I scowl at her, setting my saucer down on the table between us. “It’s not naive to believe what my husband says. I would never question the strength of the Brotherhood.”
Her smirk falters, knowing that I’ve basically just accused her of treason. “Nor is it naive to understand that there is a whole other world out there beyond these borders.” She stands, towering over me and forcing me to lift my head to keep eye contact. “The Rebels are real. Anyone who says otherwise is living in a fantasy world.”
Before I can respond, she turns on her heel and stalks out of the room with her friend close behind. Hushed conversations erupt among the wives, like a hungry pack of hyenas attacking an abandoned carcass. I lean back, thinking through Sister Robert’s outburst. She’s always been bold, always known how to push my buttons, but she’s never spoken so seditiously. If anyone reported her behavior, her punishment would be severe.
Sister Thomas sits next to me and bumps my shoulder with hers, pulling me out of my thoughts. “You okay?”
I smile weakly. “Fine. You know her, always a bother.”
My friend bites her lip, dropping her voice to a whisper. “What if she’s right?”
My mouth pops open and I whisper back, “Sister!”
“We’ve all heard the rumors. And—” she cuts herself off, hesitating.
My curiosity gets the better of me. “What?”
She scoots closer to me, keeping her voice low. “I overheard Thomas talking about it the other day. The lords are worried.”
My eyes widen. “Worried about what?”
“Apparently, the rebels have set up camp on the abandoned islands off the coast, but they keep hopping around, which makes it hard for us to track them. But their numbers are growing, and there’s even been talk of spies within our ranks.”
I shake my head, refusing to let mere rumors worry me. “Sounds like a load of rubbish to me.”
Sister Thomas smiles, but there’s a sadness behind her eyes that I can’t decipher. “You’re probably right.” She stands, placing a hand on her rounded abdomen. “You’ll forgive me if I leave early? I’m afraid I’m feeling rather tired.”
I stand and hug her, ignoring the strange sensation in my gut. “Of course, sister. Get some rest.”
I watch her retreating form before excusing myself, knowing I won’t be missed. Sister Robert gave the wives plenty to discuss, and the lords will be up late into the night smoking cigars and talking business.
I make my way up to my room, stripping quickly out of the formal attire and getting in the shower. The hot water washes away the stress of the day—as it always does—but even as I dress in my nightgown and get into bed, I can’t stop thinking about what both sisters said.
Ifthe Rebels are real, who are they, and what do they want?
Delilah
13 Years Ago
“Females are to be trained for wifehood from the age of ten until menarche.”— TREATMENT OF FEMALES, N.A.L. 3 § 15
The bus stops in front of a set of iron gates just as the sun starts to rise. Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep. According to my mother, I’ve never been able to sleep in vehicles—even as a baby—which made road trips unbearable. But now, I’m grateful since it gives me a rough idea of where we are, or at least how far away from home we are. It’s been at least an hour since we got off the main roads, all of which were being patrolled by groups of men in the same uniforms as those who came last night. With my limited knowledge of geography, I would guess we’re somewhere near the ocean. The forest around us is lush and green, with that distinct coastal smell carried on the wind.
The gates—guarded by two heavily armed and masked men—swing open, and the tires crunch along the gravel road that leads up to a gothic-looking church. The brakes squeak as the bus rolls to a stop atthe front of the cathedral, and we all squirm restlessly as we await instruction.
The driver puts the bus in park and opens the door, looking back at us expectantly. “What are you waiting for?” When no one moves, he stands and yells, “Get thefuckoff the bus!”
We all scramble, tripping over each other as we exit as quickly as possible. An older woman stands at the entrance of the church, dressed in a dark gray dress that extends from the bottom of her chin all the way down to her ankles. Her hair is pulled back in a bun so tight I wonder if she has a headache, and her facial features make me think she’s spent much more time frowning than smiling.
She dips her chin at the driver. “Brother.”
“Mistress,” he greets her coolly.
Her keen eyes roam over all the girls. “How many are there?”
“Twenty-eight. But more buses are coming.” His tone is impatient even with her, a woman who seems to be of importance.
“Thank you, brother.” She turns her attention to us as he gets back on the bus and drives away. Her gaze is scrutinizing, and I can’t help but stand up straighter as she surveys us. “This way.”
