“What is it?” Claire asked, reaching to touch Mirela’s thigh with the back of her hand. She didn’t want her to pull back like she did last time.
Finally, Mirela spoke, her voice low. “You asked before, about my scars.”
Claire’s expression softened. “You don’t have to—“
“I do,” Mirela whispered. Her voice trembled. “He saved me. Or at least, that is what he says.”
“Who?”
“Master Ferron.” The name came out like poison. “He said that he found me when the fire took the orphanage. I don’t remember much. I do remember pain,” she paused. Her fingers brushed the side of her face, tracing the uneven skin. “And after that pain, I opened my eyes, and there he was. He said God had spared me through him. That I owed my life to his mercy.”
Claire pulled her hand back and frowned, straightening her back. “That’s not how it works—“
“He tells me I must stay here. That it is safer this way.”
Claire’s throat tightened. “He keeps you here? As in, obligates you to remain?”
“For my safety,” Mirela said quickly. “He is the only one that can defend me. He brings me food. He taught me the bells. He—“
“He controls you.” Claire’s voice cracked like a whisper breaking. “He locks you away and calls it mercy. That’s not kindness, Mirela. That’s cruelty. Why would he keep you locked away?”
“Again, Claire. It is all for my safety. The world is cruel and—“
“Youthink people will hurt you just because of this?” Claire moved closer, her hand on Mirela’s arms, squeezing her there. The unevenness of her skin was pushed to the back of her mind as she soaked in her body’s warmth. “You are not something to be hidden, Mirela. He shouldn’t keep you away like some secret—“
Mirela’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. “You don’t know him!”
Claire’s tone softened, but her words stayed firm. “Of course, I don’t. But I do know what it means when someone calls captivity protection,” she said. “I know what it’s like to be told your cage is for your own good.”
Mirela flinched. “You think you understand, but you don’t,” she said sharply, standing. Her hands trembled. “He saved me when no one else would.”
“And how do you know if someone would or would not? Why wouldn’t anyone save you, Mirela?”
“I am not worthy of it.”
“Says who?” Claire almost snarled. “Ferron? You are worthy of all the things that you want. He has no say in it, regardless of whether he “saved” you.”
Mirela turned away, her shoulders tense, her fists clenched. “You should leave.”
Claire pressed her hands to her face in frustration and groaned. “Mirela, please!”
“You don’t know what you are talking about and you come in here as if you have it all figured out. Leave.”
The air between them felt colder suddenly, like the church itself disapproved.
Claire swallowed hard. “I only meant—“ She hesitated, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. “There’s so much beyond these walls. I’ve seen it! You could see the river, the markets, the sunrise from the bridges. You could live.”
“I do live,” Mirela said bitterly.
“Like a prisoner.”
Mirela’s head turned sharply, her voice breaking. “That makes two of us.”
The words landed painfully true. Claire froze, stunned. For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then she nodded slowly, forcing herself to move before her tears betrayed her. She spoke of freedom as if she was enjoying it. Then again, she could sneak out…but what would happen if she were found out? What would happen when she was thrown back into her parents’ care?
Claire stood abruptly and turned toward the doors. The hinges groaned as she pushed them open, and a cold gust swept in, carrying the night air through the empty church.
“Good night, Mirela,” she whispered, though she doubted she was heard. The doors closed behind her with a hollow echo that followed her all the waydown the steps.
