6. Petra
PETRA
The doors to the bookshop open, and I set foot inside, my steps faltering with excitement. A handful of girls around my age from the congregation do the same, with Mrs. Jenkins, our chaperone, following suit.
Though she keeps to the back, not engaging with us, her presence is felt at every step, a warning not to stray into the back of the shop where the controversial material is found.
The girls giggle as they grab books from the shelves, loudly flipping through the pages.
Mrs. Jenkins gives them a severe look, but soon her attention is captivated by a new prayer book with gilded pages.
The front of the bookshop is made up entirely of prayer books and treatises on theology, alongside the occasional memoir of some pious person long gone.
But it is in the back where the true treasure lay: science, arts, travel, music, and so much more.
I glance longingly at the shadowed section.
I’d come alone once to pick up a book for my brother.
With no Mrs. Jenkins around, I’d wandered off into the back and found myself staring at outrageous titles like On the Origin of Species or The Age of Reason.
But instead of scandalizing me, as no doubt was the notion of my congregation, they had only piqued my interest.
Mrs. Jenkins continues to peruse her golden leaves. The girls are deep in conversation with one another as they compare books, debating which one to buy.
I have pin money. Not a lot, but enough to afford a book. A religious book. I would never be able to buy one of the others. But I can . . . look? Just for a moment. Just beyond the titles.
My heart in my throat, I slide backward. Slowly. Quietly.
If I’m caught, my excuse is ready: I was feeling faint and required a place to lie down. Due to my small frame, I have been known to have a frail constitution, particularly during the harsh New England winters, so Mrs. Jenkins should easily accept the explanation.
A few more steps. No one takes note of me.
Finally, I’m in the shadows.
The back of the shop. The forbidden area.
With how darkened the rows are here, I must squint to get a good read of the titles through my veil. But as luck would have it, I am in the right section.
The literature section.
Our congregation prides itself on being modern, on keeping with the times, but they still frown upon frivolous pursuits, especially for women.
In an age where women have already graduated with medical degrees, I am to resign myself to a lonely fate as a future wife and mother. Even the knowledge that women can receive degrees should not be attainable, but I read it in a newspaper once.
For all my education in philology and fluency in Latin and Greek, I am forced to only use those skills when reading religious texts.
The church does not even call it education; that would be impossible for someone of my sex.
Instead, it is seen as initiation in the religious texts, mandatory for girls and boys alike from the age of four until fourteen.
Why allow me to step into the world of learning, only to cut my wings just as I’m about to soar?
I can read Greek and Latin better than any classics student, yet my father will never allow me to enroll in a college even though I am already twenty years of age.
“They are deeply disturbed places. Women should not be freely walking around men,” he’d say. “It would invite temptation.”
As if the mere presence of a woman next to a man is enough to turn him into a primal beast.
Alas, the congregation certainly seems to think so. Even the sermons are performed in segregation. A panel separates the men and the women, lest they glance upon one another and fall into sin.
Our side of town is equally as divided. Women must wear a veil in public and cannot be seen consorting with unknown men.
Though I’ve only traveled a few times outside of Radcliffe, once to Boston and once to New York when I was around fourteen, even I know this is not normal. I’ve heard whispers of the suffragette movement, of women demanding more of society. They’re even aiming to gain a vote in the elections.
Preposterous, I know! If anyone from my congregation heard me mention this, they would brand me a heretic, not that I would mind it overly much. In fact, I would not mind it if I were excommunicated from the church, even if that meant being ostracized by my congregation and my family.
The issue is that I am barely twenty, with nothing to recommend me except my Bible-reading skills in dead languages and drawing, the latter of which I’ve kept a tight secret my entire life. Yet both of those things are useless in the real world, aren’t they?
If only those suffragettes won! If only they started a revolution to allow women to live freely as they like!
As it stands, I am bound by my ties to my community, my religion, and my sex.
