Chapter 34
“Connection mends the soul, whereas division threatens its ruin.”
- The Old Book
It was Thursday, eight o’clock, in the rec room. I wanted to leave.
Every fiber of my being screamed at me to leave. My ears ached listening to a seventeen-year-old boy screech the lyrics to a popular folk song. His constant voice cracks had me gripping the edge of the table. The frequency was just too sharp, slicing through any attempt I made to block it out.
I was only here to get Corsica Marwood off my trail.
Ever since she cornered me, inquiring why I had yet to attend any organized social events, she had been showing up wherever I was—after transfusions, truth sessions, even meals. Always chirpy. Always asking when she could expect me at an activity night.
I was worried her lurking about would lead her to uncover things she shouldn’t know about. Like my sparring lessons with Rowan, or my plot to break into the library.
So now here I was, being slowly tortured, just to prove I was “making an effort.”
I stared at the chipped surface of the table and tried to pretend I wasn’t spiraling. The noise was too much, and my fingers were trembling. I wanted nothing more than to leave, but I felt her eyes on me even now.
A chair scraped beside me.
My breath hitched as I glanced up, expecting the worst—Corsica. My presence was my participation. If they made me sing, I would croak.
My shoulders relaxed when I realized it wasn’t Corsica, but Talia.
She sat down wordlessly, balancing a tray with a cup of cider and a small slice of crumb cake she didn’t touch. She didn’t look at me, didn’t smile, didn’t make a sound.
Just… sat there.
I blinked, unsure what to make of it. Normally she had a light in her that drew others in. Now, it was shrouded.
“Is everything okay?”
“Truth session,” she whispered.
I immediately understood. My throat constricted, and I tentatively put my hand on her shoulder. She wasn’t alone in her pain, and if the only comfort she could take from me was solidarity, then I would give it.
The boy on stage attempted a falsetto note that murdered something inside me. I winced visibly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Talia’s lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but it was something.
The two of us sat in silence, watching the scene unfold around us.
The culled seemed more alive than they had in weeks.
A part of me wondered if they had moved past feeling betrayed, but I didn’t think so.
They still avoided sitting by me at meals, and none ever spoke to me of their own volition.
I also hadn’t missed that they scarcely interacted with Talia, no doubt punishment for her kindness toward me.
Though she lacked her usual optimism, Talia’s presence anchored me. It was quiet and steady. And oddly enough, it helped.
She slid her plate of untouched cake toward me, then folded her hands in her lap and resumed her silent listening.
I didn’t say thank you. I felt as if the moment was too raw for words. But I broke off a piece of the cake and ate it anyway.
A shadow fell across the table, and Talia stiffened.
“Ms. Ashbone,” Karina’s voice called out, causing me to squeeze my eyes shut. She was only ever around for one thing.
When I met her gaze, her expression was stone-cold, emotionless. She was a perfect soldier.
“You’re needed for a faith session.”
My stomach sank. “It’s late.”
She didn’t blink, continuing to stare expectantly.
Looking at Talia, she was still stiff and staring ahead blankly. I was hesitant to leave her in such a state, but it seemed I had no choice. I never did anymore.
With a reluctant sigh, I stood and followed Karina out of the room. The music dulled behind us, swallowed by sterile halls and the faint echo of our footsteps.
When we reached our destination, Karina opened the door, and inside was a semicircle of chairs—empty. Only Dr. Holcrum stood inside with his arms crossed, as if he’d been waiting long for my arrival.
I turned to Karina. “Am I the first one here?”
But she was already walking away.
“Come in,” Dr. Holcrum announced. His voice was silk over steel. “Sit.”
I stepped inside, and the door whispered shut behind me. I found my seat, taking a cautious look around the room. It felt cavernous in its stillness.
“You’re the only one attending tonight,” he said.
The words sent a chill up my spine, raising the hair on my nape.
Holcrum dragged a chair across the tiled floor with a long, scraping groan, positioning it in front of mine. Then he sat, folding his hands over one knee. We were eye to eye.
“Do you believe in the gods, Ms. Ashbone?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
His mouth curved. Not a smile, but something questioning.
“Liar.”
I gripped the metal legs of the chair hard.
“I’m not lying.”
I may not have been a fanatic, but I was no heretic.
“Then why,” he asked slowly, “do you reject the scripture?”
“I don’t reject it,” I snapped. “I just don’t support its being used as a tool of control.”
His eyes gleamed. “It was written by Our Lady herself. That makes it doctrine. Every verse is sacred, including the one you renounce.”
“It doesn’t mean what you think it does.”
Dr. Holcrum tilted his head, curious. “Then tell me. What does it mean?”
I swallowed hard as memories of Grandmother Alma’s lessons flickered through my head.
“I was taught that peace is achieved by having a connection with the gods. And through that connection, you are saved from true death.”
His expression softened, almost thoughtfully.
“Ah, true death. When one is erased—body, soul, and spirit. A fate worse than the Sea of Sorrow, is it not?”
I nodded, skeptical of his acceptance.
Death was everyone’s end, the ultimate act of life. However, I learned that there were two types: physical death and true death.
When people physically died, their memory lived on, and their spirit crossed the veil into either the Realm of Remembrance or the Sea of Sorrow.
Whereas true death was reserved for the worst souls, those considered unworthy of any afterlife.
Souls deemed unfit even for the pain of eternal drowning were erased, stolen from common thought as if they’d never existed at all.
“I’m surprised that you’re familiar with its concept. It can be a dark subject to learn, so many don’t teach it. But ignorance doesn’t make things go away, does it?”
“No,” I admitted. “It doesn’t.”
Dr. Holcrum leaned back, steepling his fingers. “What do you think will happen when you die?”
“I’ll meet Anam.” It was a fact.
“But where do you think you’ll go?”
I rubbed my arm mindlessly. I hated this question because I hated its answer. Instead of telling Dr. Holcrum what I hoped for, I told him the truth.
“I don’t know.”
He looked at me so intensely my skin itched. After several moments of tense silence, he spoke.
“You don’t need faith sessions.”
“Then… why am I here?”
“I’m required to see you twice before I can make my recommendation.”
My pulse stuttered. “So this was some kind of test?”
He stood, brushing the wrinkles from his pant leg. “Not exactly. You don’t need faith sessions because the connection you lack…” He paused, as if savoring the weight of his next words. “…isn’t one I can teach you. It’s one you’ll have to find yourself.”
His gaze didn’t waver. It pinned me, sharp as glass, until my chest tightened. Then, with a flick of his hand toward the door:
“Go.”
I stood on unsteady legs, confusion coiling like smoke in my lungs. His words clung to me as I walked, sticky, impossible to shake.
“And Ms. Ashbone?”
The sound of my name froze me mid-step. I turned.
Dr. Holcrum’s expression was unreadable. His voice, quiet enough to make me lean in, carried like a promise.
“Keep searching for what you’re really looking for. I think you’ll be surprised by what you find.”
His gaze held mine for one unbearable second longer. Then he turned away, as if I were already gone.