Shouts of “yes” rise to another crescendo.
I squeeze my hands so tightly I fear I’ve drawn blood. But I don’t move.
The Prophet points into the crowd. “Sister, where are you going?”
I cast a look behind me. A woman stands on a side aisle, a little girl pulled close against her as Protectors and a handful of Heavenly officers close in around her. She’s far away, but I can sense her protective stance, see her backing away.
“Why do you run from the Lord’s truth?” The Prophet shakes his head and rises to his feet.
The Heavenly officers take her by the elbows, and a Spinner grabs her daughter. They are marched out of the sanctuary, and I can only imagine what will happen to them.
“Fallen women are, sadly, rampant in this world.” He turns back to his flock, a benevolent smile on his face, the fatherly nature of his words smoothing over the scene’s discomfort. “But we can save them. And we will, with God’s blessing.”
Applause. The audience actually applauds what just happened, and I feel sick. The Prophet’s words disgust me, but no one else seems to feel the hatred and misogyny seeping from him. No one except Adam. His scowl has deepened, and now he’s glaring at his father. He’s forgotten himself, let his mask of obedience slip. Relief is too vague a word for what washes over me when I see the naked hatred in Adam’s eyes.
Once the Prophet is satisfied that the crowd is onboard, he turns toward discussing the night of Christ’s birth, and the star that led the wise men to Him. It’s an empty homily after his calls for hatred of anyone outside of these walls. But Adam seems to relax as the Prophet treads less fervent ground.
I shoot a glance to my right. Sarah’s spot is empty. Her loss is a nagging rot in my gut. Why would they keep her at the Rectory for so long? I have to assume she received the same torture as I did. A shudder rushes through me as I feel the ghost tap from the ever-dripping water. I clasp my hands together so hard that my knuckles turn white and pull myself together. Sarah, I need to focus on her. Maybe Chastity can find out what’s going on?
Once the Christmas sermon ends, the Maidens rise and file out of one of the side doors. The children from the rows behind us mill around in the wide hallway, playing chase or speaking to each other in words only toddlers can understand. The Prophet sweeps down from backstage and grabs the first child he comes across, swinging the boy up and hugging him.
“And how are you today, Elias?”
The boy, no more than three, squirms and grins as the Prophet tickles him.
Adam stands at the top of the stage stairs, a silent hawk.
I can’t help but stare at the curious scene unfolding before me. The Prophet seems to genuinely care about the children. He sets Elias down, then kneels to speak to a little blonde girl, her dark eyes wide as he pulls a piece of candy from his pocket and hands it to her.
“What do you say?” a Spinner behind the girl prompts.
“Thank you.” She clutches the candy to her chest as the Prophet kisses her on the forehead. There’s a familiarity to it that stops me, and I look up at Adam. His stone countenance gives nothing away, but he’s watching me just as closely as he watches his father.
I peer down the long hallway where churchgoers are exiting the sanctuary. No adults walk toward the children, no parents coming to claim their little ones. Only the Prophet, greeting each child by name. My mouth goes dry as the suspicion blooms into more, and I remember Adam telling me that there’s a worse fate than being sent to the Chapel.
“Go.” A Maiden pushes me forward as the Spinners herd us away from the Prophet and my grim theories.
Chapter 8
Adam
The constant thump of hammers fills the morning air. The piles of pallets and firewood stand ready at the center of the clearing, and construction is almost finished on the pavilions on each side of the pyre.
Tony strides over, a steaming thermos in his hand. “Want some?”
“No thanks.” I keep my arms crossed and watch the finishing touches go up—crosses on the front of each pavilion, chairs and benches arranged in neat rows on the wooden floors, plenty of room for the Heavenly multitude. For a moment, I wonder if I can douse the whole place with gas so that they go up right along with the bonfire. Then again, despite their misplaced faith, most of the churchgoers don’t deserve that fate. I turn my gaze toward the most ornate of all the structures. Now, there’s a good spot to dump lighter fluid. The Prophet and all his top minions will be gathered there. I scowl. Delilah will be there, too. And Noah. And, if my father is feeling particularly cruel, my mother. It would seem like the perfect opportunity to strike, but my father will be surrounded by Protectors and goons. He won’t leave my mother unattended. If I go anywhere near her, things will get dicey.