“I want to feel normal.”
“You are normal. You’re also married to me, which means a security detail. Non-negotiable.”
I huff—a sound I have learned from Saoirse, who huffs at Declan regularly. “Fine.”
“Order whatever you want. Don’t look at the prices.”
“Does hot chocolate count as coffee?”
He laughs—a real one, the kind that creases the skin beside his eyes and makes my pulse quicken. “Hot chocolate counts as whatever you want it to count as.”
We hang up, and I stand in the hallway gripping my phone, grinning at the dark screen like a fool. I catch my reflection in the hall mirror and pause.
The woman staring back wears a cream cashmere sweater, fitted dark jeans, and brown leather boots with a low heel. Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders—I learned to use the curling wand Nicholas left, though I burned my ear on the first attempt. Her eyes are lined with a thin stroke of brown pencil. Her lips carry a tint of rose.
Eleven days ago, this woman did not exist. I like her.
I grab the small clutch bag—phone inside—and ride the elevator down to the lobby. Thomas holds the front door open and tips his head. “Have a lovely day, Mrs. O’Rourke.”
The café is six blocks from the penthouse, and I walk every one of them with my face tipped toward the sky. The air smells of bread from a bakery I pass, of exhaust and rain-washed concrete, and something sweet from a flower cart on the corner. This air tastes like freedom.
I spot Nora and Saoirse through the café window. Nora waves, and Saoirse lifts her cup in greeting.
Inside, the menu hangs above the counter in white letters on a black board, and the sheer number of options stops me mid-stride. Espresso. Americano. Cappuccino. Flat white. Oat milk latte. Matcha. Chai. Lavender honey something.
Nora materializes beside me. “Lavender honey latte,” she says. “Trust me.”
“And a croissant.” Saoirse adds. “Buttery, flaky, and a little bit of heaven.”
We settle at a table near the window. I bite into the croissant and the layers melt on my tongue. The lavender latte is sweet and fragrant and unlike anything I have tasted.
The conversation drifts into easy territory. Nora, who is with child, talks about the nursery she is almost finished decorating. Saoirse talks about a stray cat named Hope who has taken over their brownstone. I tell them about Nicholas’s post-it notes, and about how I accidentally turned the thermostat to ninety degrees and Ronan came home to a penthouse so hot the candles on the shelf had begun to soften.
They laugh. I laugh with them. The sound of my own laughter still startles me—I have laughed more in eleven days than in the nineteen years before them.
This is what it feels like to have friends. To sit in a warm place with women who listen and share and do not judge. The Enclave did not permit friendships among the sisters. Attachment was discouraged. Preference was sinful. We ate at the same table, slept in the same dormitory, and worked the same fields, but we rarely spoke to one another.
I belong here. With these women. In this café with its lavender honey lattes and flaking croissants.
“Excuse me,” I say, pushing back from the table. “I need to use the restroom.”
I notice my security guard sitting at a table with Nora’s and Saoirse’s. I stopped feeling strange about him when I learned I am not the only one of us who is guarded. I mouth the wordrestroomto him, and he nods.
The hallway to the restroom is narrow and dimly lit. I push through the door marked with a simple silhouette and step inside.
A woman stands at the sink.
She is not washing her hands. She is waiting.
My feet glue themselves to the spot.
Her dress is oatmeal-colored, long-sleeved, high-necked. A simple cloth covering pins her hair. Her hands are clasped in front of her—left over right, the prayer hold.
Sister Amity. I know her face—the narrow chin, the deep-set eyes, the thin mouth that rarely speaks above a whisper. She is ten years older than me.
“Sister Prudence.” Her voice is soft and sweet, sculpted by years of obedience.
My blood hammers so hard it’s nearly deafening.
