Page 45 of Sinister

I open my mouth to argue but stop. Because he’s right. From the beginning, the church has done nothing but try to stifle me. My thoughts. My questions. My voice.

“Then tell me,” I say. “Tell me who you really are.”

“Is it a name you want, Petra? Or is it something more?”

“We can start with a name,” I say quietly.

He tilts his head, seemingly considering the request.

“You know mine, and I never even told it to you,” I add.

A thoughtful hum leaves his lips. “Perhaps I’ll tell you. Quid pro quo—you give me something, and I’ll give you my name.”

I frown. “You already know everything about me. What more could I possibly give?”

“Oh, there’s one thing,” he says with a sly smile. “I want to see you.”

My breath catches. “What?”

“Your veil. Take it off, and I’ll give you my name.”

“That . . . I can’t,” I whisper, shaking my head.

“Why not? Because your church says so?”

“If anyone found out,” I murmur, “I’d be . . .”

“Excommunicated?” he finishes the sentence, almost as though he’d welcome the thought.

“No. Not just that. I’d be . . . hurt. Again.”

His expression darkens. “I would never let that happen. Not again. You have my vow.”

“You can’t stop them,” I protest. “You can’t be everywhere. You can’t protect me all hours of the day⁠—”

“Shh.” He places a finger gently over my lips. Even with the veil between us, the gesture silences me. “It’s just you and me here. No church. No university. No family. No townspeople calling me a demon. Just you and me. And I want to see you. The real you. And then—I’ll show you who I am.”

I stare at him, frozen. Do I dare? Do I commit the ultimate transgression: remove my veil before a man I barely know? My fingers twitch with the temptation. But my mind reels with all the teachings pressed into me since childhood.

Then, gently, his hands rise to the edge of my veil. Slowly, he lifts it.

He pauses when the fabric rests just beneath my chin.

“Show me, Petra,” he murmurs. “It’s your choice. Show me who you are—and I will show you who I am.”

For what feels like forever, I stand frozen, debating. Should I show him my face? The thought churns in my mind like a storm. The longer the silence stretches, the more I realize this is dangerous. He is a stranger. Why would I risk everything—my safety, my place in this world—for someone I barely know?

I press my hands to his chest and shove him away.

His eyes widen in surprise, his expression briefly raw. But then it vanishes, replaced by a tight, unreadable mask.

“Perhaps I was wrong about you,” he murmurs.

“Perhaps you were,” I reply. “I don’t owe you anything. If you truly want me to know you, then you’ll reveal yourself freely. No games. No expectations. Until then, I shouldn’t even entertain your presence.”

I turn my back and start walking toward the main square. I’ve already lingered too long. Mrs. Jenkins is likely searching for me. The others must be wondering where I’ve gone. Trouble may already be brewing.

Step after step, I move forward. He doesn’t follow.