I folded the dirty handkerchief and set the coins atop it, leaving it on the hearth. Marriage to Absalom had never been Silence’s dream. We weren’t friends—I didn’t have any friends—but even I could tell she’d been dragged into the marriage two months ago.
Mother bustled out of the kitchen holding two jars of jam and cheese wrapped in cloth. She frowned at me. “Aren’t you coming?”
I rose, ignoring the ache in my knees. “To breakfast? I suppose.” I followed her to the hall, where we donned our cloaks and tied our bonnets.
Mother glanced back at me and tsked, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. “You look awful.”
“I had to bring my brother’s body back in a cart on a two day journey,” I snapped.
She raised her hand, violence bleeding from her eyes.
I flinched, but didn’t break eye contact. Her face was white as bone, and she looked like she’d aged ten years overnight.
Mother took a heavy breath, ice in her face. But she lowered her hand, letting it smooth out the cloak over my shoulder instead. “I want you to look your best. Lord Erlik gave you beauty, a gift that should be cultivated and honored. You should apply a mask to your face tonight before you sleep.”
When I was seventeen I would’ve yelled at her and refused to wash my face for three days. But I was twenty-five now. I’d learned to let the words slide right off and then do as I pleased. “Yes, Mother.”
The walk down the street, passing the other homes, was cold. Our breath filled the air in front of us. The congregation took up most of an old neighborhood. We had to go to market, the men find apprenticeships, and hire services outside the community. It wasn’t like we were cut off from the world. Just last week I’d picked up a new ream of vellum for Elder White at his favorite store, nearly a mile away and in the heart of the city.
But we did tend to flock together. We dressed more conservatively than other women. Our men spent more time in church than many Lownden men. We were holy. We took our worship seriously, unlike those who just went through the motions. It was why we were Lord Erlik’s favorites.
The fellowship hall was a new, squat building attached to the much older church. The red brick of the hall contrasted poorly against the smooth gray stone of the church. Already people were filing in. Elder Tomes held the door open for me and my mother, nodding gravely as we slipped inside.
After hanging our cloaks and bonnets on the hooks, we went to the far side of the large, open room, passing long tables with benches. The next room was the kitchen, where the women prepared breakfast for everyone.
A few men, dressed in their best black suits, sat at the tables and talked in low tones. I glanced around for Castiel, but didn’t see him.
I huffed, thinking of that insufferable seraph as I donned an apron and turned to look for something to do. I’d stayed up half the night replaying the conversation in my head over and over. The absolute gall of this man, to dance in and pretend to be a messenger of Erlik. It was blasphemy! I would be punished if anyone found out I let this imposter into our community. I had aided him yesterday with the blessing, in a split-second decision that I should regret. The elders wouldn’t forgive that deception. I would need to keep his secret, help him get this book, and get out. Before anyone punished me.
Something about that annoying smirk, those sparkling eyes, and the absolutely irritating curl that hung over the left side of his forehead—it all spoke of smug maleness I didn’t need in my life.
If anyone discovered his secret and that I’d known about it almost from the beginning—my stomach turned.
I shuddered at the thought of floggings or the prayer closet. I hadn’t been in the prayer closet since I was fourteen, and I wanted it to stay that way. The last time my father had asked Reverend Grimshaw to put me there, I stayed on that rug, praying for forgiveness for my wicked tongue for two days. The bread had been burnt, and I hadn’t drunk much of the water because I hated the idea of using the bucket in the corner to relieve myself.
“Are you well, Lilith?”
I glanced up, realizing I’d been staring down at the counter, my hands braced on it, lost in my dark thoughts. “Oh.” I managed a weak smile. “I’m well.”
Mistress Dalton, one of the elders’ wives, gave me a puzzled look. “You’re holding up well,” she commented. “After losing both our beloved reverend and your brother.”
I quickly shifted my expression to something more long-suffering and grief-stricken. “The Lord Erlik has called them home earlier than I wished, but who am I to gainsay our god?”
She patted my shoulder approvingly. “Your faith will not go unnoticed.” With one last sympathetic look, she strode toward the ovens to check on some bread the other women were pulling out.
I hated kitchen duty. Most of the other girls loved it. It was time for them to whisper and giggle, free to be themselves while away from the leaders’ watchful eyes. Often the elders’ wives would leave us to it, and then the women would really be free to talk—not gossip, because that was a sin—and catch up.
But not me.
Oh, sometimes I joined in conversations. Some of the other young women were kind to me. But it never felt genuine, or at least long-lasting. The younger girls, the ones in their teens, tended to be awestruck and trip over themselves to do whatever I asked of them—get a mixing bowl, fetch the cinnamon, find the plates. I might’ve abused that power in the past. Maybe.
“How does she still look so pretty?” one young woman whispered to her friend.
I pretended not to hear.
“Her brother just died. You’d think she would have the decency to have bloodshot eyes or, I don’t know, a pimple on her nose. But no, as distracting as ever.”
“She looks tired,” her friend mused.