That doesn’t mean I will conform forever. Only until I have a better alternative. If there is something I know from the depths of my soul, it’s that I do not want to become like my mother.
Alone in her world, never acknowledged, always isolated. She speaks, but no one listens. She exists, but no one minds her. And no matter how much I try to interact with her, decades of the same routine have been imprinted on her: I am female, too, therefore when I speak, even she does not listen.
My brother, I love to pieces. But at twenty he is becoming every day more and more like our father: cold, authoritarian, and self-important.
A fortnight ago, he had taken it upon himself to rebuke me for how I wear my veil. Too loose, he’d said. Too revealing. Boys his age talked about me because of that, and it was in unflattering terms.
The voices in the front of the shop become louder as one of the girls gets into a theological argument with Mrs. Jenkins. I recognize it as a purposeful tactic, no doubt trying to divert her attention while the other girls sneaked a peek at the forbidden books, too.
Farther in the back, I’m no longer visible to anyone. It’s just me and the books, and I quickly take advantage of the time I have to browse the titles. There are so many! I wish I could have a library of this size and diversity.
As my eyes scan the spines, I come across an intriguing title: The Portrait of a Lady. Curious, I reach forward to grab it at the same time as someone pulls on it from the other side.
Momentarily shocked, I let the book slip from my grasp. It slides out on the other side, leaving a small hole in between the other tomes.
Stark blue eyes stare at me with equal surprise. He looks to be slightly older than my brother. Dark hair curls around his ears, giving him a boyish look. But the strong angle of his jaw and the corded muscles of his neck leave no doubt that this is a man.
A beautiful man. The artist in me rouses to the surface, and my fingers start moving around in the air, tracing his features to commit them to memory.
I’ve never seen him before in our part of town, which means he must be an outsider. We don’t mingle with those of his “ilk” as my father would call them. It is a marvel that our community has survived for as long as it has in both seclusion and cohabitation with the rest of the world.
We live in the same town, but we are worlds apart.
His lips part on a wordless, “Oh,” and immediately my fingers stop.
The pregnant silence from before builds to an unbearable crescendo as I know what he’s going to say—what all outsiders say.
“You’re one of those. The weird ones who sequester their women.” Though my reply would be a dry, “I am standing here, therefore I am not sequestered.”
“What are you, some new age puritans?” A lot of people are known to call us that, though we reject the appellation.
The official name of the Church is the Reformationist Church of Christ and Saints.
Puritans, a branch of Protestantism, do not recognize saints.
Our religion is derived from Catholicism, or The True Doctrine.
“Fanatic freaks,” another crowd favorite. Unfortunately, we are a rather boring group, hence the strict rules.
“They keep their women on a tighter leash than dogs.” Now that one is downright offensive. My community might have many faults, but treating animals badly is not one of them. They have souls, like people, and deserve the same type of respect. If only that extended to women too . . .
“My apologies. You may have it,” the man says in a low, gravelly voice. He presses the book toward me.
I shake my head, my fingers curling tighter against the folds of my dress.
“I can’t,” I say, barely above a whisper. My voice is steady, yet I feel my resolve waver as I look at the book he holds out to me.
His brow furrows slightly, the only sign of disappointment.
“Then I might as well have it,” he says casually, tucking it under his arm. He isn’t mocking me; I know that much. He is simply stating the obvious: If I won’t take it, then it is his.
I exhale sharply, willing my feet to move. Disappointment floods me as I realize my little interlude in the shadows has come to an abrupt end.
But when I turn, I find myself face-to-face with him, the beautiful man.
My breath catches in my throat as my eyes trail upward, past the dark fabric of his coat, past his collarbone, his chin, until I meet his gaze. He is tall. Too tall. More than that, he is close. Too close.
And he is a man. A stranger.
My pulse drums in my ears as I take a step back, finding myself even deeper in the shadows. The store suddenly feels too small, too stifling, as if the very air has thickened around us.
