Page 89 of Spark of Madness

“You’re suggesting that we capitalize on that.”

I nod. “It wouldn’t be difficult to ensure that our brothers’ excitement for the punishment be directed at Mercy. Many of them already speak as if she’s the only one on trial.”

He inclines his head as he regards me with confusion. “Why would you want to do that for Delle? Why would you want to do that to Mercy?”

“Because Mercy is a temptation to me,” I admit, though it doesn’t sit well in my stomach. “Perhaps her temptation deserves to be punished. It’s women like Mercy who inspire girls like Delle toward dissension.”

Theo nods and slowly turns his head to look out in front of him, gazing toward where Delle sleeps in her bed. “You’re right. We’ll inspire our brothers to direct their punishment toward the one who deserves it most.”

This is right.

This is necessary.

I feel the ache of shame brew within me, a sense of guilt that I’m somehow betraying Mercy in this. But I’m not beholden to her, and I owe her nothing.

She’ll be dead before long.

chapter twenty-nine

Mercy

SERVICE OF THEFlesh.

The first of my three trials begins in thirty minutes.

I stand facing the full-length mirror in my bedroom, still fully clothed and wondering why I even bothered to dress today. These garments will be stripped from me soon. The crimson gown made of silk, which clings to my curves but covers me so modestly with its boat neck and long sleeves. The black bra and panties I wear beneath it, the garter belt holding up my black stockings, and even the boots on my feet will be stripped away.

My fingers play across the silk at my thighs, gripping it and lifting enough to show my boots beneath my dress. All the servants wear shoes like mine, and in a way, wearing them now makes me feel bound to them, serving as a reminder of the role I was selected to serve within this community.

Perhaps I should have shed them when I entered the Homestead and worn the difficultly tall shoes left for me in the wardrobe instead. Perhaps wearing the boots as the last symbol of my servitude should make me sad.

But it doesn’t.

In some strange way, the connection to the servants makes me feel stronger. They were my sisters, and I loved them dearly—I still do. They’re women I care for, even if I could never understand the joy they find in service, even if I could never reconcile my changing beliefs with their own.

Regardless of what’s in our individual minds, we’re the same inside, and my compassion for them knows no bounds.

I recall the looks on Ellary’s and Cambria’s faces when I tried to speak with them at Ivy Jane’s memorial. They were heartbroken, devastated, and disappointed in me for sinning—because they believed that what I’d done was truly a sin. And though I’ll never agree with them on that, I don’t fault them for the beliefs that have been fed to them since birth. It’s not their fault they believe what they believe. I don’t judge them for it, and I don’t love them any less.

Still, I feel lonelier than ever in these moments before my punishment is set to begin—the beginning of the end for me—and my boots make me feel just a little more connected to the sisterhood that once loved me as much as I love them.

I hear the door at my back click open, then close again gently.

It’s Arlo.

I know without looking.

I feel the pulse of him as he crosses the room, slowly making his way toward me.

I drop my dress to cover my boots, then give myself one last glance in the mirror before lifting my eyes to meet his reflection. He stops behind me, his handsome face peeking over my shoulder in the reflection, regarding me with an expression I can’t decipher.

We stand this way for what must be minutes, watching each other in the mirror, each of us trying to read the other for their aching thoughts in these moments before my defilement.

He’s the first to speak. “It’s a shame I’ll have to remove the dress. You look lovely.”

I glance down, then look up at his reflection. “I don’t want your compliments, Arlo.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment. It’s simply the truth.”

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