“He’s been waiting for a few years,” someone murmurs. “His other wives are now barren.”
“All flowers begin with man’s seed,” Master Prophet continues. “They don’t flourish until they’re planted. She’ll bloom in his hands.”
Laughter follows. Dry. Knowing.
My knees want to give out. I lean against the wall, heart slamming.
I don’t know exactly what they’re implying, but I know this.
They do not consider me a person.
I’m being traded.
They speak of obedience, dowry, lineage, his home near the western edge of the compound. Close to the boundary wall, where no girl wants to live. Too isolated. Too far from the chapel. Too close to the men’s bunkhouse.
“She’s not yet broken,” one of the men says. “She still walks with too much pep.”
“Brother Gideon will drive it out of her,” Master Prophet assures him. “As the Lord desires.”
I nearly throw up.
One of them asks, “Will her parents agree?”
“It isn’t up to them. They’ll be brought into alignment,” Master Prophet replies. “Brother Gideon has made an offering large enough to ensure their cooperation.”
“And the girl?”
“She’ll be guided,” he says. “There will be prayers. A laying on of hands. She will be made to see this is her role. Her salvation.”
A pause.
“On her birthday she’ll be betrothed,” he commands. “She’s clever. Not clever enough to outrun purpose.”
Without giving it another thought, I back away from the door. My legs feel wrong. I’m not sure how I move, but I know I need to get out.Now. I need air. I need to run. The chapel doors swing wide. I stumble into the dusk, the world bathed in lavender shadows and ash-colored dust.
The compound looks the same. But it isn’t.
Every outline is sharper now. The fences. The smoke curling from chimneys. The goats bleating in the distance. I see the tin roofs for what they are. Cages. I see the path back to my family’s home. A funnel to hell.
I have nowhere else to go, though. Women walk past me, arms full of laundry or babies or bread pans. No one looks up. No one ever does.
Inside my family’s home, it’s too warm. My sisters argue over a piece of dried fruit. Mother slices onions with mechanical focus. My father hasn’t returned from the barn. I curl up on my sleeping mat like a child, face to the wall. My breath shudders unevenly.
I think about Master Prophet’s words.
She will bloom in his hands.
All flowers begin with man’s seed.
My stomach heaves. I shove my fist into my mouth to keep the sound in. I don’t understand what’s coming. Not fully. Enough to know my name has been offered, my body is not my own, and I have no say.
I lie there long after Mother whispers evening prayers and my sisters drift into soft, safe dreams. I replay their voices.
A girl who draws attention to herself is a girl in danger of believing she deserves it.
She will be made to see this is her role.
She’ll understand her purpose.
