“I want to warn you that I will be doling out a harsh punishment this morning. You must remain calm as it happens, or else the congregation will have concerns.”
I frowned, wondering what Father planned to do. I tried to think back to last night, going over everyone’s confessions in my head. It made sense to me that some of them needed to repent, but what worried me was Father deeming it necessary to warn me in advance.
He never did that.
My fingers tightened around the edge of my robe, hidden in the folds so Father wouldn’t see them shake.
A harsh punishment.
Someone had sinned badly enough to—
My thoughts skittered wildly.
Was it me?
Did he know?
Did the Light tell him?
Did I somehow confess without realizing?
Did something show on my face, on my body—
No. No, no, stop. Stop. Breathe.
I shifted my weight and tried to steady my breathing. Before I could gather the courage to quietly ask who he meant, Father closed my confession log and set a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Up,” he said gently, guiding me toward the gleaming chair at the center of the dais.
My heart lurched. “Father, I—”
“Hush,” he murmured, pushing me lightly but firmly. “The service is about to start.”
He helped me sit, arranging the flowing white fabric of my robe so it draped properly over the stone. Sitting in the Seat always made my stomach knot; the eyes, the attention, the symbolism—it all felt like too much for me.
Father stepped back only when he was satisfied, brushing invisible dust from my sleeve.
Within a minute, the congregation began filing in—mothers with children, older men leaning on canes, teens who still looked half-asleep. Their eyes all lifted to me as they entered.
I tried to seem calm, the picture of serenity I was meant to be, but, inside, my lungs felt too tight.
Father moved to the pulpit and began the usual greetings—welcome, blessings, and reminders of the importance of attending services. My hearing blurred around the edges; I kept losing his words as my thoughts cycled.
Was I the one being punished?
Had the Light shown him… something?
Was this going to be about lust? It was always the worst sin, the one he preached about with fire in his eyes—
“…disgusting sin of lust,” Father’s voice thundered suddenly, snapping my gaze to him.
My heart plummeted.
No. No, no, no.
A cold wave washed over me, dizzying and sharp.He knew.He knew what happened. He knew what I’d done—or what someone had done to me. He knew. About the stain. About the note hidden in my drawer. About the shame prickling under my skin.
He knew.
