Chapter 2
AVALYNNE
Apounding at the door scares me awake, and I nearly spill out of the twin bed onto the floor.
The wool blanket knots around my feet, and as I untangle myself, the door to the room opens, and light from the hallway fills the space.
It's not bright, but it's blinding after a night in the pitch black, kept company only by the smell of petrichor and the churn of the salty sea.
I raise my hand against the assault and swing my feet to the floor, the stones a sticky cold against my toes.
As my eyes adjust, I peek at Reverend Mother through my fingers. Her tall, spindly frame takes up most of the doorway before she walks briskly into the room. Something she's wearing jingles beneath her thick black habit as she pivots toward the wall and flips the light switch.
I wince as I am blinded again.
The world blinks back into focus, and I spot the ornate silver cross around Reverend Mother's throat. Tendrils of metal curl around the pendant like snakes twining together, and the cross hangs by a thick lavaliere against the starched fabric of her dress.
My gaze lifts to her face, and I find Reverend Mother already frowning at me.
She steps forward, and I notice the folded clothes she's carrying and a canvas drawstring bag atop them. She tsks at me, her upper lip curling over her long teeth.
"Stand up, child!" she scolds, depositing the clothes and toiletry bag on the bed beside me. "This is not a vacation. The Sisters of Saint Margaret of Castello Convent have vowed to rehabilitate troubled young women, and we take our vows very seriously."
I swallow, though it does nothing to alleviate my dry mouth, and rise to my feet.
"You will dress in the garments provided," Reverend Mother instructs.
"You will be ready at five o'clock sharp every morning, at which time you will join the sisters for prayer in the chapel.
After morning prayer, you will eat breakfast with the girls and then return to your room for personal introspection.
You will be given meal breaks and will end each day with vespers and evening prayer.
Further, when asked, you will assist the sisters in their duties at the convent.
Most importantly, Ms. Immorier, you will not cause trouble, lest you wish to spend your days in penance and contrition. "
I eye the ironed white fabric she placed atop my bed and the drawstring bag next to it.
"As Isaiah 1:16 instructs us, you will keep yourself clean," Reverend Mother tells me. "And for the duration of your time with us, you will be treated as an apostate. Your grandfather has given explicit instructions …"
"My grandfather," I blurt, my heels nearly coming off the floor in my excitement. "If I could just talk to him … I'm sure this is all a misunder—"
"Do not interrupt me, child!" she snaps, her hand grazing the leather cat-o'-nine-tails attached to a rope belted around her waist. "And stop your foolish notions! Your grandfather has made it clear you are to atone with the Sisters of Saint Margaret for a year."
What did she say?
A year.
365 days.
Her words strike white-hot to my na?ve heart.
I can't think.
I can't even breathe.
I'm dizzy and nauseous, and I stagger backward, landing on the bed.
I'm to stay here for a whole year because I lied to protect my sister? Grandpapa must be bluffing. I can't take my words back. He has to know that. It wouldn't be a year in some remote convent for Isabella. It would be a lifetime because I'm the good girl, and she's the bad one.
"You will not give us any trouble, I hope," Reverend Mother remarks, eyeing me with yet another frown. "Considering your distant aunt's reputation, however, I suppose such behavior would not be a surprise."
"My aunt's reputation?" I clear my throat, blinking up at her.
She ignores the question.
"It has been a long time," she remarks, clasping her sallow hands in front of her waist, "decades even since a troubled young woman has been entrusted to the care of the Sisters, but Saint Margaret's has served as a respite for young women for decades.
Know that I have no tolerance for disobedience, child.
You will follow the rules, or there will be consequences. Do I make myself clear?"
I don't answer at first. I barely hear the question.
"Do I make myself clear?" Her words land barbed with a warning.
I nod, but my mind is far away, mulling over what she's said. I will not betray my sister, but Grandpapa will forgive me. He just has to because it wasn't supposed to be this way.
"I will be waiting outside the door," Reverend Mother tells me. "I expect you to tidy yourself and put on your garments quickly. Do not dawdle, girl."
Then she turns, briskly walks out of the room, and closes the door behind her, leaving me alone. I want to curl into a ball or scream at the top of my lungs, but I can't just dart out the door and run away from this place.
Isabella is the brave one. I'm more … practical.
