Page 18 of Sinister

“What are you, some new age puritans?” A lot of people are known to call us that, though we reject the appellation. The official name of the Church is the Reformationist Church of Christ and Saints. Puritans, a branch of Protestantism, do not recognize saints. Our religion is derived from Catholicism, or The True Doctrine.

“Fanatic freaks,” another crowd favorite. Unfortunately, we are a rather boring group, hence the strict rules.

“They keep their women on a tighter leash than dogs.” Now that one is downright offensive. My community might have many faults, but treating animals badly is not one of them. They have souls, like people, and deserve the same type of respect. If only that extended to women too . . .

“My apologies. You may have it,” the man says in a low, gravelly voice. He presses the book toward me.

I shake my head, my fingers curling tighter against the folds of my dress.

“I can’t,” I say, barely above a whisper. My voice is steady, yet I feel my resolve waver as I look at the book he holds out to me.

His brow furrows slightly, the only sign of disappointment.

“Then I might as well have it,” he says casually, tucking it under his arm. He isn’t mocking me; I know that much. He is simply stating the obvious: If I won’t take it, then it is his.

I exhale sharply, willing my feet to move. Disappointment floods me as I realize my little interlude in the shadows has come to an abrupt end.

But when I turn, I find myself face-to-face with him, the beautiful man.

My breath catches in my throat as my eyes trail upward, past the dark fabric of his coat, past his collarbone, his chin, until I meet his gaze. He is tall. Too tall. More than that, he is close. Too close.

And he is a man. A stranger.

My pulse drums in my ears as I take a step back, finding myself even deeper in the shadows. The store suddenly feels too small, too stifling, as if the very air has thickened around us.

I cast a careful glance toward the front counter, barely visible now through the small hole where the book had been. The other girls remain engaged in a heated argument with Mrs. Jenkins about the selection of books we are permitted to buy. No one is looking toward the back. There is no reason, after all—no one would dare go there.

The protective shield of the darkened back row should ease me.

It doesn’t.

“I’ll buy it for you,” he offers.

The words snap my attention back to him. “What?” I stare at him in shock. He might not see my expression, but the cadence of my voice should echo my surprise.

His hand moves, deliberate and unhurried, as he places the book into my gloved one. Its weight is startling, as though I have been handed something far heavier than mere pages. “If you want to read it, you should,” he encourages.

My fingers twitch against the cover, an instinctive response to something I desire yet cannot have. I push it back toward him. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

I swallow. “You know why.”

The veil covering my face and neck, the gloves covering my hands, should be answer enough—there is no part of me left uncovered. He must know what that means. Everyone else does.

A flicker of understanding passes through his expression. He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “I know, in theory,” he finally says. “But I also know you’re interested.”

“I shouldn’t be,” I say quickly.

“Why?”

I open my mouth, then close it again.

Why? What kind of question is that? The answer should be obvious. It has been given to me since childhood. I don’t even have to think about it; it is simply truth.

But standing here, with a forbidden book in my hands and a stranger’s expectant gaze fixed on me, I find that I don’t know how to answer.

He extends his hand again, calm, patient.