Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Thessia
The infirmary reeks of old wood and bitter poultice.
A single sliver of light slips under the door, just enough to guide me through the cramped space.
Shelves sag under bottles of amber liquid and jars of fine ground powder.
I’d meant to sneak in last night, under sleep’s cover, but the doctor did not retire until dawn.
I, too, gave in to exhaustion. If I’m to make another trip to the temple, I need strength.
After morning prayers, missionary work, bringing God’s word to the people, I creep inside the infirmary.
I wish I knew how each medicine worked, but women are forbidden to be healers.
From memory alone, I imagine the words and pictures of books I read in secret.
I recognize the poultice that dulls inflammation on the second shelf to the left of the doctor’s messy desk.
I snatch the jar, then add fresh cloth and a vial of disinfectant to my satchel.
A low rumble from outside stiffens me. Voices, too deep to belong to the Daughters, pass by the infirmary door. My breath hitches.
The doctor should be visiting Lady Raya.
Whenever he’s with her, he stays for at least two hours.
I’ve watched him plenty of times go in pale as snow and leave strawberry red.
I’ve watched his wife, too. How she slips away, carrying a cornbread plate to the soldiers on town duty.
Either way, I should have had plenty of time to wiggle in and out.
I press flat against the wall. There’s only one door and a tiny window above the doctor’s desk.
It’s far too small to fit both my thighs through, and I know I can’t fit my butt. This door is the only way.
The leather straps of my satchel cut into my shoulders. Heat suffocates the room. The veil over my face makes breathing unbearable. Boots scrape stone. One, then another. They stop just outside the door.
The handle jiggles. The door cracks open. Then it freezes.
I inhale, hold it there. Think of lies, hope they don’t search my satchel. Think of bargains, favors, secrets to use as leverage. My lungs seize, I exhale. What if I tell the doctor about his wife? How she prays for soldiers, thirty minutes to an hour, in the barn house?
No. He would send her to the pyre. I would rather burn than see another woman being eaten by flames. Maybe the doctor will be relaxed? He’s always less grumpy after meeting with Lady Raya. Maybe, he won’t tell?
My pulse hammers in my throat.
I press my palms flat against the rough stone behind me, trying to hold myself upright in the dark. The pressure makes me dizzy. I’m tilting, wishing I could shrink myself down and escape into the cracks.
Of all the reckless things I’ve done, aiding a Fallen One is the most damning and, by far, the stupidest life decision.
A laugh breaks the stillness. Shuffling feet. A deep voice mutters something too low for me to catch. Then the voices drift away. I wait there, blending in with the stone. When I’m sure no one lingers outside, I open the door, and there stands Penelope.
“Thessia,” she whisper-shouts. Her hand clamps around my wrist, hauling me across the cobblestones toward the doors of the sanctuary. Inside, she thrusts me into a narrow closet that stores old portraits of Daughters who became Fallen Ones, or Daughters who have disappeared.
“What were you doing in the doctor’s office?” She hisses, holding tight to my wrist.
I fumble for words, but none find me. Hazel eyes bore into mine. Even through her veil, I see the line of her brows crease. I can’t lie to her or tell the truth. But if Penelope doesn’t believe me, she will report me.
I swallow hard, my lips dry and cracked. “I was going to ask you the same. Is something wrong, Penelope?”
She releases my wrist. Steps back, folds her arms.
Her guard is up. I bit my lower lip. I try to think of a lie that’ll convince her the most. “Last night I fell. Scraped my knee. I didn’t want to bother Sacred Mother or the doctor, so I thought I would grab a few bandages and clean it myself.”
“You know that’s against the Covenant. Injuries must be reported. The doctor heals. Sacred Mother approves.”
“I know. But it’s nothing to worry over.
Barely a scratch. With the battle at the Great Wall, the residents are terrified.
There are wounded soldiers to attend to.
Sacred Mother is busy assisting the doctor in monitoring three babies who’ll be here any moment now.
You know they’re daughters. She must check for the sacred marks, and she’s been preoccupied with that.
” I switch on my gentle, innocent voice, the one that makes me humble, reliable, compliant.
“It’s only a scrape. You’re right, I should have reported it to Sacred Mother. I’m sorry.” I bow my head in reverence.
Penelope’s veil shifts as if calculating my answer or measuring how she’ll respond.
