Free Hold Fast by Olivia Rigal, Shannon Macallan Page B

more strongly than the rest of us. A little more clearly.”
    “She’s always been like that, all my life,” I say. “But the changes, they’ve been worse, lately. More extreme.”
    “Father Emmanuel was here earlier to check on her,” Sister Rebecca says, changing the subject. She turns away from the window, meeting my eyes. What’re you really trying to tell me, Sister? “He was… displeased with her behavior last night.” The nurse’s gaze remains steady on mine. “ Most displeased.”
    Is this why I can’t see my mother before tonight? Did he hit her again? Does he want her tucked away until the swelling subsides?
    “And something else, as well. Father Emmanuel suggested that I should have a look at you as well. A thorough look,” she says, raising her eyebrows at me. “He mentioned that you were unwell yesterday morning. Is there something, perhaps, that needs to be checked out?”
    “I- I sincerely hope so, Sister Rebecca,” I answer, dropping my eyes and blushing.
    “Well, we’ll see, I suppose. Oh, I nearly forgot,” she says, and her nose is right back in the air, just as high as ever. “Father Emmanuel also said to tell you to go by his office this morning. Before you go out to pick berries.”
    “Do you know what he wants?” I ask, suddenly nervous. If they think I’m pregnant, then that may give Daniel and me some breathing room. It won’t be much, though-- my mother keeps that damnable calendar! In just a few more days that breathing room vanishes and the chains will be heavier and tighter than ever.
    “It’s not my place to question the anointed prophet of The Lord, Sister Courtney, and it is most certainly not yours .” And the moment is over: she’s back to normal.
    After thanking Rebecca with nearly unbearable courtesy, I make my way to the refectory. I can’t imagine why Satan would want to see me this morning, unless it’s to follow up on some unfinished business from last night. What more could there possibly be? The only things they didn’t tear to shreds are my cheap canvas shoes. Has the disgusting false prophet guessed that I really am stealing money from him? That I really am working towards a third bid for freedom? Nathan did catch me stealing, but they weren’t able to prove it. I’m safe, I think… for now. And where is Daniel? What has Emmanuel done with him? Done to him?
    Nerves and fear make every bite of breakfast pure torture. Fear for my poor sweet fake husband, fear for myself. The lumpy gray porridge doesn’t want to slide down, and swallowing the disgusting mush is even more difficult with the lump in my throat.
    Jeremiah delivers the morning sermon while we eat. I try to listen to the message he preaches, hoping for some distraction from fear, but it doesn’t work. Why did I think it would? Is there anyone less likely to be a reassuring presence for me?
    His sermon is mostly incoherent, just halting rambling, linking one scripture to another through some ridiculous leap of logic, and using it to draw some inane conclusion or other. I can’t even tell what his actual message is, but the adults gathered for their meal listen raptly, nodding as if he’s said something profound. Are you people all really this stupid? The emperor isn’t just naked, he’s also a complete idiot!
    Being the center of attention like this makes the prophet’s eldest son glow with pride. There’s no doubt that he loves the spotlight. He’s the closest thing these poor folks will ever have to a rock star, and he’s eligible bachelor numero uno to the older teenage girls, who sigh and blush prettily every time his gaze passes over them just like he was one of the Jonas brothers or James Marsden at the Teen Choice Awards that year. That year. 2008. Is any of that even still relevant?
    Jeremiah’s preaching may not have distracted me from my fear, but reminiscence does. I think back to the music I liked then, the poster of Justin Timberlake on my wall. I was already growing