Chapter 2 #2
Which means I can’t marry Amriel, either. I won’t.
Evelyn rises and goes to the mirror, where she wraps Brynne in a hug. For long moments, my eldest sister simply stands there, all stiffness and hard angles, but then she softens into the embrace. “I won’t go,” she whispers. “I won’t let him choose me.”
Evelyn runs a hand over Brynne’s shorn skull. “I know. I won’t let him choose me, either. I won’t let him choose any of us.” She gently pries the scissors from Brynne’s hand, then raises the blades to her hair, too.
My jaw loosens. As I watch, Evelyn shears herself balder than Brynne, then motions for Carina to join.
My little sister obeys. She stands before the mirror, silent tears streaming down her cheeks, as Evelyn snips and snips and snips. The pile of brown hair grows into a mountain.
When the last of Carina’s tresses falls to the floor, Evelyn turns to me, expectant. I angle away from her, my hands flitting over my unbound curls, my fingers straining to tie them back, to braid them, to do anything other than sacrifice them to Evelyn’s shears.
Because my hair means something different to me than my sisters’ does to them.
I’ve let it grow since I was sixteen, a symbol of not only my devotion, but of my intent to take the robes.
These hip-length locks have required patience.
Restraint. The careful tending of hundreds of brushstrokes each night.
In growing them, I’ve embodied every ideal in Ishanna’s Book of Disciplines.
Now each uncut strand represents a promise between me and my goddess, a vow I’ve sworn not to break.
My fingers fall to my throat, prodding at the sudden ache there. “I… I don’t think I can.”
Brynne’s eyes flash. “What? Why not? Do you want Amriel to choose you?”
Her words sink icy claws into me. Of course I don’t.
I can’t conceive of a worse fate than marrying that emotionless brute—if I did, I have no doubt he’d hurt me.
Subjugate me. He’d probably send me fleeing into the Wildwood just so he could chase me down and force me.
It wouldn’t matter how loudly I screamed or how hard I fought—that monster would have his cruel way with me, regardless.
And yet, of all the possibilities crashing through my mind, that horror ranks as only second worst. Because, for all that I don’t want to marry a heathen fae, I want to fail my goddess even less. And that’s what cutting my hair would be—a failure. A betrayal.
I’ve read about moments like these, in the Book of Disciplines. About how the goddess tries our faith, sometimes. She presents us with temptation, then allows us to choose.
I’ve faced such temptations before, each time I’ve lifted the scissors and contemplated my reflection. Just a little snip, I’d sometimes think. A simple, innocuous tidying of the ends.
But that’s how betrayal always begins. With people telling themselves they’ll only indulge this once.
Just a single, forbidden drink. One tiny, illicit touch.
A meaningless promise broken…but then comes the next, and the next, and the next.
What starts with a spark soon flares to a wildfire.
One that, once lit, proves impossible to extinguish.
And now, with my sisters’ expectant stares probing at me, the moment threatens to combust. This is a temptation. A test. One in which a single misstep can drag my entire life off-course.
Because if I cut my hair, what’s next? Will I neglect my prayers tomorrow?
Put off my decision to take the robes? Maybe I’ll surrender to the baker’s endless pleas and let him kiss me.
And after that, once that impurity starts to feel comfortable, maybe I’ll let him do other things.
Worse things. I’ll make a long, slow slide into immorality and never recover.
All because I cut my hair.
I meet Brynne’s glare, my chin lifting of its own accord. “Of course I don’t want Amriel to choose me. But I trust Ishanna to keep me safe. I trust her plan for me.”
Brynne’s look turns sharp, digging toward the place where I house my softest secrets. “Plan? What plan?”
I mash my lips together. I’ve never told her about my aspirations to become a priestess. I’ve never told anyone. That quest feels fiercely personal, a promise forged within the privacy of my own prayers.
Brynne’s eyes narrow. “What’s this really about, Sariah? Your vanity?”
I recoil. How can she accuse me of something so sinful? “What? No. I’m not vain.”
Her stare doesn’t waver, and a heartbeat later, understanding dawns in her eyes. “Oh. Right. This is about taking the robes, then. About you playing at being a priestess. Even though you want it for all the wrong reasons.”
