Blessed is the daughter who bends.
A small sound escapes me. It is not a sob, exactly, but I press both hands over my mouth and shove it down.
The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. I shall not want. I shall not?—
The door opens.
I flinch so hard I hit my skull on the low beam above me. A familiar skirt, long and dull, comes into view. Housemother Ruth.
I try to rise, but my legs have forgotten what they are for, and I stagger into the wall before I find them.
“Prudence.”
Housemother Ruth crouches. Her face is carved out of years of wind and hard work, and her mouth is a line I have never seen soften. But her eyes, when they land on mine now, are almost merciful.
“It’s time, child,” she says.
I try to speak. My tongue is a dry leaf. I swallow and try again. “Housemother?—”
“Listen to me.” She reaches in and takes my wrist. Her grip is strong, but it is gentle, and both things hurt in different ways. “You listen to me now, and you listen closely.”
I nod.
“Do not struggle.” Her voice drops so low I have to lean toward it. “Do not flinch, and do not cry out. Count them if you must. Do not give Father a reason to add more. Do you understand me, Prudence?”
“Yes, Housemother.”
“Remain stoic.” Her thumb presses once against the bone of my wrist, hard enough to bruise, and for a moment I think she might say something more.
Instead, she pulls me out of the Reflection Room.
Outside, I stagger, blinking at a sky so bright it might as well be a blade.
Two shapes block the sun. Brother Caleb and Brother Josiah. Neither of them look at my face. Brother Caleb clasps one of my arms and Brother Josiah takes the other.
Beyond them, in the clearing by the chapel, I can see the whipping post where a few members of the Flock are already gathered.
Blessed is the daughter who bends.
Chapter 2
Ronan
The dirt road hasn’t been graded since the last ice age, and every rut punishes my suspension.
I grip the wheel tighter, navigating the Audi around a pothole deep enough to swallow a small dog, and wonder—not for the first time—why I didn’t send someone else for this. Anyone else. A lawyer would work. An accountant, even. Some junior associate.
But I know why. This relationship requires a “light touch,” and I’m the family diplomat. The charmer who makes people forget they’re dealing with the Irish mob until the contract is already signed and the ink is dry.
Fences appear on either side of the road—weathered wood, hand-split, running in long lines toward a cluster of buildings that look transplanted from another century.
The Enclave—that’s what the occupants call this plot of two hundred acres of isolated farmland leased from the O’Rourke family for twenty-two years. They call themselves the Flock and call their leader Father.
I call them a bunch of cult-like freaks led by a narcissist with sociopathic leanings.
But, whatever. It’s a free country. If a person wants to stand on their head and fart scripture out their ass, they’re free to do so. Not that these freaks do that. I don’t think. Honestly, I don’t know. The whole community gives me the creeps, though.
But the arrangement is profitable for the O’Rourke family.
