Chapter 5
Rose
“And this is a GPS. It’s like a map, but inside the phone.
” I write the sentence slowly in my notebook, then turn it toward Carolina and tilt the screen of my phone so she can see the little blue dot and the line that marks the way to our house.
The app looks busy, streets and names everywhere, yet to me it feels simple now.
Much more familiar than when I discovered it.
Her eyes narrow, studying it the way we used to study Scripture, careful and a bit afraid to get it wrong.
We came back here after meeting her at the restaurant.
Her aunt agreed she could spend an hour with me before picking her up for lunch.
Vox disappeared into his office after we walked through the door, shoulders still tense, but his guard was finally down enough to let us sit alone.
While I have nothing to hide from him, I remember how it felt to have a man’s gaze on me when I had just come out.
Carolina has only been out for a month. There's no point adding pressure to her already overwhelmed state.
I, on the other hand, do not mind my fiancé looking at me in the least. Vox can stare as long as he wants and I'll have no objection to it.
“How do you… How do you remember how it works?” she asks. Her fingers fidget with the edge of her sleeve while her eyes remain on the screen.
I smile and start writing again. “You’ll get used to it.
Really. It’s confusing at first, but then it becomes normal.
It makes me feel safe, I always know how to come back home,” she reads, lips moving silently, and nods.
Our conversation keeps pausing while I write, yet it flows anyway.
We sit in the kitchen nook by the big bay window, the one that looks out over our lavish garden.
This corner is my favorite piece of the house.
My little heaven. The wooden round table between us is smooth under my fingertips.
Vox sanded it himself, and I oiled it three times to make sure the wood kept its rich shade.
The old blue cushions on the curved bench are striped and a bit faded.
I found them at a flea market and loved them instantly.
White hydrangeas bloom in the middle of the table inside a cream ceramic vase.
The whole setup stands a world away from the hard benches and sharp corners of my past home.
“I was wondering…” Carolina says, scratching her temple with her thumb. I tilt my head, waiting.
“Your husband, I mean…your fiancé,” she corrects herself, “Is he…kind to you?” Her eyes lift to mine, hesitant, a silent sisterhood reaching out to me. I erase her doubt with a smile carrying months of care and tenderness.
“When…when I left, my parents had chosen a prospect for me.
Alain Finiard. He worked at the Institute.
I don't know if you remember, he taught algebra.” My mouth tightens.
I do remember. He used to walk around the courtyard with his hands behind his back, assessing us in silence, glancing at us girls more often than his duties needed him to.
“He was in his late sixties,” she adds. I reach across the table and rest my hand over hers. Thin translucent skin meets mine and I wonder if I used to look like her, too. Skin on bones, barely alive, barely beating.
“We didn’t marry,” she says quickly. “I left before that happened. I met him alone once, though, and…he wasn’t kind.
” Her voice cracks on the last word. “He used harsh words,” she shakes her head and swallows, “I just…I just want to make sure you’re safe here.
” I squeeze her fingers. The notebook calls me to the table, begging me to ink the pages with reassurance.
“I’m sorry you had to go through that. Truly,” I write. “Vox is different. I know he can look intimidating, but he is kind to me and the only one who would do anything to keep me safe.” She reads each line carefully, then looks back up.
“But…how could I find that too?” she whispers.
“A caring man?” I write.
She nods. “Someone who doesn’t want to hurt me.” The tremor in her voice hits a deep place in me. There was a time when I could have said the same sentence word for word.
“There’s no rush,” I write after a moment. “You’re so young and you just got here. The right person will find you and love you just the way you are.”
Her shoulders loosen a little. “I hope,” she says.
“Hold on to that,” I write. “Hope saved me more than once. When I came out, everything was…just too much. I was terrified of getting lost. Even crossing a street was a challenge.” She smiles faintly.
“You will find your path. And one day, you’ll look back and see how far you have come.
I’m sure of it.” I tap my pen against the paper, thinking.
