Chapter 2
two
Avonna
The chapel is colder than usual.
Even with the spring dusk curling in, the stone floor feels like it’s storing winter deep in its bones.
My fingers are still buzzing from the last hymn as I slide my guitar into the cupboard behind the pulpit, careful not to let the latch click too loud.
The cloth covering it smells faintly of must. I always tuck it here, as if hiding it might keep the instrument mine a little longer.
As far as I know, no one’s still here but me.
The rest of the children filed out after service, heads bowed, arms full of shawls and dish pails and younger siblings. I linger like I always do, enjoying the only moment of peace and silence I’ll have today.
I should go. Mother will be watching the horizon, waiting for me to bring water, start the fire, wash the basins. My youngest sister has obedience recitations to learn, and I’m expected to correct her.
Moving through the side corridor toward the exit, I count the steps. My feet know the rhythm of the stones. Left. Left. Right. Avoid the loose creaky board. Pass the old baptismal closet—
I freeze.
Three low voices. Male. Familiar. One sends a chill straight through me.
Master Prophet.
The door is ajar. Not wide. But enough.
Light spills out, pooling across the hallway stones like something alive. I don’t move a muscle. I have no desire to eavesdrop but if they catch me, a beating will follow.
I have no choice but to hide.
Dropping to the ground, I crouch behind the door.
“She’s getting too old,” says one voice, an Elder. “Should’ve been matched last year. She’s fifteen now. Should’ve borne a child by now.”
“She sings like she wants to be coveted,” says another Elder. “She’s dangerous.”
“The girl is too free,” a third voice rings out. Master Prophet. Calm. Measured. “The Lord gave her beauty and melody. He did not create her for accolades. A girl who draws attention to herself is a girl in danger of believing she deserves it.”
Everything about their tone turns my stomach.
They’re talking about me.
There’s no mistaking it.
“She has too much freedom,” says the first voice. “She lingers after service. Wanders the yard without supervision when she thinks no one is watching.”
“She’s not promised,” the second man says, as if it’s an accusation. “The girls her age are already settled.”
Master Prophet responds, “Her spirit is expanding too far. The Lord is clear: A woman’s shape is not her own. It must be molded. Declared. Taught how to serve.”
Cold slithers through me. Ice water under my ribs.
“She’s a beautiful girl,” one of them says. “Untouched. Best to get her under control before the rebellion becomes intolerable.”
“I fear we’re too late. She’ll resist what we have planned.”
Master Prophet’s voice is absolute. “She won’t have a choice.”
Then silence. A pause long enough to make my heart stutter.
“Brother Gideon has petitioned.”
It’s all I can do not to shriek.
“He’s faithful,” says another. “Obedient. Strong.”
“His contributions entitle him to a young wife,” adds the Prophet. “The Lord makes provisions for a faithful devout like Brother Gideon.”
“He’s been waiting for a few years,” someone murmurs. “His other wives are now barren.”
“All flowers begin with man’s seed,” Master Prophet continues. “They don’t flourish until they’re planted. She’ll bloom in his hands.”
Laughter follows. Dry. Knowing.
My knees want to give out. I lean against the wall, heart slamming.
I don’t know exactly what they’re implying, but I know this.
They do not consider me a person.
I’m being traded.
They speak of obedience, dowry, lineage, his home near the western edge of the compound. Close to the boundary wall, where no girl wants to live. Too isolated. Too far from the chapel. Too close to the men’s bunkhouse.
“She’s not yet broken,” one of the men says. “She still walks with too much pep.”
“Brother Gideon will drive it out of her,” Master Prophet assures him. “As the Lord desires.”
I nearly throw up.
One of them asks, “Will her parents agree?”
“It isn’t up to them. They’ll be brought into alignment,” Master Prophet replies. “Brother Gideon has made an offering large enough to ensure their cooperation.”
“And the girl?”
“She’ll be guided,” he says. “There will be prayers. A laying on of hands. She will be made to see this is her role. Her salvation.”
A pause.
“On her birthday she’ll be betrothed,” he commands. “She’s clever. Not clever enough to outrun purpose.”
Without giving it another thought, I back away from the door. My legs feel wrong. I’m not sure how I move, but I know I need to get out. Now. I need air. I need to run. The chapel doors swing wide. I stumble into the dusk, the world bathed in lavender shadows and ash-colored dust.
The compound looks the same. But it isn’t.
Every outline is sharper now. The fences. The smoke curling from chimneys. The goats bleating in the distance. I see the tin roofs for what they are. Cages. I see the path back to my family’s home. A funnel to hell.
I have nowhere else to go, though. Women walk past me, arms full of laundry or babies or bread pans. No one looks up. No one ever does.
Inside my family’s home, it’s too warm. My sisters argue over a piece of dried fruit. Mother slices onions with mechanical focus. My father hasn’t returned from the barn. I curl up on my sleeping mat like a child, face to the wall. My breath shudders unevenly.
I think about Master Prophet’s words.
She will bloom in his hands.
All flowers begin with man’s seed.
My stomach heaves. I shove my fist into my mouth to keep the sound in. I don’t understand what’s coming. Not fully. Enough to know my name has been offered, my body is not my own, and I have no say.
I lie there long after Mother whispers evening prayers and my sisters drift into soft, safe dreams. I replay their voices.
A girl who draws attention to herself is a girl in danger of believing she deserves it.
She will be made to see this is her role.
She’ll understand her purpose.
Brother Gideon is old and strange with empty and claw-like hands. He’s always watching me when I sing at Sunday service.
My body curls into itself, muscles aching from holding it all in.
No one asked if I wanted this.
No one ever will.