I look up into his eyes. They are the green of a pasture after a July rain. He looks at me in a way I have never been looked at before. Not as an object to be corrected. Not as a vessel to be cleansed. As a…person.
I lift my hand and place it in his.
His fingers close around mine, and the warmth of his palm is a shockwave that travels up my arm and flutters in my chest.
He draws me forward a step until I am standing beside him, in front of Father, in front of the whipping post, and in front of the Flock. The whip hangs from Brother Eli’s hand at his side. The leather cuffs swing empty on the iron rings.
Father raises his hands and the Flock responds. Everyone bows their head.
“Children,” he says, “we are gathered this day in joy.”
The words he speaks next are the same words I have heard him speak over Sister Faith’s wedding, and Sister Mary’s, and Sister Esther’s before she disappeared. I know the rhythm the way I know the Lord’s Prayer. Do you come before the Lord this day—do you pledge your flesh and your spirit—do you submit to your husband devout in your faith and fearful of the wrath of God.
I do not hear most of it. I am standing barefoot in the dirt, and although the stranger’s hand is warm, I shiver. My teeth knock together hard enough that my jaw aches.
Father’s pale eyes find mine. His smile is vicious. Under the smile is the look I saw when Ruth stepped forward.
“Do you, Prudence, take this man.”
My mouth opens.
Something is supposed to come out. I have not decided what. I have not decided anything. My mind is a blur and my body is shaking so hard that the stranger’s hand has moved to my back to hold me up.
“I-I do.”
The words emerge from my lips in a voice I barely recognize. But I have said it and I cannot take it back.
Father’s jaw ticks. He turns to the stranger.
“Do you, Ronan O’Rourke, take this woman.”
“I do.”
No hesitation, but flat as a table.
“Then by the authority vested in me by the Lord our God, I pronounce you husband and wife.”
And before I have fully understood what is happening, I am married.
The Flock is silent.
I am not sure what to do now. But before I can gather my bearings, Father is there, leaning in. I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek.
Under the pretense of offering his blessing, his hand lands on my shoulder and his mouth nearly touches my ear. His voice is so soft that only I can hear him.
“This changes nothing. When he tires of you, you will come home. And when you do, the whipping post will look like a mercy.”
My blood chills to ice water.
Mr. O’Rourke feels me stiffen. I see his eyes flick to Father, narrow for the briefest quarter-second, then smooth again into stoic calm.
“Let’s go,” he murmurs.
His hand finds mine again. He draws me away from Father, away from the post, away from the bowed heads of the Flock and Brother Eli with the whip dangling from his hand, and Housemother Ruth who will be paying for her insolence with her own flesh tonight.
As I walk beside him across the grass in bare feet, Father’s chillingly taunting whisper remains in my ears.
Chapter 4
