Page 11 of The Sinner and the Scholar
Prudence leaves without a backward glance. Like the switch being flipped, everyone follows. All playfulness destroyed, Mercy casts a disparaging look at the men before hugging her robe tight and heading back inside. Tawny kindly offers to show them to their rooms. Leila begrudgingly collects the Monsignor’s bags. Wesley is last up the steps, lugging a heavy, ornate wooden trunk on wheels.
I could offer to help.
He makes it to my step, pauses, glances down at me, and his upper lip curls. He smells like aftershave, sweat, and something else I recognize more than my own scent—ink and books.
He points at the severed limb dangling in my hand.
“Interesting symbol,” he remarks dryly. “Ancient Sumerian?”
I give him nothing.
“Right, then.” He stares. “I’ll just… head inside.”
I stare back.
He moves, hesitates, then points at my jawline. “You have something there.”
He reaches with a grimace. I catch his wrist before he connects. Our eyes clash, and my stomach flutters at the impact. It must be my lack of sleep stopping me from looking away. Thick lashes surround honey eyes with lids that droop on the outside. Just a little bit. He’s like a puppy I want to pet. A puppy won’t complain about me reading all night. It will give me unconditional love and endless cuddles. But puppies don’t look at you like you’re made of dirt.
I deepen my scowl.
His jaw tightens as he forces his hand and plucks something sticky off me. He eases out of my hold with a slow wrist twist before holding it before my face. “Seems rather like brain matter, wouldn’t you say?”
Is that supposed to mean he has our number as much as we have his? It’s not like I was hiding the blood on my body. For once, I’m grateful I still have the cold, sweaty severed limb in my hand. I use it to give his head a patronizing pat.
“Top marks for the scholar. You want a gold star?” I ignore his glower and turn to the Rev. “I’m going to get cleaned up now, and I’ll drop this off at the archives.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something, Thea?” She raises her brows.
“Confession.” My stomach rolls.
“Father McBride will be waiting for you in the chapel. Best not to keep him waiting.”
I slap the hand into the Rev’s palm and then head toward the Sin Bin, completely thrilled to find out what penance I’m due after the day I’ve had.
Six
Thea
As I head toward the back of the gothic church, my steps echo across the wooden floor and high, arched ceiling. It’s empty here, but I hear shuffling in the sacristy—the small room near the altar. Father McBride must be waiting inside. He’s an Irish import in his fifties and the third priest we’ve gone through in as many months.
The sacristy has been converted into a room dedicated to the penance of Sinners. All vestments and supplies have been removed in favor of what we girls liked to call a necessary evil—the tools that help purge the sin from our souls. Torture devices, whips, flogs, cilices, and coarse hessian robes, just to name a few. Two walls are lined with them. Some are ancient and outdated, but we keep them out of respect for the Sinners who came before us.
Pushed against one torture wall is a table covered in weapons Father blessed—daggers, swords, bullets. Against the second wall is a table with prayer candles just for Sinners. And at the third wall, an uncomfortable kneeling pew and vintage wooden confessional under the watchful gaze of a wooden crucifix.
They say this devotional room is for our privacy and because we’d clog up the main confessional with all our sinning, but it feels more like a dirty little secret.
The Sin Bin: where shame and secrets are locked away beneath mortified flesh. Where the devil is told, not today. And our sins are absolved.
We hope.
I can’t wholly blame this establishment for the pain inflicted in this room. I can’t even blame myself. Part of it is cathartic. Every wince or stab of agony releases something dark within me, cleansing the grimy feeling nipping at my heels.
Each Sinner has a different relationship with this room.
The bright purple penance stole draped around Father’s neck flickers gold as he adjusts the prayer candles. Sweat glistens on his freckled skin. His fingers tremble on the aluminum candle bases, making them tinkle. Usually, he’s inside the confessional if he knows one of us is due. But I’ve kept him waiting.
It’s a good thing he’s out. I need his help with this one.
