Page 14 of Whispers of Fire

As I put on my dark brown shoes in the entryway, my parents keep checking their outfits, and my mom tugs at my skirt, making sure it covers my ankles.

“Good, good, he should be pleased,” she murmurs to herself. Fidgeting with her hands, she puts on her coat before we all head out to the car.

As I open the door and slide inside, followed by my mother, I glance toward Vox’s window, peering into his kitchen. There’s no one in there; it’s been empty for days. Each time I try to take a glimpse inside, I entertain the mad idea of trying to thank him, knowing I would never be able to do such a thing in the presence of my parents. But even the smallest opportunity to see him would suffice, to at least smile at him, silently thanking him for what he did.

I just want to see him.

“ Let’s go, it’s not everyday our family is summoned at the Chapel!” my mother says, clapping her hands eagerly.

It’s weird, we usually only go there on Sundays. The rest of the time my parents work—my father as a teacher at my school and my mother as a secretary in a dental practice. They both work with people from the community.

I'm in my last year at the Faithful Lambs Institute, which is the equivalent of high school in our community. My parents always said that there was no better place for me to learn about the right values. Next year I'm expected to be married and probably pregnant, but my mind struggles visualizing this image.

Not that I don't want to get married and have kids—I mean, I want that, one day—but I would want something different than what my parents have. I would like my husband to be a friend, with whom I’d share everything. We would talk about books, movies, and just enjoy each other's company.

The only time I get to see happy couples is when I walk in the streets, and I sometimes count the number of couples I pass by, holding hands, smiling at each other.

There's something special about observing people with their loved ones. But I doubt this will ever happen to me.

First of all, I would need to be lucky enough to be given to a man who will have the patience to learn how to sign and deal with my mutism.

So basically no one.

A strange thought comes to my mind as I remind myself that communication hasn't seemed like an issue with Vox. Since the moment I saw him, my mind and my body were drawn to him. Even when he spoke to me, I felt as if he could read me like a book, observing my body language as if it was enough for him to understand me.

I wonder if he felt that way too.

We drive towards the Chapel, the atmosphere inside the car tense. My parents exchange nervous glances. It’s raining today, making it harder to see outside from the car window, like an animal stuck in a cage.

We drive through the neighborhood, to the quiet of endless fields behind the city.

Our Chapel is about thirty minutes from our house. It isn’t like the Catholic ones, massive and made of cement. Ours is much smaller, made of one large hall and one bell tower. It’s white and made entirely of wood. I remember asking my father when I was younger why our Chapel was in the middle of nowhere, far from everything. And he would always answer me that it was to make sure we were safe, far from the non-believers.

Approaching it, I don’t see our folks in front of it like they usually do on Sundays.

Looking at my mom, who is sitting in the seat in front of me, I touch her shoulder with my fingers to ask for her attention. She turns her head to the side, watching me.

“What’s going on?” I sign.

“I, I don’t know. We’ve been asked to come with you,” she says, playing with her fingers.

Why is she so anxious?

“Who asked?” I sign, my mother watching my hands.

“The Shepherd,” she says, her voice carrying fear and anxiousness.

Why would the Shepherd want to see our family? Has he found me a fiancé already? This thought makes me nauseous, and I suddenly don’t feel well, putting my hand on my mouth. My mom observes me.

“Don’t be sick,” she says firmly.

“If the Shepherd wants to see our family, then it is an honor he’s doing for us. You will behave accordingly,” my father’s deep voice says. We open our doors to go out into the rain, and I can’t help but have a feeling of uneasiness coursing through my veins, as if something terrible is about to happen but I can’t put my finger on it.

Ever heard about trusting your intuition? Don’t step into this building, Rose.

The large doors open, and I follow my parents into the Chapel, crossing my fingers that some good will come of it.

Chapter 5

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