The doorknob rattles. “Tiss! I’m coming in whether you’re decent or not!” Sadrie’s voice comes muffled through three inches of solid wood.
“Keep your knickers on,” I garble and yank it open.
“Good morning, songbird!” She beams, not one pretty blonde hair out of place. “I was worried when I didn't see you at breakfast. Here, I brought you something.” She produces a red-skinned pear and a pastry wrapped in brown paper.
A twang of tenderness goes through me. “Thank you.” I accept both items before stepping aside to let her pass.
“I wanted to make sure you had something in your stomach.” She lifts the alarm clock from my desk and sets it back down. Turning to face me, she announces, “It’s twenty minutes to prayers, and here you are, still in your nightgown.”
“If you hadn’t knocked, I’d still be sleeping.” Glazed in honey, the pastry is lusciously sweet and sticky while the flaky layers crunch beneath my teeth. I moan, licking my fingers.
“Keep making those sounds,” she says, bald interest on her face, “and I’m going to come over there and undress you myself, Itissa.”
“Don’t make promises you’re not prepared to keep, Sadrielle,” I husk around the food in my mouth. Glancing at the pitcher on my washbasin, I remember how desperate I am for water.
“Who says I’m not?” I catch her flirty little wink before she crosses back toward me and stops. One hand lifting, she skimsher thumb across my lower lip to brush off a sticky crumb. “See you in Sanctuary,” she whispers, licking that same thumb clean.
The ghost of her touch pulses on my mouth, the pastry turning to dust on my tongue, while I watch her pull the door shut behind her.
Flanking either side of the lectern, the two priestesses call class into session. Excited murmurs pass through the Learning Annex in regard to the sister standing between them.
“The Ceremony of Induction takes place tomorrow,” beams Sister Delia. Willowy and bubbly, she appears to be in her early twenties and is by far the youngest and least grumpy sister I’ve seen yet. “I’m sure you’re all bursting with anticipation right about now.”
More chatter ripples through the room. In her usual spot in the back row, Rosalie fidgets with the silver necklace sitting on her collarbone. She’s not the only initiate wearing one in class today. At least five other girls have identical collars.
“Ladies, please.” Maida motions for quiet. “I hate to disappoint, but there’s no grand process or spectacle involved. We’re here to make sure you all know what to expect.”
Delia nods. “The goddess favors quiet ritual over showy fluff, as you’ll all soon learn.”
Maida says, “Some of you may have heard it referred to as the ‘lottery,’ due to the selection process resembling the game of the same name.”
Something sparks in my tattered mind.
Lottery is a game of chance. Numbered balls are spun around inside of a wire cage, falling out at random as the numbers arecalled. One by one, players mark off corresponding squares on printed cards, and the first to get a ‘blackout,’ or fill their entire card, wins a prize. That much I know.
I also happen to know commercial gambling is outlawed in the realm proper. Despite this, Cantana is host to a number of lucrative underground gambling houses, but there are gaps in my recollection surrounding that knowledge. The gambling houses are all run by a faction. Organized crime of some sort. But… I can’t quite put my finger on who they are, even though it feels like I should know.
“Thislottery is actually a form of Divination called sortilege,” says Maida, pulling my attention back.
“Here’s how it’s going to work tomorrow.” Elodie speaks up. “You’ll be called up one at a time to spin the drum. It will release a metal ball, which we call a ‘sphere.’ You will reach into the holding channel, lift it out, and show observers. The sphere will be either black or white in color.”
“Other than color, the spheres are identical,” adds Delia. “They’re all the same size, shape, and weight.”
Elodie looks past me, shoving one hand into the pocket of her wide-leg black trousers.
She wears a sleeveless v-neck sweater over a button-down, and her hair is coiled into a tight knot at her nape today. Without her usual braid, her features take on an angular hardness that’s attractive in an androgynous sort of way.
“Outside of the Ceremony of Induction, the prioress and I are the only individuals who have access to the spheres,” says Maida, looking quite proud of her status. “Eisha alone will ordain who among you draws white and who will draw black tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Lady Maida, Lady Elodie.” Delia glances between the priestesses before turning her attention back to us. “I’ll go into the black spheres momentarily. However, shouldsome of you draw a white sphere, this means you’ve been selected by Eisha herself to become an acolyte to the temple. As such, you’ll assist the high priestesses in the coming seasons.” Delia turns. “Elodie?”
“Acolytes serve the temple, visitors to the temple, and the surrounding villages. They will assist me and Lady Maida in carrying out seasonal rituals and private rites when needed.” There’s a sharp efficiency to her words and motions I haven’t seen before. “The term of service is one year. If an acolyte feels the calling, however, she may choose to become an apprentice. And eventually, a high priestess herself, should the goddess see fit.” She lifts their chin toward the rear corner of the room. “Ghisele, will you elaborate on apprenticeship?”
Oh, gods.I must have missed her coming in.
“Certainly.” The auburn-haired beauty struts up the center row, head high.
Making space for her, Elodie moves to the left wall near the front of the room, directly in my line of sight. Arms folded, she leans back and notches one foot against the wainscoting. The more she moves around, the more certain I grow that her chest is bound.
