The men’s chanting flows to a slow halt, a stream blowing away from a windy waterfall.
Silence.
Everything in the room focuses on the self-appointed God on the throne, his Christian and heathen regalia reeking of a special cocktail of blasphemy.
“Sit, my doves. Sit and relax.” He snaps his fingers.
The Head Spinner walks swiftly out the door and returns with a brigade of Spinners, each one carrying trays laden with fruit, cheese, wine, chocolates, and everything that has been forbidden to us over the past few days in the Cloister.
Is it a trick? I shoot a look toward the Maidens to my right. Like me, they peek at the bounty as it’s set around them. A fat purple grape taunts me from the corner of my eye, but I don’t dare reach for it. Not with the Head Spinner within baton range.
“Very well.” The Prophet plucks a strawberry from the plate to his right. “My darling Spinners, for this special evening, I’d like all of you to take your leave and spend the time in quiet reflection.”
The Head Spinner takes a step forward. “But the Spinners always—”
“Grace!” The Prophet’s roar makes every one of us jump. Then his voice quiets, “Do you see these precious children gathered at my feet, Grace?”
“Yes, Prophet.” Her voice trembles, and I take what satisfaction I can from that little fact.
“Do you see how obedient they are?”
She hangs her head. “Yes, Prophet.”
“Go and spend the rest of the evening praying to the Lord that you will be more like them. More humble. More gracious.” Venom drips from the word. “And certainly more willing to be in harmony with your Prophet.”
“Yes, Prophet.” She shuffles backwards, then turns and walks out, the rest of the Spinners following her.
When the doors close, the Prophet’s low snarl dissipates until he is once again smiling. “Eat and drink, my fair Maidens.”
I glance at the Maiden next to me. She reaches for a cube of cheese, takes it with shaking fingers, and pops it into her mouth. As she chews, I wait for the axe to fall. When she swallows and takes another piece, I chance the grape. When I pop it into my mouth, it bursts on my tongue with a sweetness that promises a verdant spring.
When nothing horrible befalls us, we begin to eat more freely. The Prophet smiles from his throne as the men remain on their knees along the periphery. I take a sip of wine and glance at Adam. His gaze pierces me, and I doubt he’s looked anywhere else since this strange ritual began.
It’s unnerving, but also… somehow gratifying? I don’t sense menace in him right this second, but I know it’s there.
“Why can’t we eat like this at the Cloister?” Sarah hisses and snags a thick chunk of cantaloupe from my tray.
A few of the other Maidens are whispering, but no one reprimands them. The Prophet motions to the Maiden nearest him to come sit with him.
We quiet at that and watch.
He pulls her to his side and pops a green grape in her mouth, then whispers in her ear. Her cheeks flame and she smiles. His hand stays at her side, never wavering from the smooth flesh of her waist as they talk in low tones for a few minutes.
I have no clue what’s going on, but I’m not going to waste the chance at eating well for once since I’ve been here. I devour the rest of the red grapes on the silver tray to my right as the Prophet sends the first Maiden back into the crowd and takes the next to his lap. More whispering and smiling as he feeds her a sugary blackberry.
Sarah leans over. “I-I think it’s real. Like it’s actually okay.” She’s mid-chew on a brie-covered cracker.
“We’ll see.” I can’t seem to stop looking at Adam. Every time our gazes lock, a warning sounds deep inside me. But is it telling me to worry about him, or the Prophet, or the Spinners? There are too many dangers for me to sort out. Instead, I drink my wine and lounge on the pillows. The other Maidens have already lain themselves out, feasting and whispering. If someone painted us right now, we’d look like sinners at the feast of Dionysus, or some similar pagan rite replete with nudity and excess.
I finish my glass and set it aside as Eve twirls a lock of my hair between her fingers. The bruising on her eye has turned a deep purple, but it doesn’t seem to bother her.
In a dreamy voice, she says, “Your hair is the color of light. Pure white light.”
I giggle. Then I stop and realize what I’ve done. I stare at the wine glass. I’ve been drunk before, but that’s not what this is. This is something deeper that verges on euphoria, a dangerous abandon that threatens to pull me down.