“Do you know the names of…Jezebel and Greta by any chance?”
Her eyes light up a little. “I do, yes. You guys were friends, right?” I nod.
“I heard Jezebel got…um, married," she says. “And Greta… She’s on her way to become Lady of the Chapel.” The title sends a cold shiver through my spine. Lady of the Chapel. Assistant to the Shepherd. The one who helps him with his rituals. The one who stands at his side like an ornament. My throat tightens. They’re still there, trapped and bound to a life with no choices.
“And…my mother?” I ask. My voice does not come, yet the words still feel loud inside my head as I write them down.
A memory of my mom cutting bread on the kitchen table floats in my mind.
She used to have those eyes, the ones saying sorry I brought us here.
Those same eyes shut each time I got punished, each time I got humiliated.
They still haunt me at night. When the flames surround me and I want to crawl back to the arms of a loving mother.
Only the arms are made of chains and her fingers slap tape on my mouth.
Her eyes aren't even there, deep and dark, loveless.
“She…um,” Carolina says carefully. “Everyone knows about her. I heard she doesn't go out anymore nor come to Mass.” Carolina scratches her nape, hesitant. “My mother said… She said she was losing her mind. I’m so sorry. I think maybe she just doesn’t believe in any of it anymore.
Ever since you left and your father…” The sentence trails into silence.
“How do you deal with this?” she asks suddenly.
“Knowing you won’t see them again. Do you ever… miss them?”
“Sometimes,” I admit, even if I’m learning to live with this strange contradiction rooted in my heart. Her shoulders sag. “Yeah…me too. I guess, to be honest, I miss the idea of them more. Of…a loving family.” A sad, understanding smile pulls at my lips.
I write, “I feel the same. I miss the idea of a family more than the people they actually were.” It’ll be an ache I’ll forever keep, the fantasy of parents who love me unconditionally, whether I speak or not, whether I believe or not.
I find solace in knowing that my children will never have to feel this way.
I will give them everything I missed. A tiny thread of smoke comes out from the mug in my hand, and I glance at my kitchen, the garden blooming behind the window.
Certainty embraces me as I picture once again my children here one day.
“Have you thought about the future?” I write next.
She nods. “I did. But…everything is still new. I’d like to go to school. Study things. Learn how the world works, with real books, you know? It might take time. I’m not… I’m ready yet. It’s like I’m always three steps behind. I barely understand how basic things function.”
“I know the feeling,” I write with a wry smile.
“Vox had to be so patient. He explained to me how the TV remote works probably a hundred times.” I chuckle.
“Don't beat yourself, there's no shame in learning, they're the ones who should carry it, we did nothing wrong.” I continue, a glimpse of rage bubbling under my skin, “I used to see teenagers in the street, holding phones, talking about school, and I envied them. I know it sounds silly. But they knew more about life than I did; it didn’t seem fair.” She nods slowly, absorbing every word.
“What was your favorite thing you discovered?” she asks. I tap my index finger against my lips, thinking, then grin and bend over the page.
“That I could wear what I wanted,” I write, as I notice Harley sleeping on her back, paws in the air on the couch.
She laughs, cheeks turning pink. “Me too,” she admits. We share a look, carrying the weight of our common story.
“What did you do with it?” I write. “The brown dress. I would have burned mine if I still had it.”
Colour rises on her face. “I’ve…cut it with scissors,” she says.
“Tiny pieces. Then I’ve put the pieces in the trash, under potato peels.
” Laughter bursts out of me, silent but visible.
My shoulders shake with tiny spasms of joy.
A knock on the wall makes us both jump slightly.
Vox leans on the doorframe, shoulders relaxed, eyes on me.
He moves slowly, his gaze flicking over the notebook.
“Can I?” he asks. His voice vibrates low and gentle through the kitchen. I offer him my brightest smile and nod.
“Of course. Come in. Hungry?” I sign. He watches my hands and grins, answering with his own.
