The way his hand brushed my cheek, my throat, tracing as if he were reading something written there. The heat of his body near mine. The memory unfurls, dangerously so. The slow drag of his fingers along my throat, my collarbone, the inside of my wrist. The way my body hadanswered before my mind could speak. The hush of his voice near my ear. The ache that had bloomed low and molten, spreading through me until I could no longer tell where fear ended and want began.
My heart beats faster beneath the blanket.
I press my lips together, confused by the softness of it, by the way it rises in me even now, threading itself through fear and anger alike. Mama’s fury. The priest’s command. Neaga’s bowed head. They tangle with the memory of fingers at my waist, of a voice low against my ear, and I cannot separate one from the other.
If that was darkness, why did it feel like being seen?
If this is light, why does it bruise?
My eyes close as if that might banish the thought, but it lingers. The ache in my chest swells and then dulls, swells and dulls again, until exhaustion begins to press its weight over everything.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, when the edges of the world begin to blur and thought loosens its hold, I think I hear it.
Do not hide from the light because they try to shun you away from it.
The words brush against my thoughts like breath at my ear.
You were not made to shrink.
My pulse stirs weakly in answer, but I am too tired to open my eyes. The dark deepens, and sleep claims me before I can decide whether the voice is memory, dream, or something waiting just beyond the walls of this house.
Chapter Eleven
I wake before the light has fully broken, the air still blue and thin with morning. For a moment I do not remember where I am. Then the ache in my cheek returns, and the memory of yesterday settles over me, my body feeling heavier than sleep should allow.
I climb down from the loft without waking Elena. The air is cold near the floor. The embers in the hearth are faint but alive, breathing red beneath ash. I kneel before the cross nailed between the beams, fold my hands, and begin.
"Lord Almighty, cleanse me of pride. Cleanse me of deceit."
I speak of obedience. Of cleansing. Of guarding the tongue from falsehood and the heart from pride. I ask forgiveness for speaking out of turn. I ask that no harm fall upon this house because of me.
The sounds leave my mouth. They do not settle anywhere.
I search for the weight that usually follows—the press of guilt easing, the small warmth that comes when I believe I have been heard. Instead, I find only the crackle of cooling embers and the faint draft along the floor. The words hover and dissolve, like breath against glass.
"Strip me of desire," I try again, slower this time.
Behind me, I hear movement. The soft rustle of wool. The creak of boards. Mama rises. Elena soon after. Neither speaks to me.
I continue my prayers, my voice low and steady, as though I do not notice. Water is poured into a cup. Cloth moves. The quiet morning sounds unfold around me while I remain kneeling, repeating the final lines of repentance. When I finish, I remain kneeling for a moment longer than necessary, waiting for something to answer me.
Nothing comes.
Mama is seated at the table, her back straight, her hands folded around a cup Elena has just filled. Elena stands beside her, leaning slightly as she adjusts the pitcher back onto its hook. The light from the doorway touches her hair.
She has tied it back. With one of my ribbons.
I recognize the frayed edge I mended last winter, the particular shade of yellow that never quite matched my other ribbons. It loops neatlyat the nape of her neck, holding the strands in place as if it has always belonged there.
For a moment, I simply stare. Mama reaches for the cup Elena has given her. Their hands brush lightly. They do not notice me watching.
The room feels strangely distant, as though I am standing just outside it, observing from a place slightly removed from my own skin. The morning light grows stronger, filling the space between them, illuminating the table, the cup, the ribbon as the day begins without me.
I cross the room and take my place at the table without a word. The sound of chewing, of clay cups set down too carefully, fills the space where speech should be. Mama eats slowly, as though nothing in the world has shifted. Elena passes the bread without meeting my eyes, the ribbon gleaming faintly each time she tilts her head while I chew and swallow without tasting.
When the bread is gone and the cups are emptied, Mama folds her hands on the table.
"We will go to church." Her voice is almost eager. "We must give thanks. We must remain steadfast." Elena nods, and I do too.