She has always been the dutiful, rule-bound, never-questioning one.
Once, that sameness made us close. We were cut from the same cloth until the cloth ripped apart, and hiding behind heavy dresses and veils crushed me.
“Are you sure about that?” She steps closer. I can see her breath beating against her veil.
Shifty-eyed, I focus on the portraits stacked in the corner.
These were the faces of Daughters stripped of honor and erased from the Covenant.
Penelope doesn’t back down. She stands nose to nose with me; she smells of rosewater and cedar.
I notice my body doesn’t react as it normally does when she’s this close to me.
I used to burn for her. A simple brush of pinky, walking beside her, hearing her sing at sacrament.
When we were younger, we would sneak into each other’s rooms and cuddle, but when our paths forked, she chose to follow the footsteps of Sacred Mother.
I clear my throat. “I promise you, it is just a scrape. Nothing to alert Sacred Mother or the doctor over. I would show you, but as you know, that would be against the covenant,” I say with a bow. “I’m sorry,” I add again, hoping an apology will end the conversation.
It didn’t.
Penelope snatches my tunic. I inhale sharply. Her gaze locks on mine as she slowly pulls the hem over ankles, knees. Edging it up my thighs.
“Where’s the cut, Thessia?”
Her gloved hand grazes my skin. My pulse stumbles.
What is wrong with me? Have I not dreamed of Penelope touching me just like this? Opening my legs wider, her fingers searching every hidden place on my body? I’m panicking. I’m not wearing my sacred garment meant to protect my flesh and help me remember to stay pure.
My wicked cunt thirsts to be punished, but not by Penelope.
My body screams for another. Skin of night, body chiseled of the richest ebony stone. Lips pillowy soft. I need her.
Penelope traces fingers around my panty line. Her breaths grow heavy. I stare deep into Penelope's eyes, and I can swear her hazel iris bleeds inky black.
The feelings hit me like a fallen tree. I don’t want this—I don’t want her. I push Penelope, causing her to back into a box of portraits. I yank down my dress, cross myself, and whisper frantic prayers to God.
“I don’t appreciate you touching me in a manner frowned upon by God, the Savior, and Sacred Mother. This is unbecoming for her next in line. I would urge you to refrain from doing so again.” I smooth my tunic, straightening the folds.
Penelope replies in vengeance. “Should I tell Mother you were attempting to heal yourself?”
“Should I tell her you slipped your hand underneath my dress? Felt my flesh. Rested your palm on my thighs?” I stepped toward her, forcing her into a corner. Her chest rises rapidly.
“You wouldn’t.”
“No, I wouldn’t. And neither shall you.” My voice steadies. “We both know how serious our duties are. Let’s keep these discretions to ourselves, yes?”
Penelope’s eyes flick to my satchel. I tuck it behind me out of her view.
“Fine.” She shoulders past, knocking me hard enough that I stumble. She opens the closet door, peers both ways, then sweeps down the hall leading toward our cells. I follow.
We pass halls lined with portraits of every Sacred Mother who has ever served the Covenant.
And I soften, watching Penelope briskly glide in front of me.
I know she’s frustrated. Her shoulders are slightly tense, and even though her steps are soundless, the heaviness in her gait is louder than usual.
It’s in the way she leans in on her right side, the way she is popping her knuckles on her left hand, the way she refuses to look at me.
One day, her portrait will hang here. She will bear that burden of being a Mother to an entire community. Most Mothers live into their hundreds. Never asking for anything in return other than service and sacrifice to the Savior and our God.
At least for the Daughters, if the Savior wills it so, we stay in the convent, and help to usher in the new crop of Daughters seeding in the gospel.
Then there are some of us who are called to a higher purpose.
To birth more of God’s chosen Daughters.
When a soldier is at the age of marrying, he can choose a village girl or an available Daughter.
The soldier must petition the Savior, to which the Savior prays about it.
Then he gets an answer from God on the Daughter’s behalf, and if the answer is yes, she begins her duty to bear children.
I’ve made myself small, kept my eyes low, avoiding any of the soldiers' affections.
Decline when they send me gifts, find an excuse to be somewhere else when one wants to speak to me, and vanish whenever I know a group of them is near.
I figure if Penelope is training to be the next Sacred Mother, I would be by her side for the rest of my life, giving her aid and support.