Page 51 of Insolence
The prioress takes center stage again, her fingers lightly grazing the birdcage as she passes. She chuckles fondly, regarding the finches inside their wrought iron prison.
Her expression turns solemn when she faces us again. “Please keep in mind the goddess makes no mistakes. Whatever color each of you draws is what she, in her infinite wisdom, has ordained.”
Through the mist, the Five are riveted on her—on us. I feel sick, briefly fearing I’m going to vomit. I’m glad there’s nothing but tea in my stomach.
“Let us now proceed,” says Mother Deirdre.
One at a time, she calls our names. Women walk up the aisle toward the tree, and the silver crank is turned until the telltalethunksignals a sphere has dropped into the holding channel.
Murmurs ripple through the crowd as the first initiate reaches into the dark holding channel.
The first initiate brandishes her sphere.
“It is black!” Deirdre announces, as if we can’t already see it.
The initiate circles the tree. Through billowing fog, I watch her curtsy and present the black sphere to the Jedrek man. He must take it from her because it’s no longer in her possession when she returns to her bench.
Bile sours the back of my tongue. The part of me not preoccupied with the Screamer is fixated on drawing a black sphere. Although Sadrie and Cordelia have both assured me otherwise, theywere the ones who received so-calledomens. Not me.
Like most women here, I suspect, I do not want to become betrothed to Eisha’s service. Ihatethe idea of becoming a sister. Somehow, IknowI’ll draw a black sphere. It’s the same intuition with which I’m certain I didn’t offer myself willingly to this temple.
“Pssst!” Sadrie’s hiss jerks my muscles. She inclines her head in the direction of the aisle.
Cordelia strides toward the drum with breathtaking confidence. Sadrie laces her fingers through mine, squeezing to the point of pain. Neither of us breathes as our friend turns the crank.
Thunk.
My free hand goes to my mouth. I strip off my glove with my teeth and promptly chew my thumbnail.
Cordelia removes her own glove, reaching into the channel. The sphere emerges a moment later. Even from here, the contrast is stark between her dark brown skin and the white flashing between her fingers.
The prioress’s face lights up. “Blessed Eisha, we have our first acolyte!”
An enormous sigh collapses out of me.
Sadrie squeals, glomming onto my arm and practically bouncing in her seat. “I told you so,” she hisses.
The patriarchs exchange approving glances, several talking quietly among themselves as Cordelia approaches.
When she’s finished paying homage, Cordelia returns. Her coral lips curve into a grin as she passes Ailen, intending to rejoin us on the bench.
“Over here, dear.” Maida beckons her. “Stand next to us.”
Her eyes sparkling like smokey quartz, Cordelia positions herself between the two priestesses who whisper congratulations. Even Ghisele gives her a nod that borders on respectful.
I cross one leg over the other, foot bobbing nervously, and gnaw my thumbnail. My relief for Cordelia is replaced with ever-growing dread as I watch the next initiates draw their spheres.
Black. Black. Black. Black. Black.
“Sadrielle?” Mother Deirdre calls. “It’s your turn.”
My friend perks up. I give her hand a quick squeeze as she rises from the bench. Unable to watch, my gaze shifts to the Second High Priestess.
Her hair is loose and hanging forward over one shoulder in an inky cascade. The hem of her black skirt is visible in flashes, skimming the tops of her heeled boots through her cloak’s opening. Consumed in the ceremony, she’s altogether ignoring me.
Nothing new there.In the vast ocean of low-simmering panic, shock, and uncertainty I’m now floundering in, her disregard is almost comforting in its familiarity. Whatever anger I felt toward her yesterday has dissolved into distant memory.
I swear, this week has been the longest year of my life. Probably.