“Ravenous,” he signs back. The meaning is innocent on the surface.
Only we know the second layer it carries.
His eyes twinkle with that special grain of malice that makes my knees weaken.
“Your aunt’s waiting outside. No rush if you need a few more minutes, though.
I can go tell her,” he says calmly, as if he didn't want to interrupt us.
She shakes her head quickly. “No, it’s alright. It’s time for me to go. I don't know how to thank you. Both of you. For…everything.”
“Thank you for meeting me… You have my number now. We can text and you can come visit again. Whenever you want.” I write. Her shoulders lift, then drop as if she just put down a bag of stones.
“Thank you, Rose. Thank you so much. I will.” We stand, and hesitate, both unused to the language of casual affection in the community we used to live in.
After a second, we fall into a hug, awkward at first, then tighter.
Her body is slim and rigid against mine.
For a moment, I wonder if I'm holding her or my past self.
A younger Rose, much more fragile and vulnerable.
We stand there a few seconds, clinging, until her aunt honks lightly outside.
When the door closes, silence wraps itself around the kitchen.
I sit back down on the bench and look around.
Our home sinks into my awareness again, detail by detail: the caramel shade of the wooden cabinets, the soft hum of the refrigerator, the light blue cushions from this little vintage store I like to go to, the metal bookshelf in the living room that Vox built himself.
One shelf is already half filled with my favourite books.
A year ago, I owned nothing but a worn Ascendium and the clothes on my back.
“You okay, angel?” Vox asks. He slides onto the bench next to me, his thigh against mine. His hand finds my fingers and plays with them, tracing the lines on my palm. I nod, then let my hands move.
“Thank you for giving us time,” I sign. “I think I needed this more than I realised.”
“I know,” he says softly. He presses a kiss to my temple, lips resting there for a heartbeat.
His hand keeping my fingers anchored in his rough palms. “And I hope you won’t be mad,” he adds, “but while you two were talking, I called Ares.” My eyebrows lift.
“I asked if we could help the girls you mentioned. The ones who want to leave,” he explains.
“He said he’d see what he can do with cops on the ground. Set up a whole operation and all that.”
My eyes widen. “Why would he do that?” I sign.
His mouth twists into a half smile. “Think it's Mia,” he answers.
“She kind of showed him he wasn't totally made of concrete. That there's a heart beating somewhere.” I rest my head against his shoulder, hoping those girls will seize the opportunity to get out. We sit in quiet for a minute, listening to the distant sound of a car driving away, the tick of the kitchen clock, the faint rustle of branches outside. I slip away to the bookshelf and pull out the novel I have been reading. The cover is worn from how many times I have traced my fingers over it. The story follows a boy who discovers he’s a wizard and goes to a magic school. It has become one of my favourites. I usually read alone during the day. But in the evenings, we often fall back into the habit that started in Vox’s house when everything was so different.
He still reads to me while I snuggle next to him, eyes closed, listening.
I bring the book back and hold it up. His mouth curves.
“Where were we?” he asks, taking it from my hands.
“Chapter four,” I sign. “He almost got expelled.”
“That’s right,” he says. “You were cursing at the headmaster in your head.”
I raise my eyebrows and sign, “I did no such thing.”
He laughs. “I could hear you think, angel.” He pats his thigh and opens his arms. I climb onto his lap, back pressed to his chest, legs folded along the bench. His arms cage me in, one holding the book, the other wrapped around my waist.
My head settles in the space between his neck and shoulder. His scent is familiar and grounding. Soap, leather, and a hint of mechanical oils. I close my eyes, already picturing the castle in my mind, the moving staircases, the long tables, the storm outside the windows.
“So,” he murmurs, adjusting the book. “Chapter four.” His voice fills the room again, wrapping itself around the words. A year ago, I wasn't allowed to read this book. Today, I sit in my kitchen while the love of my life is reading to me. Hope sits between my ribs and stretches.
Escaping wasn't easy, but it was definitely worth it.