“Took the better part of an hour to find her, didn’t it?” The old woman shuffles to a halt in front of us, the brass keyring at her hip chiming with every step. “Does she know the priestess is expecting her?”
“I do,” I say. “But this wasn’t on my schedule today. Is this... normal?”
“It wasn’t on your schedule because we didn’t know she’d require an audience,” sniffs Sister Ailen, her beady, dark eyes narrowing. She leans on a wooden cane topped with a brass grip. “And no, it isn’tnormal,as you say. But she wishes it. So Brigit and Imogen will deliver you directly, even though your hair is atrocious and it looks like you slept in your dress. As she carries a high rank at the temple, you will give her the utmost respect.” Finished with me, Ailen faces the other two. “No dawdling. She’s been waiting long enough.”
“Yes, Sister,” the handmaidens chorus.
“Hopefully she forgives her disheveled appearance.” Shooting me a last, reproachful glare, the lines around Ailen’s puckered mouth deepen before she turns to leave.
“Don’t pay her any mind,” says Brigit, once the sister is out of earshot. “This way.” She takes off down the walkway.
“This is actually a good day,” whispers Imogen. She shoots me a dubious look before scurrying after Brigit.
Our residence is a four-story cube, from which two other buildings branch off. One is the refectory. I haven’t been in the other one yet.
Open-air walkways surround the atrium, barriers of wrought iron scrollwork hemming in the open sides. The fountain’s song drifts up from the ground floor, mingling with the finches’ endless chatter. Overhead, an iron and glass dome lets in winter sunshine.
“Am I in some sort of trouble?”
“I really wouldn’t know,” says Brigit.
Concern marring her face, Imogen hangs back to wait for me. “You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”
“I don’t think so.” But yesterday flashes before my eyes—the blood on Rosalie’s mouth and Kerrigan hitting her. The fact that I wasn’t supposed to see that, according to the hostile greenhouse woman I annoyed immediately afterward.
“When did you arrive at the temple, sweetheart?” I ask, glancing at Imogen and needing a change of topic.
“Imogen is new to being a handmaiden,” clarifies Brigit from several paces in front of us. “She’s beginning her formal training, and there’s much to learn. But we didn’t come here voluntarily like you did.”
Voluntarily. The word rankles me at this point. “You didn’t?”
“Nope! We’re orphans, given up by our families,” says Imogen, matter-of-factly.
“I see.” Her directness catches me off guard. “Don’t you miss having a family?”
“Our parents gave us to the temple as babies,” says Brigit, her words brisk. “We’ve grown up here.”
“Brigit’s my family,” nods Imogen, her legs working like pistons. “Well, her and the other handmaidens.”
“The temple is the only home we’ve known.” The finality in Brigit’s tone indicates the topic is now closed.
Hoping my question wasn’t rude, I count the closed doors we pass. Bedrooms line the atrium’s perimeter on all four floors. This building is far too big for the thirty or so other women I’ve seen milling about.
Brigit turns a corner, and Imogen trots to catch up.
“When do you think they’ll make the announcement?” She reaches for the older girl’s hand.
“Any day now.”
“What announcement?”
“Thelottery.” Brigit tosses the word over her shoulder as if to say, Keep up with the conversation already.
“Right. And that is…?”
“The lottery decides who becomes betrothed and who will be an acolyte to the temple.”
The pounding in my head becomes small, white-hot explosions. I close my eyes. “Individually, I know what those words mean. Together, they make no sense.”