Her words land hard, driving me back a step. “I… Who said anything about being a priestess?”
“Oh, come on.” Brynne scoffs. “Do you really think we don’t know? You’re desperate to earn your Grace. To stop embarrassing this family. You’ll do whatever it takes to convince Ishanna to grant your magic. Even if it means pledging your life to the temple.”
“Brynne,” Evelyn hisses. “Leave her alone.”
Brynne snorts. “What? It’s true. Don’t pretend like you don’t know.”
I try to swallow, but the thickness in my throat prevents it. Brynne is just scared, I tell myself. She’s lashing out because of fear, nothing more.
But the poison just keeps flowing from her lips.
“But just so you know, Sariah, if you were as faithful as you think, if you were even half as devout, Ishanna would’ve Graced you already. The fact that she skipped you means you don’t have her favor. You’re not special, and you’re not above us. So take the scissors. Cut your hair.”
I blink hard, trying to drive back the phantom fears Brynne has summoned, but they swirl in the silence, snatching at me with cold fingers.
Maybe my sister is right, and I’m an embarrassment. A stain on our family name. It’s not like I haven’t suspected it myself, when I lie in the dark and probe at the hole in my chest where magic should dwell.
And yet…I can’t bring myself to believe Ishanna has abandoned me. If she has, then why did I feel her touch this morning? Why did she whisper in my ear about how life is on the verge of opening up for me?
No, I believe. I have faith.
I force the lump in my throat to settle.
“You know what? I do want to be a priestess. I want it more than anything. But not because I’m trying to bargain for my Grace.
It’s because I believe in Ishanna. Because I know every word in her Book is true.
Because I don’t just want to read her lessons, I want to live them.
I want to dedicate myself to the goddess, and follow a path of purity, and yes—I want to let my hair grow, like a priestess.
Just because I haven’t pledged myself yet doesn’t mean I haven’t already given myself to Ishanna.
Deep down, in my heart, I did that years ago. ”
Brynne makes a frustrated sound. “Your hair means nothing right now. Pledges don’t count until you actually make them.”
My jaw flexes. “They do for me.”
She scoffs. “You’re going to get yourself married to the fae king, acting like this.”
“No.” Something unpleasant swims in my belly, but I force it down. “Ishanna will protect me.”
Brynne hisses. “Or you should cut your hair off, just to be sure.”
The venom in her tone hardens something inside me. “No. That would undermine every promise I’ve ever made. Every prayer I’ve ever said.”
“You know what?” She throws her hands into the air, her lip curled in disgust, and shoves past me on her way to the door. “Fine. Do whatever you want. Just don’t come crying to me when you end up married to a monster.”
She flings open the door and stomps away, her footsteps fading down the hallway. Evelyn and Carina stare at me, stricken.
“You’re…sure?” Evelyn whispers.
I hesitate, more moved by her gentle concern than by Brynne’s attempts at brute force. “Well, not entirely,” I admit.
Evelyn holds my eyes for long moments, then holds out the scissors. “Will you think about it, at least? Please?”
My focus falls to the shears, to the gleam of pink twilight on cold metal. “Yes. But you should go. It’s almost time, and Father won’t like it if you’re late.”
Evelyn presses the scissors into my hand. “I’ll see you downstairs, then?”
The lump in my throat threatens to reappear. “Yes. Downstairs.”
After a brief squeeze of my shoulders, Evelyn steers Carina from the room, leaving me alone with my reflection. And the shears, which drag at my grip like a ten-pound weight.
I stare into the mirror, the quiet suffocating. My wide-set hazel eyes peer back at me as I survey my modest dress, the waterfall of my hair. Loose brown curls flow past my shoulders to swish around my hips.
I could cut them off, yes, but it would change me, and I don’t think I can bear to be anything other than what I see in the mirror: a future priestess who lives for her goddess, who aspires to earn her Grace.
Who understands that faith doesn’t actually mean anything if you only have it when it’s convenient.
My attention shifts to the crescent-moon necklace at my throat. “You’ll protect me,” I tell it. “I know you will.”
The silence around me warms, turns silken.
It’s all the answer I need. With a small smile to myself, I turn and make for the door, leaving the scissors behind on Evelyn’s vanity.