I'm on an island in the middle of nowhere with no idea how to get back home.
I don't want to be here, but I don't have a death wish either.
Get dressed, Avalynne, and figure out the rest later.
I force my fingers into motion as I undo my jeans and blouse, discarding them on the bed. I grab garments from the pile of clothes Reverend Mother left for me, revealing a long white habit with a matching coif and veil.
What did she call me? An apostate.
The word is familiar, but my mind clumsily grapples with it, trying to remember.
Grandpapa sometimes shouted it during his meetings with the church.
An apostate … someone who rejects God and is condemned to eternal damnation.
It's the opposite of everything Grandpapa wanted me to be, everything I've worked to become.
My fingers shake as I busy myself with getting dressed, sliding the habit skirt on first. The thick fabric pricks my legs, and the neckerchief collars my throat as I button and smooth the starched white fabric.
When I'm finished, I slide a pair of matching flats onto my feet, grab the bag of toiletries off the bed, and walk into the bathroom.
Then I open the bag and dump the contents into the sink.
A toothbrush, toothpaste, a bar of soap, and a comb.
The bare essentials.
Of course.
I brush my teeth and comb my hair, tucking it beneath the veil and coif just as Reverend Mother does. Then I leave my room, closing the door behind me. Reverend Mother waits in the hall, thin wrinkles furrowing her brow and disappearing beneath the line of her veil.
Overhead, a bell tolls five times, the sound drumming through the building, vibrating the stone beneath my feet. Reverend Mother's scowl deepens.
"We are late, child," she scolds. "Come now. God waits for no man, or woman, as the case may be."
I follow her down the hall and up the stairs, strings of incandescent light bulbs illuminating the way. Somewhere nearby, beneath the whoosh of our skirts against the stone floor, ocean waves beat against rock.
We climb the stairs to the ground floor and continue through the labyrinth of crisscrossing halls.
The convent's lights are on this morning, but they flicker off with the rolling thunder overhead. Lightning cracks outside, and we are plunged into darkness before the lights reilluminate with a buzz, sending shadows back to dusty corners.
That feeling of cold fingers at the back of my neck returns.
Pounding rain roars outside the walls as if even the storm is cursed to stay here with me.
Reverend Mother and I turn down yet another hallway, mildew and seawater wetting the air as we follow the hall to a tall wooden door.
Reverend Mother pushes it open, and we enter an empty rotunda with bare stadium seating circling the room.
Our footfalls echo in the space before Reverend Mother opens another door and delivers us into a hall with windows running the line of the exterior wall.
Lightning flashes outside, and the old windows rattle, shaking in their iron frames.
It's cold, and despite the thick habit skirt and shirt, a shiver spider-walks up my spine as we walk outside beneath a covered walkway.
Moss eats away at the stone path underfoot, and water pours from the roof on either side of us, splattering the sidewalk.
I pick up my skirt to avoid the mess and follow Reverend Mother as two sisters, dressed in matching black habits, open the doors for us into an adjoining building.
"Come along, child," Reverend Mother instructs as she steps inside.
I follow her as the sisters bow their heads.
"Good morning, Reverend Mother Graves," they say in unison.
"Good morning, Sisters," she replies.
We enter a massive church, and I can't help but gape at the stone arches webbing the ceiling and the variegated stained-glass windows flanking either side of the building.
Candles in long rows of glass-and-gold votive stands flicker in front of the altar with an invisible wind.
As we pass the stoup, Reverend Mother dips her fingers in the basin of holy water and signs the cross, kneeling before the son of God.
At her stare, I follow suit, just as I used to every Sunday in church with Grandpapa.
The sky erupts with a burst of white light, and thunder rumbles beneath my feet as sparkling prisms of color shoot through the stained glass and onto two dozen nuns, maybe more, all in matching black habits and sitting on the pews.
Some bow their heads in prayer.
Some glance at us.
All are silent.
I follow Reverend Mother, but my gaze is drawn ahead of her to the most violent depiction of the crucifixion I've ever seen, hung high on the wall above the dais.
A knotted crown of thorns cuts into the son of God's scalp, sending thick rivulets of blood down onto his face and further still across his neck and sullen chest. Bloody nails mark his bound feet and hands as his ribs punch against emaciated, withered skin.
Jesus's mouth hangs open in a macabre depiction of his last breath.