Page 22 of Sinister

Footsteps echo through the church. Startled, I scramble to my feet. My breath catches. Is it the reverend, checking on my progress? Or worse—my father, telling me my work isn’t good enough, ordering me to start over?

I brace myself as a shadowed figure moves down the aisle.

But it is neither.

The sight of a stranger unsettles me. Quickly, I pull my veil into place, ensuring my face is covered. “Who’s there?” I call from behind the podium.

A man steps into view. His suit is immaculate—far too fine for someone from our congregation. The fabric is crisp, untouched by wear. My religion preaches humility; even those with wealth must wear their clothes until they are threadbare. This man does not belong here.

I instinctively step back. “Who are you? Why are you here? It’s dark outside. No one comes to the church at this hour.”

No response. My pulse quickens. I dare to peek over the reverend’s stand, trying to see him more clearly.

And then I do.

He stands in the middle of the church, staring at me.

His eyes—light blue, piercing even in the dim lighting—are unmistakable.

I know those eyes.

I press my lips together. I have seen them before. And the last time I did, it led to the worst punishment I have ever endured.

“Why are you here?” I demand sharply.

The corner of his lips lifts slightly as he studies me, his gaze sweeping over my disheveled appearance, my stained gown. Then his eyes shift, locking onto my veil as if his gaze could burn through it.

“Hello, Petra.”

“Please leave,” I tell him. “You’re not allowed to be here.”

He steps forward and casually takes a seat on the front bench, leaning back and resting his hand against his temple. All the while, his eyes stay locked on me.

“I’m not allowed here because?”

“You do not belong to our congregation. Outsiders are not allowed here,” I repeat, steeling myself, though I can feel my heart racing. Is it terror? Yes, that must be it. If I am found alone with a man inside the church, a beating would be the least of my punishments.

He will kill me.

“Please,” I say again, my voice breaking.

He frowns. “What if I want to be part of your congregation? What would I need to do to join?”

I stammer, “You . . . you cannot.”

“And why is that? Shouldn’t people of God welcome the curious with open arms?”

“Curious?” I scoff at the word. He’s called me that before. And look what curiosity has brought me.

“Yes, curious,” he repeats with a small smile. “I am curious about this religion of yours.”

“You are no more curious about my religion than I am the Queen of England,” I tell him sternly.

He chuckles. “Why wouldn’t I be? Is it not an interesting place?”

“No, it is not. And you are not curious. You are here to mock me, aren’t you?”

“Mock you?” At this, he seems offended. “Why would I mock you?”