We’re going to bring her into the band.
I’m going to fuck her.
It’s all going to burn.
five
Avonna
One Month Later
MasterProphet’scarriagerollsthrough the compound on a windless afternoon.
The dust doesn’t rise, it hangs in the air like judgment suspended.
Everyone stops to watch, even those who pretend not to. A bucket clangs against a well stone. A baby starts to cry and is shushed. No one speaks or moves unless they’re spoken to.
He steps out first. White robes, dark boots, the weight of his authority carved into every movement.
Brother Gideonfollows.
His bones creak. His beard is long and uneven. He limps from an old knee injury, but stands tall when he spots our door.
Everyone in our village knows what they’re here for.
Me.
After Mother tidied the house this morning, she laid a new blue dress across my sleeping mat. The only new piece of clothing I’ve ever worn. When she braided my hair, my sisters all watched with wide eyes. She didn’t speak to me at all, let alone tell me what was happening.
Why would she? In my religion, a woman’s life is not her own.
They’re here to assert ownership over me. I huddle behind the curtain separating the front room from the kitchen and watch as my father opens the front door. The Elders enter and chairs scrape as they sit down.
“Thank you for welcoming us into your home.” Master Prophet’s tone is commanding. “We’ve come to confirm what has been ordained. Brother Gideon has chosen your eldest.”
I close my eyes, trembling. I knew it was true, but hearing the actual words is devastating.
Mother shoves me from behind the curtain, “Go on now.”
I stumble into the room.
The blue dress hangs awkwardly on my frame, too snug in the shoulders, too short at the ankles. My shoes are scuffed. My hands won’t stop shaking.
“Turn,” demands Master Prophet, not gently.
I obey.
The group of men circle me like I’m a calf being weaned.
“She’s small,” Gideon says. “But not too small.”
“She’ll grow into the role,” Master Prophet answers. “Her voice will soften with obedience. Her inner light is strong, but unshaped. This is the husband’s duty.”
Gideon’s eyes move down my arms, to my hands.
“She’s a worker,” he speaks to the other men as though I’m not there. “Good hips. Hands like a farmer’s daughter. She’ll carry.”
My skin goes cold. I fix my gaze on the wall above the Prophet’s head, willing myself not to cry.
