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It was a cocktail party. In the center of the room, men and women mingled, talking and laughing, picking glasses of wine and canapés off trays passed by women in old-fashioned dresses who moved silently through the crowd. At once, all the faces turned in our direction, and my heart jumped. But the Paters’ attention quickly resettled, and Nicole tugged me in the direction of the back wall.
The men wore suits again tonight, paired with gleaming wristwatches and polished shoes, well heeled and well coiffed. Unmasked, they were a mix of old and young, every height and shape. The masks had been part of a game, then, not a regular precaution. A costume.
All the better for me. I tried to commit each of their faces to memory.
The women leaned younger than the men. There were so many of them, more than I’d expected. As we wove through the room, I tried to catch their eyes. I wanted to askWhy are you here? Why do you like this? What does it give you?
I wanted to know these things about myself.
The entire room buzzed with dark anticipation. Their eyes kept flitting to a four-poster bed, jarringly out of place against a far wall.
We made it to the opposite wall and Nicole leaned against it, her gaze locking on the bed like everyone else’s. “We’re in black tonight to mourn Cynthia,” she said. “Normally we have a dress code. Always dresses, with a hem that falls below your knees. Never straps. Always heels and pantyhose. You should be feminine and modest. It’s what the Paters like.”
I knew exactly what they liked. I’d been the prototype. So I didn’t bother asking,Feminine—what do you mean by that?Because the daughters, in their prim dresses, were old fantasies made flesh and blood. Molded to fit an idea of women plucked from history, from Paters’ heads.
“Nicole,” I whispered. It was too soon, and I would risk showing my hand, but I had to know. “Did you know a daughter named Laurel Hargrove?”
She didn’t react with suspicion. In fact, she didn’t react at all. Her gaze remained on the bed. “I don’t talk to the other daughters, and I recommend you don’t, either. Half of them are here for the wrong reasons, and the other half you’re in competition with for the Hilltop.”
“What are the wrong reasons?”
She snorted. “Money. Clothes. Jewelry. All sorts of things. The Paters aren’t supposed to, but you’d be surprised what you can get once you’re in someone’s service. Enough to make a living.” She shook her head. “It’s better than most other ways around here.”
“Are you in someone’s service now?”
“I’m working on it.”
As if it was a promotion.The daughters as entrepreneurs.I shook my head. I needed to focus on Laurel. “But if you could just remember—”
“Shh,” she urged. “It’s starting.”
Near the bed, a man raised his hand for silence, and the music stopped, heads turning in his direction. He was abnormally tall, standing head and shoulders above the others, his suit jacket pulling tight over his massive shoulders. His hairless skull shone in the candlelight.
“The Disciple,” Nicole whispered. “Stay out of his way.”
“Tonight we punish Cynthia for disobedience,” the Disciple called. He reached behind him, pushing a dark-haired woman forward. The room buzzed. “Pater, tell us how she violated you.”
Another man—older and shorter, with a great round middle—stepped forward. “Twice I’ve ordered Cynthia to give herself to me, and twice she’s refused.”
The buzzing in the room grew louder. I glanced at Nicole. Her eyes were zeroed in on the woman who must be Cynthia. From a distance, with her long, dark hair, Cynthia and I could have been sisters.
The Disciple looked down at Cynthia from his tall height. “Do you acknowledge this?”
For a moment, it looked like she would protest. But then the expression melted from her face and she said, in a clear voice, “Yes. I submit to punishment with full humility, so I may grow.” Her hands twisted in front of her.
The bald man’s voice boomed through the room. “We’re gathered here to punish Cynthia in full view of the Society to restore order and put her back on the path to enlightenment. We kill her ego out of mercy.” He turned to her. “Off.”
The room was silent as Cynthia undressed, the only movements her arms pulling jerkily at her dress and the flickering shadows on the wall. Then the Disciple did something eerily familiar. He put his large hand on the back of Cynthia’s neck and shoved her face-first into the bed, so only her naked back faced us.
The memory returned: the suffocating cotton, my shallow breaths, Don’s whisper in my ear.
“Daughter, do you submit your body in penance?” The Disciple twisted Cynthia’s head so she could speak.
“Yes,” she choked. She’d already started crying. It had taken me much longer.
The Disciple shoved her head back down and gestured to the round man who’d complained. He walked up, holding a belt.
Don’s favorite.
