better than him.” I shake my head. “No better.”
“Wrong.” She steps to me, her face red, the scar at her temple an angry slash. “They’ve killed themselves with their own sins. What I’m doing will free all the women on this compound. Every sex slave—and that’s what we are—will finally be able to choose for themselves. And no more will be brought here to be abused, sold, tortured, murdered.” Her eyes soften the slightest bit. “Don’t you care about what they did to her? To Georgia?”
“My mother will pay for that.”
She nods. “You know, for the longest time I’d thought you’d killed her.”
“I never would have—”
“I know. This conversation alone tells me you don’t have what’s required to commit to taking life.” Her earlier softness disappears. “But I do. For all the lives the Prophet has stolen, there must be an answer. This is it.”
“No, it doesn’t have to be. This isn’t you. You’re kind. I’ve seen it. The way you treat the Maidens, the way you keep your head up no matter what happens.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what they’ve done to me.” Her eyes water, but she bites back her tears. “The time I’ve spent at the Rectory. The things they did to me, to change me. They did them to Jez, too.” Her voice trembles at the mention of Jez’s name. “Over and over. Man after man. We were raped and beaten and raped again. The Prophet said that it would change us, make us women who the Lord would love. Women who would cling to men as our only salvation. And so for days after our first attempt to escape, the men would come. And we were gagged, strapped down, forced to endure their touches, their degradations.” She points her finger in my face. “So don’t you ever think you know me. You don’t know a goddamn thing.”
I take her words in. Sickeningly, they don’t surprise me. “I’m sorry for all of it, for everything that was done to you. But you can’t—”
She barks out a laugh. “Sorry?” Tapping the scar on her forehead, she says, “And this, not done by a man at all. This was Grace, showing me that I was worth less than nothing when I disobeyed her.” She straightens her back. “No one here is holy. No one here deserves to live one more day. The people who go to that church support every act of cruelty that happens here. They turn a blind eye, close their hearts to the truth. I can’t save them when they’ve made no efforts to save themselves.”
She’s too far gone. I see that now. This place has wrecked her. The same way it’s done to Grace, to me, to countless others. I can’t get through, even though I have to give it one last try.
“What about Emily? She’ll be there. She has to be. The other Maidens? They’ll be in the front row like always. How do you plan to save them?”
Her lips compress into a thin line, everything about her stony and harsh.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You don’t intend to save them at all, do you? You’ve condemned them right along with everyone else. You say you want to free them, but if you do this, you’ve signed their death warrants.”
“I don’t want to hurt them, but this is war. And this has to end bloody.” She takes a step back. “Killing them is a mercy, really. Better to be dead than enslaved by the Prophet. It all has to go. It’s the only way to be sure.”
“No matter who gets hurt?”
“It’s war,” she repeats, as if it’s something she tells herself often.
I’ve lost her. I probably never had her. “I can’t let you do this.”
She backs down the hall, her head high. “Do what you have to do, Noah. But I won’t stop. Not until there’s justice.” With a whirl of her skirts, she turns and jogs down the corridor. Her footsteps dissipate and eventually go silent.
I pull a flask from my pocket and take a long drink, the cool liquor doing nothing to calm me. “Well, fuck. That went well.”
Chapter 25
Delilah
Grace is blessedly silent on our short trip to the Prophet’s house. Maybe she spent all her venom earlier, though I doubt it. We enter through the basement, the house quiet as we walk up the stairs and into the grand foyer.
My stomach lurches as we pass my least favorite room in the house, the piano silent in the corner. But she doesn’t guide me there. Instead, we cross the marbled foyer, the wide staircase to our right. The scents of bacon and biscuits waft through the air, and the light clink of silverware on china greets us as we enter an orna
te dining room.
Evan sits near the head of the table, smiling and talking to the Prophet as the men eat breakfast. The Prophet’s bodyguard—Castro, Noah calls him—sits in a chair in the corner of the room, his watchful eye on me as I follow Grace.
“Here’s the blushing bride!” The Prophet doesn’t stand as he beams up at me. All the disarray from the previous day is buried, hidden beneath his thin veneer of civility and kindness. “Have a seat. Let’s enjoy a good breakfast together before service.”
Grace takes the seat closest to the Prophet, and points to the chair beside her. I take it, my eyes down as a servant places a plate of food in front of me. Not the stuff we get at the Cloister, but real food—a biscuit covered in sausage gravy, fluffy scrambled eggs, and three slices of thin, crispy bacon. My stomach growls loudly, and Evan laughs.
I catch his eye. He’s looking especially handsome today, his face closely shaved and his hair neatly clipped. Wearing a crisp dark gray suit, he is the picture of masculine beauty, his blue eyes shining like ice as he surveys me. “Eat up, Delilah. You’ll need your energy for today.”
Encouraging words when delivered by anyone else—from him, they’re a threat.
Grace hands me a napkin, and I smooth it in my lap. “Do as your husband commands.”
He’s not my husband. I bite my tongue to keep the words from coming out. But Evan smirks, as if he knows I thought them.
I pick up my silverware and slice off a piece of biscuit. When I put it in my mouth and chew, the room seems to relax, as if the walls had been holding their breath.
“Now, Evan. Tell me more about Washington. I’ve never had much of a hankering for politics, but DC sure seems like the fast lane, you know? All that power swirling around.”
Evan finally turns his hawk-like stare back to the Prophet. “It’s definitely different than being here at home. There’s always something going on, some sort of deals being made, and tons of trouble to get into if you’re up to it.”