“I’m sorry.” The apology is rusty coming from me. But I mean it all the same.
“Sorry?” She gives me an incredulous stare. “You sent me there! You could have let me go. You could have let all of us go. You can end this right now!”
“Keep your voice down.” I grip her forearms. “And I can’t end this, not now. There are so many things you don’t know—”
“I’m well aware that I’m in the dark.”
“And you’re going to have to stay that way, I’m afraid.” I can’t tell her my plans, the things I want for her—for us.
“Get out.” She tries to pull her arms free, but can’t. “Please just leave.”
She’s closed off again, nothing getting through her armor. I lean close to her ear. “Check under your pillow, little lamb. But don’t let them see.” I rise and stride to the door, leaving her room without looking back. Each step away from her is a new scar across my soul, but she needs to recover. And I only have two days to finish preparations for the Winter Solstice.
The Spinners drop their chins in deference as I tear through the hallways until I come to Grace’s door. It swings open. She’s been watching me from the moment I set foot in The Cloister. Bitch.
“To what do I owe this little visit?” She perches on the edge of her desk as I sink into one of her too-plush leather chairs.
“Are you going to hold up your end for the Solstice?”
“Of course.” She runs her fingers along a silver necklace sitting on the edge of her desk. “My Maidens will fall in line. I’ve been in constant communication with the Chapel. They’re ready. What about you?” Her eyes narrow. “Do you have your end straight?”
I nod. “Bonfire, entertainment, sacrifice.”
Her eyes dance at that last word. I want to pity the creature she’s become, but I can’t bring myself to pardon her for any of her sins. She’s a jagged piece of filth, just like me. And to forgive her would be hollow, empty like we are. What she’s done is beyond grace. I would laugh at the irony, but nothing can make me smile. Nothing except Delilah.
“Have you changed your mind about what I said last time?” She begins to lift her skirt.
“Knock it off.” I hold her gaze.
Her perfect pout forms as she drops the fabric. “Still mad?”
“Stop terrorizing Delilah.” I take an ounce of joy when she winces.
“She’s my Maiden. The Prophet has given me leave to do what—”
“If I find another bruise, break, or so much as a scratch on her, I’ll be back here for you.”
“Is that supposed to be a threat?” She bats her lashes.
“Do you know the spot on the river about half an acre from where Faith is buried?” Just saying her name opens a wound that never truly stopped bleeding. But this needs to be done, and I have to do it now.
She blanches and walks around her desk, foolishly believing that a chunk of mahogany can protect her from me. “Why are you saying this?”
“Because that’s the spot where I will drown you. I’ve thought about that deep water so many times.” I stare at her, seeing every bit of her twisted heart and broken soul. “The rocks there are smooth, did you know? The water has cleared off their rough edges over time. So, when I step into that dark pool, I’ll do it barefoot, feeling those round rocks beneath my toes. You’ll be thrashing, screaming, begging. Your dress will soak with water. It’s so cold there under the oak trees, even in the summer, the water will give you a chill.” She crosses her arms as I stand and walk over to her, continuing, “You’ll keep running your lying mouth, just like you always do, and I’ll shove you under the surface. And then?” I lean down and grab her chin, squeezing it hard. “Blissful silence. I’ll leave your body there. No one will find you. I’ll forget about you, and before long you’ll be food for fish, raccoons, coyotes. And then you’ll just be gone.” I smile down at her, her eyes wide and her mouth slack.
“Adam,” she whispers, her eyes watering.
Her tears don’t affect me, not anymore. I hope she sheds enough to drown herself.
“Don’t. Touch. Delilah.” Releasing her, I turn and stride out the door.
Chapter 7
Delilah
Sunday church service starts with a choir of children on the stage in front of me. Boys and girls in all white with glittery haloes made from silver garlands hovering above their crowns. Most of them are barely past toddler age, none of them over five, and they sing about Christmas in a disjointed, cute fashion.
I smile at them from beneath my veil, even though I’m tired. The food Adam slipped me the night before had gone a long way toward putting me to rights, but I’m still worn thin. I look forward to afternoon prayers in my room, where I can nap instead of telling God how great the Prophet is.