I cast a careful glance toward the front counter, barely visible now through the small hole where the book had been.
The other girls remain engaged in a heated argument with Mrs. Jenkins about the selection of books we are permitted to buy.
No one is looking toward the back. There is no reason, after all—no one would dare go there.
The protective shield of the darkened back row should ease me.
It doesn’t.
“I’ll buy it for you,” he offers.
The words snap my attention back to him. “What?” I stare at him in shock. He might not see my expression, but the cadence of my voice should echo my surprise.
His hand moves, deliberate and unhurried, as he places the book into my gloved one. Its weight is startling, as though I have been handed something far heavier than mere pages. “If you want to read it, you should,” he encourages.
My fingers twitch against the cover, an instinctive response to something I desire yet cannot have. I push it back toward him. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
I swallow. “You know why.”
The veil covering my face and neck, the gloves covering my hands, should be answer enough—there is no part of me left uncovered. He must know what that means. Everyone else does.
A flicker of understanding passes through his expression. He tilts his head slightly, studying me. “I know, in theory,” he finally says. “But I also know you’re interested.”
“I shouldn’t be,” I say quickly.
“Why?”
I open my mouth, then close it again.
Why? What kind of question is that? The answer should be obvious. It has been given to me since childhood. I don’t even have to think about it; it is simply truth.
But standing here, with a forbidden book in my hands and a stranger’s expectant gaze fixed on me, I find that I don’t know how to answer.
He extends his hand again, calm, patient.
I move one step back to avoid his touch. Even through layers of material, it feels far too intimate.
“Let me pay for it,” he offers again in the same kind manner.
A flare of irritation rises in my chest, and I clench my jaw.
“No one has to know.”
“I will know,” I insist.
“Ah, but isn’t that precisely what you desire?” His lip curves upward in a daring smile.
My nostrils flare in annoyance.
It isn’t just the book. It isn’t just the fact that he won’t take no for an answer. It’s the fact that he likely knows what happens to women who stray in my community—everyone knows.
No, it’s more than that.
It is him.
The way he stands there so confidently, so unburdened by rules drilled into me since birth. The way he looks sharp, composed, free.
“You don’t understand,” I say, my voice clipped. “You never will.”
He doesn’t argue. That, more than anything, unsettles me.
“No,” he agrees. “I don’t and likely never will.” He lets the words settle, as though acknowledging a truth neither of us can change. “But I do understand one thing—curiosity.”
My heart beats faster, that one word settling somewhere deep inside of me: somewhere it seeks to hide, somewhere it seeks to thrive.
“You have that,” he continues, his voice quiet but firm. “Enough to stand here and argue with me. Enough to think about it, even though you shouldn’t. Enough to want something you know you aren’t allowed to have.”
He is right. And I hate that he is right.
I flick my gaze back toward Mrs. Jenkins, whose sharp voice still rings through the store, keeping the other girls occupied.
I have little time. If I get caught—if I am seen—
He must notice my hesitation. “Take it,” he says again, softer this time.
I hesitate, truly hesitate, for the first time. “Why are you doing this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Something flickers in his expression—pity, amusement? The former is more likely. “If only one thing were free in this world, it should be knowledge. Take it, read it, and learn from it.”
I glance at the title again. His words seem measured, thoughtful.
“You speak as if you already know everything.”
He chuckles, the sound oddly melodious. “Everything? I wish.” Another laugh. It’s not loud, so as not to draw attention to us. A part of me is grateful for it. “But I do know something about this book.” He pauses. “I will pay for it. It is yours to do with as you please now.”
Before I can object again, he turns to leave, but not before adding something else: something oddly foreboding.
“Hide it well, Petra. Don’t get caught.”
His steps echo through the shop as he briefly stops by the counter and exchanges a few short words with the bookseller. His departure is announced by the chiming bell at the door.
I stand there unmoving, holding the book but not thinking about it.
I never told him my name . . .