Even with the spring dusk curling in, the stone floor feels like it’s storing winter deep in its bones. My fingers are still buzzing from the last hymn as I slide my guitar into the cupboard behind the pulpit, careful not to let the latch click too loud. The cloth covering it smells faintly of must. I always tuck it here, as if hiding it might keep the instrument mine a little longer.
As far as I know, no one’s still here but me.
The rest of the children filed out after service, heads bowed, arms full of shawls and dish pails and younger siblings. I linger like I always do, enjoying the only moment of peace and silence I’ll have today.
I should go. Mother will be watching the horizon, waiting for me to bring water, start the fire, wash the basins. My youngest sister has obedience recitations to learn, and I’m expected to correct her.
Moving through the side corridor toward the exit, I count the steps. My feet know the rhythm of the stones. Left. Left. Right. Avoid the loose creaky board. Pass the old baptismal closet—
I freeze.
Three low voices. Male. Familiar. One sends a chill straight through me.
Master Prophet.
The door is ajar. Not wide. But enough.
Light spills out, pooling across the hallway stones like something alive. I don’t move a muscle. I have no desire to eavesdrop but if they catch me, a beating will follow.
I have no choice but to hide.
Dropping to the ground, I crouch behind the door.
“She’s getting too old,” says one voice, an Elder. “Should’ve been matched last year. She’s fifteen now. Should’ve borne a child by now.”
“She sings like she wants to be coveted,” says another Elder. “She’s dangerous.”
“The girl is too free,” a third voice rings out. Master Prophet. Calm. Measured. “The Lord gave her beauty and melody. He did not create her for accolades. A girl who draws attention to herself is a girl in danger of believing she deserves it.”
Everything about their tone turns my stomach.
They’re talking about me.
There’s no mistaking it.
“She has too much freedom,” says the first voice. “She lingers after service. Wanders the yard without supervision when she thinks no one is watching.”
“She’s not promised,” the second man says, as if it’s an accusation. “The girls her age are already settled.”
Master Prophet responds, “Her spirit is expanding too far. The Lord is clear: A woman’s shape is not her own. It must be molded. Declared. Taught how to serve.”
Cold slithers through me. Ice water under my ribs.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” one of them says. “Untouched. Best to get her under control before the rebellion becomes intolerable.”
“I fear we’re too late. She’ll resist what we have planned.”
Master Prophet’s voice is absolute. “She won’t have a choice.”
Then silence. A pause long enough to make my heart stutter.
“Brother Gideon has petitioned.”
It’s all I can do not to shriek.
“He’s faithful,” says another. “Obedient. Strong.”
“His contributions entitle him to a young wife,” adds the Prophet. “The Lord makes provisions for a faithful devout like Brother Gideon.”
