This isn’t the first time I’ve overheard my friends call me a fairy-tale princess. Because I love them, and I know they love me, I know this isn’t a criticism. I know what they mean when they call me that. They mean that I’m pretty and quiet and a little sad.
That last part is important, even if they don’t realize it. Calling someone a fairy-tale princess is probably meant to be a compliment but only if you haven’t really been paying attention to fairy tales. The princess might get her happily ever after in the end, but only after a lot of pain. Misunderstandings. Loss. Heartbreak.
People always talk about fairy tales like they’re these idealized fantasies. A fairy-tale romance is supposed to be one that feels too good to be true. But anyone who’s read fairy tales knows they’re bleak. Grim. Full of pain and sorrow.
A love that could overcome that is extremely rare. And it doesn’t come easy or cheap. So, of course it’s the thing everybody would wish for—a love that could bloom out of so much ugliness and endure through so many thorns.
I don’t have too much longer before I’m either discovered by the living-room group or by Grady coming up behind me with the other drinks. Still, I take just a moment to press my eyes shut and inhale deeply through my nose. That word has hounded my steps for a long time now.Innocent. It always amazes me that this is how my friends see me, when I know the truth about myself to be very far from that.
I’m not so innocent. And definitely not as naive as they all think.
Chapter 2
Nina
I’ve done some things I’m not proud of in my life.
I’ve lied to my aunt and uncle, several times. Mostly through the sin of omission, not outright fabrication, but still. A lie is a lie.The Lord detests lying lips. And yet I do it so frequently. Here are just some of the things I’ve lied about:
Sometimes I crave sugar so bad that I sneak into the pantry when everyone else is asleep and take a handful of sugar cubes to bring up to my room. I don’t do it too often, but whenever I do, I don’t write about it in my weekly food journal. (Gluttony.)
I keep a stash of fashion magazines in my room. They’re usually just the old ones that the library would otherwise throw away. Helen saves some for me, and I slip them into my piano sheet music so Aunt Hope won’t see me bringing them into the house. I like to look at the way the clothes are made and try to figure out what pattern I would use or what type of material something is made of. (Worldliness.)
I keep leftover scraps from the clothes I make for my family and practice making some of the outfits I see in my magazines. They always turn out strange because the fabric is mishmashed and not quite right, but sometimes, I’m proud of how well they look. (Pride.) I daydream about sequins and fabric and thread the way Harmony dreams about makeup. (Envy. Greed.)
It irritates me that Aunt Hope changed her name from Esperanza to be more white passing. I hate that she dyes her hair a lighter brown and uses special creams so her skin won’t get as tan. I hate it even more that Uncle Aaron still always uses her as his example of how the Lord lovesallpeople, even if they committed “the terrible sin of being born brown.” He’s never said that in so many words, of course, but sometimes I feel like that’s the underlying truth no one is saying out loud. I hate that I think that way, and I hate that I can’t stop. (Judge not, lest ye shall be judged.)
I stained the carpet once with cranberry juice and blamed it on Isaiah, when he was still too young to speak up for himself. (Dishonesty.)
I don’t defend my aunt and uncle to my friends because sometimes I agree with them. Sometimes I think my aunt and uncle are too overbearing. Sometimes I resent all the rules they make me follow and all the things I’ve had to give up to make them happy. (Ingratitude.)
This last one might be one of my worst sins, because deep down I know my uncle and aunt are right to treat me the way they do. I’m a sinful person. My judgment might seem right to me, but I’ve made mistakes before—big mistakes. Mistakes that will follow me for the rest of my life.
So even though I chafe against my uncle’s rules, even though I sometimes wish I could live a normal life, I know this is what’s best. I’ve stumbled too many times to be left on my own.
I’m not someone whose judgment can be trusted.
I’m going to tell you a story now, and I’m going to tell itasa story. A fairy tale. Not because I imagine myself as being as brave or strong or resilient as any of my favorite fairy-tale characters. But because sometimes it’s easier to remember the things that have happened to me if I can think of them almost like they were happening to someone else. If I can reimagine them as the kind of tale that might have a happy ending, if someone else were writing it.
The Orphan Girl and the Thief
Part One
When the Orphan Girl was eighteen, she made the biggest mistake of her life.
She can’t talk about it. Still. Ever. That isn’t whatthisstory is about.
But it was the reason she was sent to a convent to take her vows—even though doing so would mean following the same religion that her relatives had once told her was so wicked and false. Anyone who would take her off their hands turned out to be not so very wicked after all.
The Orphan Girl was surprised to find that convent life wasn’t much of an adjustment after living in her uncle’s house. She was told to be silent. She lived a life of prayer and scripture study and service. The nuns called her by her new religious name given to her as a postulant, Agnes, which also wasn’t so different, since she was used to being whatever someone else wanted her to be.
About six months into the Orphan Girl’s postulancy, Sister Theresa recruited her, along with a few nuns and a handful of other postulants and novices, to serve at the local prison, ministering to anyone who was seeking Christ through Bible study and prayer.
That was where she met the Thief.
The Orphan Girl didn’t notice the Thief at first. She tried not to look too closely at any of the men during worship. It wasn’t because they were prisoners—after all, Christ had said to do good to those who wereeven the least of these my brethren.
It was because they weremen. The Orphan Girl had a hard time trusting men. There were also too many memories of Uncle Aaron, keeping the family under his thumb. They could never challenge him, they could never raise their voices to him.
