The Prophet is the reason why I’ll never get to hug my sister again. He laughs in my mind, but I don’t feel his pull anymore, not when Georgia is shining brighter than a moonbeam in my memory.
Agony washes over me as I relive her loss, the funeral, the way she’d been tortured. I can barely push the words past my lips. “What happened to her?”
Chastity sits up and pulls me back to my knees until we’re both ‘praying’ at the bedside. She doesn’t look at the camera in the vent, but I know she’s thinking about it. Just like I am.
I bow my head, letting the sting of loss hit me all over like a swarm of bees. My memory flickers—the Prophet staring down at me as I strip and spread my legs, offering myself to him. Bile rises in my throat, but I have no food to offer. I dry heave as Chastity remains still beside me.
“I very much want the gift you’re offering, sweet Delilah.” His gaze rests between my thighs. “But you can serve me better as a pure angel of the Prophet.”
My stomach churns, but I clasp my hands together with a death grip and rest my sweaty forehead onto them.
Chastity leans closer. “It’s the drugs. They build up in your system, especially if you take them every day. They form sort of a … spider’s web in your mind. You get trapped in it.”
“You’ve been trapped?”
“I was when I was a Maiden. The weekly LSD is enough to start the threads. They grow stronger each time you eat the poisoned fruit. And then you’re caught.”
I wipe my eyes. “What happened to Georgia?”
“We don’t know.”
“We?”
She bites her lip, then winces. “We’ll talk more later. I’m already going to be questioned about the video in here.”
“Don’t go.”
She presses her shoulder into mine. “Stay strong.” When she rises, I force myself to stay put even though I want to run after her and demand she tell me everything she knows about Georgia.
When she opens the door, I hear Grace’s sharp voice. “I was just about to check in on you. You know you aren’t supposed to be alone with the Maidens anymore.”
“I know. My apologies. I just wanted to make sure she had everything she needed to resume training.”
I don’t turn around, just continue praying.
“She’s fine. Go to the kitchen. You’re on cook duty until I say otherwise.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And you.” The Head Spinner’s voice curls around my heart like barbed wire. “Just because the Prophet is giving you another chance doesn’t mean I will. Step out of line one more time, and you’ll find yourself back at the Rectory with no visits, no food, and no water except for that drip of water you love so much.”
I jump as she slams my door shut, but even her threats can’t stop the whirring in my brain. Chastity’s information is just the kindling I need to keep going, to keep trying, and to finally get justice for Georgia. The Prophet broke me. I can’t lie to myself and claim I stayed strong through the torture and the drugs. But Georgia has always been the thread that pulls me forward, the one touchstone that is always true. For once in my life, I actually bow my head in prayer and send a request so full of vengeance and retribution that I have no doubt heaven redirects it to a far hotter place.
I eat lunch with the others, though several of them assiduously avoid catching my gaze. Susannah, Eve, and Hannah all sit at separate tables, and I don’t dare take a seat near any of them. I eat my small portion of vegetables and some sort of chewy meat alone. Every time the dining hall door opens, I look up in hopes of seeing Sarah. But it’s never her.
Chastity works in the kitchen, but I only catch glimpses of her through the pass-through window. She keeps her head down, and I can’t talk to her now, anyway. A million questions burn inside me like dust from an exploding star. None of them will be answered, at least not today.
I’m relieved to find that, instead of training, we’re doing TV time for the afternoon. I settle into my usual chair, though now it feels enormous. My body—once soft and with a few curves—is now waifish and weak. We all look like hell, but I suspect I appear worse than most. Physical and mental torture can do that to a person.
“Serve me, my precious one,” the Prophet whispers. I clench my eyes shut and block out his voice. It’s not real. Nothing he promised me is real. His whisper fades, and I can breathe again.
The door at the back of the room opens, and I wait for Abigail to tinker the projector on. Instead, Miriam Williams, the First Lady of Alabama, walks to the front of the room, her cream dress demure. She smiles, her perfect blonde hair and white teeth reminiscent of a skeletal doll—or am I imagining it?