“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.
Chapter 16
Ronan
