Leaning forward, he touches his mouth to my ear. “The hunger.”
16
“IT’S A SHAME YOU’REgoing to die.”
Harper perches on a large, smooth stone near the fire, gazing at me with her enormous, all-seeing eyes. They shimmer like orbs of pristine lake water in her small face.
I lie in my sweat-soaked bedroll, shivering, every warm breeze scouring me like the iciest wind. Initially, I fail to process her words. Zephyrus departed hours ago, seeking a herb to help dull the pain as the venom works its way through my system. Last night, my health began its sharp decline. I scribbled in my journal for a time, noting my final thoughts as my fever intensified, my lips cracked and bleeding. Despite my fatigue, I pushed on. Only in pouring my heart into my journal do I feel secure, loved. It is a compulsion that cannot be stopped.
Here at the end of my days, the fight has all but gone out of me.
“For once in your life,” I rasp out, “can you show a little compassion?” Allowing space for compassion should never be a burden.
“You know people don’t buy your little act, right? Perfect Brielle, who can do no wrong. What a joke.”
An edged pain jabs beneath my sternum. “I wasn’t aware it was an act,” I grit, trembling from the spasm. “Why should I not treat others as I wish to be treated? They are our brothers, our mothers, our sisters, our children. That is what the Text teaches us.”
Harper scoffs, which only agitates my irritation to further heights.
“Have you even thought about what becoming an acolyte means?” I ask her. “Have you considered how you’ll use your mantle for the betterment of Thornbrook, and the world?”
If Thornbrook is a pillar of faith and goodwill, then novitiates are its bedrock. We are responsible for the day-to-day tasks required of keeping the abbey doors open. Acolytes, however, actively shape the surrounding community. They travel to Kilkare, to Aranglen, to the smallest towns on Carterhaugh’s border, spreading the Father’s word.Come, they urge.This is the way.
“And I’m to believe you have?” she snaps. “I was not aware there was any space in your head for such thoughts, considering your nose is stuck in the Text every spare moment.”
Again, this disdain for my continued studies. I do not understand it. Abbey and community—stronger together, weaker apart. But Harper, a woman who sees nothing but her own reflection? She covets the prestige gained in wearing the red stole and nothing beyond it.
“Not every acolyte is required to break their backs seeking lasting change,” she says, leaning forward on her perch.
“You do not think He expects your best effort?”
“Just because I haven’t thought of some grand plan doesn’t mean I will do any less good.” She crosses her arms. At least she’s returned to wearing her cincture properly, the white cord knotted at the front of her wrinkled cotton dress.
I cough into my hands. “Spoken like someone who has given little thought to the responsibility.”
I’m surprised steam doesn’t billow from Harper’s nostrils. She drags her pack closer and begins yanking out her filthy clothes, folding and unfolding them, as if busying her hands to stop herself from walloping me in the face.
“What are your ideas,” she snips, “if you think they’re so much better?”
I flip onto my side to ease the pain radiating through my bones. The summer’s warmth presses heavy hands against me. It is so oppressive I struggle to retain clarity of mind. I fumble for the buttons on my dress,manage to wrench the sleeves down, then my chemise, exposing my sweat-drenched upper back to the air.
When I look toward Harper, I find her face oddly pale, mouth slack. That’s when I remember Mother Mabel’s lash, the marks spoiling my shoulder blades, the length of my spine.
Teeth gritted, I slowly rebutton my dress. How could I have forgotten my penance? Then again, what does it matter? In a few hours, Carterhaugh will begin to bruise with approaching twilight. I wonder if I will even see the morrow.
“I never said my ideas are better than yours,” I state. “For that to be true, you’d have to have your own ideas to begin with.”
Tension grips the lines of her body, and I do not imagine the heat rolling in waves off her skin. “Well,” she murmurs, eyes reduced to haughty blue slits, “you are certainly opinionated today.”
At this point, I’ve nothing to lose. “Do you want to hear my ideas or not?”
She flaps a hand. It’s the only consent I can hope to receive.
“I was thinking along the lines of an apprenticeship,” I say.
“Elaborate.”
“Thornbrook has an excellent relationship with Kilkare,” I say, too weak to do anything but lie in stillness, “but what of the smaller towns to the north and east?” I think of Veraness, its scattered remains. “Many of the children in those parts go hungry, having received no proper schooling. We could teach them how to harvest grain, how to read and write and complete simple mathematics, how to mend clothes, forge weapons. In return for work, they would receive food, shelter, and the means to provide a better life for themselves and their families.”
