15. Prudence
Prudence
“And Nicholas left a note on the boots that says ‘coffee-date approved,’ so I am wearing them,” I tell Ronan’s face on my phone screen. “Do you think that is correct? He also left a note on the jeans that says ‘pair with cream sweater,’ and I have done that as well.”
Ronan leans back, smiling. “You look perfect, baby.”
“You cannot even see the boots. I am holding the phone at my face.”
“I don’t need to see the boots to know you look perfect.”
Heat rises into my cheeks. I have been married to this man for eleven days, and his compliments cause flutters to appear in my belly.
“One of my men will be nearby,” he says. “You won’t see him, but he’ll be close.”
“I want to feel normal.”
“You are normal. You’re also married to me, which means a security detail. Non-negotiable.”
I huff—a sound I have learned from Saoirse, who huffs at Declan regularly. “Fine.”
“Order whatever you want. Don’t look at the prices.”
“Does hot chocolate count as coffee?”
He laughs—a real one, the kind that creases the skin beside his eyes and makes my pulse quicken. “Hot chocolate counts as whatever you want it to count as.”
We hang up, and I stand in the hallway gripping my phone, grinning at the dark screen like a fool. I catch my reflection in the hall mirror and pause.
The woman staring back wears a cream cashmere sweater, fitted dark jeans, and brown leather boots with a low heel.
Her hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders—I learned to use the curling wand Nicholas left, though I burned my ear on the first attempt.
Her eyes are lined with a thin stroke of brown pencil. Her lips carry a tint of rose.
Eleven days ago, this woman did not exist. I like her.
I grab the small clutch bag—phone inside—and ride the elevator down to the lobby. Thomas holds the front door open and tips his head. “Have a lovely day, Mrs. O’Rourke.”
The café is six blocks from the penthouse, and I walk every one of them with my face tipped toward the sky. The air smells of bread from a bakery I pass, of exhaust and rain-washed concrete, and something sweet from a flower cart on the corner. This air tastes like freedom.
I spot Nora and Saoirse through the café window. Nora waves, and Saoirse lifts her cup in greeting.
Inside, the menu hangs above the counter in white letters on a black board, and the sheer number of options stops me mid-stride. Espresso. Americano. Cappuccino. Flat white. Oat milk latte. Matcha. Chai. Lavender honey something.
Nora materializes beside me. “Lavender honey latte,” she says. “Trust me.”
“And a croissant.” Saoirse adds. “Buttery, flaky, and a little bit of heaven.”
We settle at a table near the window. I bite into the croissant and the layers melt on my tongue. The lavender latte is sweet and fragrant and unlike anything I have tasted.
The conversation drifts into easy territory.
Nora, who is with child, talks about the nursery she is almost finished decorating.
Saoirse talks about a stray cat named Hope who has taken over their brownstone.
I tell them about Nicholas’s post-it notes, and about how I accidentally turned the thermostat to ninety degrees and Ronan came home to a penthouse so hot the candles on the shelf had begun to soften.
They laugh. I laugh with them. The sound of my own laughter still startles me—I have laughed more in eleven days than in the nineteen years before them.
This is what it feels like to have friends.
To sit in a warm place with women who listen and share and do not judge.
The Enclave did not permit friendships among the sisters.
Attachment was discouraged. Preference was sinful.
We ate at the same table, slept in the same dormitory, and worked the same fields, but we rarely spoke to one another.
I belong here. With these women. In this café with its lavender honey lattes and flaking croissants.
“Excuse me,” I say, pushing back from the table. “I need to use the restroom.”
I notice my security guard sitting at a table with Nora’s and Saoirse’s. I stopped feeling strange about him when I learned I am not the only one of us who is guarded. I mouth the word restroom to him, and he nods.
The hallway to the restroom is narrow and dimly lit. I push through the door marked with a simple silhouette and step inside.
A woman stands at the sink.
She is not washing her hands. She is waiting.
My feet glue themselves to the spot.
Her dress is oatmeal-colored, long-sleeved, high-necked. A simple cloth covering pins her hair. Her hands are clasped in front of her—left over right, the prayer hold.
Sister Amity. I know her face—the narrow chin, the deep-set eyes, the thin mouth that rarely speaks above a whisper. She is ten years older than me.
“Sister Prudence.” Her voice is soft and sweet, sculpted by years of obedience.
My blood hammers so hard it’s nearly deafening.
“Father sent me.” Her words slice through me and land in the cold, dark place I thought I’d left behind. My chin drops an inch—automatic and ingrained—and I force it back up.
“I am not returning,” I say. My voice is steady. I am proud of that.
Sister Amity does not flinch. “The outside world has seduced you. The pleasures you taste here are the serpent’s fruit, Prudence. Sweet on the tongue, poison in the belly.”
“You do not know that of which you speak.”
“Father grieves for you.” She steps closer, and the familiar scent of lye soap and wool hits me.
“He prays every morning and every evening for your soul. He told the Flock you are lost, and the Flock weeps for you.” Her eyes bore into mine.
“Every comfort you accept draws you deeper into the pit of damnation. Every night you spend in that man’s bed is a sin that blackens your spirit. ”
My hands grip the edge of the sink. The porcelain is cold under my fingers.
“Father is wrong.” The words come out, but they lack the force I want them to carry. “I am not sinning. I am living.”
Sister Amity purses her lips. “He said you would resist.” She moves toward the door, and as she passes me, her mouth drifts close to my ear. “Father is waiting for you, Prudence.”
The door opens. Closes. She is gone.
I stand alone in the restroom with my hands locked on the porcelain. The serpent’s fruit. Sweet on the tongue.
I think of the croissant. The lavender honey latte. The hot chocolate at the pub. Every meal Ronan has placed before me that I ate with growing appetite and shrinking guilt.
I think of his mouth on my body. The pleasure that tore through me like a breaking dam.
Pleasure is damnation, Prudence.
I was happy five minutes ago.
Now, I feel a growing dread in the pit of my stomach.
I splash cold water on my wrists. I breathe until the hammering in my ears subsides. I arrange my face into the mask I wore for nineteen years—calm, composed, obedient to nothing visible.
Out in the hallway, my guard stands waiting with his back against the wall. I do not meet his eyes as I pass.
Back at the table, Nora looks up. “Everything okay? You were gone a while.”
“I’m fine.” The words taste stale.
Nora’s eyes linger on my face a beat too long, but she doesn’t push. Saoirse watches me over the rim of her cup with observant eyes.
I pick up my latte and take a sip. The lavender is still sweet. The foam is still warm.
But my hand trembles, and I set the cup down before either of them can see.
The conversation resumes. I smile in the right places. I nod. I even manage a half-hearted laugh.
Inside, Sister Amity’s words circle through me on a loop. Father is waiting.
I think of Ronan, who has done so much for me. Am I a vile, sinful woman? A twist of guilt wraps around my ribs and squeezes. Am I contaminating him? Is my presence—my desire, my body, my growing hunger for his touch—dragging his soul toward the fire?
I feel as though an inky darkness has begun to spread inside me.
I love him. I love him with a ferocity that frightens me—a want so large it fills every room I walk into.
And I am terrified that loving him is damning him right along with me, and that is the worst sin I have ever committed.