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Rope holds my wrists together behind the pole, and a second loop crosses my middle and pulls my back hard against the wood. I can turn my head, at least. My fingers have gone icy cold. Every time I pull at the bindings, all I manage is to hurt myself.

Everyone is watching. The House of Voices is full. The seats, the aisles, and the boxes dressed as chapels hold people standing shoulder to shoulder. There are men, women, and children. The whole of Nivallia is here.

I see the children, small faces turned up toward the stage, and I see their mothers holding them close against their skirts. I can’t make sense of it. Who brings a child to see a woman tied to a pole? Who brings a child to watch what Callum has promised to give them?

The faces I can read hold wonder. Some hold uncertainty, others plain confusion, but not one holds the intention to stop this, or even the thought that what is going on here is wrong. No one comes toward the stage. No one shouts at Callum to cut me loose. They look at me the same way they looked at me in the streets through the carriage window. I thought then that it was kindness.

I don’t understand these people. I thought I did. I thought they were frightened, sick, and desperate, and they are, but I never thought they could be this lost to their suffering.

I’ve suffered before. I didn’t take it out on anyone.

They made a god out of a voice in the dark, and they’ve come with their children to see what he’ll do.

Mordred never asked for any of it. He sang because the plague was killing them, then he kept singing because they got weak when he stopped. This is what came of it. Every person in this room should be dead. Instead, they’re here, gray in the face and leaning on each other, waiting for him.

They all look bad. Men have their backs bent as if under a terrible weight. Women sway where they stand. An old man in the second row holds the back of the seat in front of him with both hands as if he’d collapse if he let go. Even the children look like they haven’t slept in days.

Callum stands a step ahead of me, to my left, turned so that the crowd and I can see his face. He’s worse than a month ago. He’s lost weight, his robes hang wrong on him, and the skin under his eyes is bruised. His hands shake, and he isn’t hiding it anymore; I don’t think he can. The many rings clink on his fingers when the shaking gets bad. He lifts his hands toward the crowd anyway.

He speaks, and his mouth moves slowly, the way it always did for me, though I don’t think he’s doing it for me now. I think this is how he speaks when he prays.

“Your suffering will end soon,” he tells them. “You’ve been patient. You’ve been faithful. Your beloved god will sing for you.”

The faces in the front rows show a sliver of relief. Every one of them wants what he’s just promised.

“He hears us,” Callum says. “He’s always heard us. He’s waiting for us to give him what he asks. We have brought him his bride again, and this time we won’t fail him.”

He looks down at the collapsed orchestra pit when he says it, and his whole body bends toward it. I’ve watched people pray before. I’ve never watched a man pray with his hands shaking so hard the chains on his robe move.

I turn my head as far as the rope allows.

“I want to speak,” I say. “I have something to say to them.”

I’ve said it too loud. I realize this when the people nearest to the stage flinch. Callum turns to me and takes me in. He isn’t afraid of anything I could say. He motions toward the crowd with one trembling hand, palm open, letting me speak. He thinks I’m going to help him.

I face them. I’m a singer, this is a stage, and I know how far a voice has to travel to reach the last row of a house this size. I set my feet on the boards and push the sound from my belly the way I was taught. I can’t hear it, but I can feel it in my chest and in my throat. I know it’s loud enough.

“You’re wrong,” I say. “The Cantor won’t sing. He won’t sing for you ever again.”

They all go still.

“That’s all right,” I tell them. “You’ll heal. You’ll all heal soon, without his help.”

The whole house moves at the same time. I don’t hear it, but I see it. They shout over each other, rise out of their seats, arms come up as they gesture wildly. Women pull their children in tighter. The old man in the second row lets go of the seat and points at me. His lips are moving too fast for me to read them.

Callum lets it go on for a few minutes, then he raises his hands, and that calms them down. He turns to me so I can see his mouth.

“He healed you,” he says.

I purse my lips and don’t say anything.

“Look at her face,” he addresses the audience. “You saw her when she arrived. You saw the burns on her face. They’re gone. Our god sang for her. He healed her.” He looks back at me. “If he sang for you, he’ll sing for us. We’ve been devoted to him all our lives. You barely know him. He’ll sing for the people who love him.”

“He isn’t a god,” I say, loud, to all of them. “He’s an ancient monster. His power is in his song. That’s all it is.” I look at Callum. “And if he sings for you again, it’ll be worse than it is now.”

“You look fine,” Callum says.

“I’m fine because I’m deaf. I couldn’t hear his healing song, so it didn’t affect me.”