“Kneel.”
My knees crack against the flagstones. There is a faint snap of leather—the lash. A metallic taste coats my tongue.
Mother Mabel rounds my back. The church’s incense has always comforted me, but now it turns my stomach, its sweetness curdling to rot. “I am sorry to do this to you, Brielle. I hope you understand.”
The air keens seconds before pain ruptures across my spine.
I scream, lurching forward as the searing line burns with increasing agony. My fingernails bite into the rough stone. My head hangs, and I pant through the shock, the wounded girl within me whimpering.
“A lash for every day you were missing,” the abbess whispers from behind. “A lash for every lie that spoils your tongue.”
The lash comes down. Then—fire across my back.
Seven lashes for seven days.
Seven lashes for seven decrees.
Seven lashes for the stark cruelty of a realm beneath the earth, and rivers, rivers, rivers of blood.
8
“BRIELLE.”
The waspish tone slaps me into wakefulness. Harper stands before me, hands on hips, mouth pinched as though having recently sucked on a lemon.
I straighten from where I dozed off at my table, wincing from the twinge across my back. The refectory clamors with scraping utensils, clattering bowls. It smells of boiled greens and the hot, bubbling sweetness of fresh porridge.
Harper continues to glare at me expectantly. “What?” I hiss. Conversation is prohibited during meals.
“What is it Mother Mabel ever saw in you?” A cant of her head. “After that embarrassment with your disappearance, she must regret trusting one so pitiful.”
Harper spews so much vitriol it’s a wonder plants don’t wither in her presence. And here I sit, receiving blows like a pelting rain.
Disappointment and shame hit me all over again. I have worked tirelessly for this opportunity, and within a day, my hopes were dashed. Mother Mabel will not select me as an acolyte this year. Perhaps never. I am not worthy. I cannot be trusted.
“Well?” Her toe taps with irritating calm. “Will you answer me, or will you stand there like a dolt?”
Meals are a time to reflect on ourselves, deepen our faith, strengthen our principles. But Harper will not cave. She will pry every desired emotion free. She will hammer blows until I sunder.
“I have nothing to say to you.” My voice rings with surprising strength. “The fact that you insist on belittling me when I am already brought low reveals just how weak your character is.” Indeed, in all the years I’ve known Harper, I have seen no growth from her, only stagnation.
Her eyes flare. She seems to grow four inches in the next breath. “Weak character. How ironic. According to Isobel, your lies got you into this mess. Your deceptions will only make it easier for Mother Mabel to choose me to become the next acolyte.”
“No matter who Mother Mable chooses to ascend, it won’t stop me from continuing my studies,” I press. “Acolyte or not, I will deepen my relationship with the Father.”
Thankfully, the bell peals, signaling the end of breakfast. Everyone files out the doors to begin their morning chores. Since I’m assigned clean-up duty, I remain in the hall, where the smell of boiled vegetables lingers. A single novitiate to clean the mess of one hundred women, normally a task shared by four. But I will not complain, just as I did not complain yesterday. Stacks of bowls coated in food fill three large buckets. One by one, I drag them to the kitchen, where I fill a massive tub with water from the well and begin to scrub each dish and utensil clean.
I move slowly, for that is the only way I can move lately. Three sundowns, three sunrises, yet my back still aches fiercely. Any slight shift drags my dress across the bruised flesh. I expected the pain to subside, but it has worsened over the passing days.
It takes two hours to wash the dishes, clean the tables, sweep the floor. That done, I head upstairs to exchange my slippers for boots, shuffling slowly to combat the lightheadedness. I’ve an hour before I’m needed in the fields.
Once inside my room, I move to the mirror. My hands shake as I unbutton the front of my dress, then my chemise, peeling both from my clammy skin and exposing my back to the looking glass.
Deep violet curdles the surface of my skin. The bruises’ outer rings have cooled to a mealy gray, but the centers rage a livid red, nearly the same shade as my hair. I flinch in remembrance of the lash, seven painful welts received.
With an unsteady breath, I rebutton my undergarment and adjust my dress. Mother Mabel has barred me from the infirmary. In the Book of Grief, Arran traveled across the highlands for twelve days enduring the pain of a festering sword wound, and lived. According to our Abbess on High, I, too, will withstand this suffering.
I’ve revealed nothing of what transpired in the sacristy. I spend my evenings in the forge, away from prying eyes, but my smithing comes at a cost. I can only shape the metal for so long before my back spasms and the tools slip from my grasp. Before my disgrace, the abbess had trained me after evening Mass each week, but she did not show up for our knife-fighting lesson yesterday. Another punishment?
