It was blue, a bluebird or blue jay feather, Cass didn’t know. She had never bothered to learn anything about birds, and now whole species had been lost. Some sort of small, brown, undistinguished bird had survived and even flourished, and a flock of them chattered from the stands, watching and waiting to swoop down for crumbs.
The birds’ chatter and the clink of cutlery vied with quiet conversation, but both fell silent as she and Hannah passed. As they neared the platform Cass noticed another feature: an iron ring, bolted to the wood floor. The pole was maybe four feet tall, with some sort of clamp attached slightly above knee level. Two metal plates opposed each other; they were padded with leather or vinyl and there was about a foot of space between them. Cass had no idea what the clamp’s purpose was, but it looked ominous. She swallowed hard-what exactly was Cora planning?
Hannah directed Cass to a chair placed a few feet to the side of the platform. Two women, one in pale pink and the other in red, silently stepped away from a nearby table and arrayed themselves behind her. Cass guessed they were there in case she tried to bolt.
A murmur started in the back of the assembly and spread forward. Cass looked out over the crowd, shading her eyes from the sun, and saw two figures approaching from the field. Her heart quickened to see that one of them was Monica.
She looked exhausted, as though she hadn’t slept at all. Her clothes were wrinkled and soiled. Her hair was tangled and knotted. A woman wearing a gray shirt and white pants-the only pants Cass had seen in the Convent other than the ones she wore when she arrived-and a long black braid down her back walked next to her, hand on her belt, where Cass was certain she had a weapon.
Monica passed directly in front of Cass without seeming to notice her. There were deep purple circles under her eyes, and she dragged her feet as she trudged to the platform.
Cass understood now why Hannah had been smug. Whatever Cora had planned for Cass, there was also to be a public punishment-the reckoning they’d been talking about. But what were they going to do to Monica? The pole that loomed over the platform-was she to be tied to it, perhaps beaten? The things she’d done-challenging the doctrine, even refusing to drink the blood-did they really merit a public whipping?
Mother Cora appeared from the opening in the stands that led to her quarters, elegant in a wine-colored tunic and skirt. She said a few private words to the deacons gathered at the front table and gave Cass a warm smile as she passed.
The guard was binding Monica’s hands behind her back, and Monica shivered, frightened and forlorn, in the morning chill.
Hannah followed Cora to the steps, bowing low before going to stand next to the guard behind the low table. Mother Cora regarded Monica with an expression that contained more sadness than anger, like a teacher whose favorite pupil had disappointed her.
“Sister Brenda, you may begin,” she said into the microphone, and then she bowed her head and went unhurriedly back down the steps to her place at the head of the front table. The guard lifted the cloth and fussed with the contents of the tray while Hannah seized Monica by her dark hair and forced her to her knees, bending her head back forcefully so she could see what was coming, tears of pain streaming from her eyes.
Sister Brenda moved with studied grace, lining up objects Cass couldn’t identify from a distance. When she was satisfied, she picked up a bowl and a sponge from the tray. She dipped the sponge into the bowl, drops of water sparkling in the morning sun.
She crouched in front of Monica and dabbed the sponge almost tenderly at her face, then squeezed it so that rivulets of water ran down her neck. Monica sputtered and coughed, and Brenda returned the bowl and sponge to the table, and waited with her hands folded in front of her.
Hannah approached the podium, not looking at Monica as she spoke. “Sisters,” her voice boomed through the speaker system, echoing off the far corners of the stadium. “We please our Lord with our works and our prayer, but we are weak. We are flawed. Each day we stumble on our journey and sometimes we fall. And then the Lord calls upon us to deliver what is due. Justice, my sisters-we are to serve as the hand of our Lord and return to each as she has done.
“We insult our Lord if we allow offenses against Him to stand. We must not invite the weakness to grow and gain a foothold. We must smite it with conviction. When we do as our Lord commands, the blemish is lifted, the penance is done and we welcome our sister back among us.”
It was all double-talk, no mention of a specific crime, no chance for the accused to defend herself.
“Sisters!” Hannah’s harsh voice rang out, as she pointed an accusing finger at Monica. “Here before you, our sister Monica awaits the cleansing of her sin!”
41
AFTER THAT THINGS MOVED QUICKLY.
Brenda picked up a long silver baton from the table and touched it to Monica’s shoulder. When the girl jerked and fell backward, Hannah’s grasp on her hair loosened, Cass realized the thing was an electric prod. The crowd gasped as Monica writhed and spasmed on the floor of the platform, her eyes rolling back in her head. Hannah picked her up under the arms and together she and Brenda wrestled her into place at the pole in the center of the platform. Hannah forced Monica’s head between the padded clamps while Brenda spun a wing nut until it no longer turned freely, then twisted it manually until her prisoner shrieked in pain, held captive by the pressure.
She fought against the clamps, her face red and grotesquely distorted, lips pursed and cheeks bulging, squeezing up until her eyes almost disappeared.
“Sister Brenda, still the sinning mouth of our Sister Monica!”
A cry went up as Brenda selected objects from the table and bent to her task. In one hand was a long curved needle, a tail of black thread fluttering in the breeze.
As Brenda leaned in close, Monica made a keening sound and blood trickled from the clamp where it pinched tightly against her temples. The wail escalated to a scream as the needle pierced her flesh, but Brenda didn’t flinch. She drew the thread slowly through Monica’s lips, taking care not to let it tangle, and then she knotted off the ends.
As she poked at Monica’s lower lip with the needle, starting the second stitch, Cass bolted out of her chair and made it almost to the steps. She was tackled from behind and went crashing to the ground. One of the women who had been posted behind her pinned Cass’s arms and spoke into her ear.
“Bad idea,” she said. Then she pulled up on Cass’s arms, causing white flashes of pain. “Gonna be good?”
Cass nodded, gritting her teeth, as the woman eased up the pressure on her arms and led her back to her chair. The assembled crowd could not see the blade the woman held in her palm, but Cass could feel its cold sharp edge at her neck. If she made another attempt to break away, the blade could slice through her skin with ease. The guards were taking no chances-not even with her, Mother Cora’s chosen one.
Brenda had made a couple more stitches. Tiny red dots of blood bloomed where the needle had gone into the skin-less than Cass would have expected. More shocking to see was the row of neat black X’s sealing the outer corner of Monica’s mouth. Saliva drooled from her dirty chin as she frantically moaned and struggled for air. Her breathing was becoming labored as one of her oxygen sources was slowly sealed shut, and the sound of her desperately trying to get enough air through her nose was as terrible as her cries of pain. Unless she calmed down, Monica was in danger of suffocation, of choking on her own vomit or her tongue.
Maybe that would be a kindness. The holes made by the needle were bound to become infected; there had been no sterilization of the skin-or for that matter, of the instruments.
The sharp, cold steel at Cass’s neck kept her still even as the last stitches were tied off and Monica could only snort desperately for air, blood trickling down her grotesquely distorted chin.
Abruptly Brenda spun the wing nut counterclockwise. The clamps opened and Monica fell forward, out of the padded restraints. She would have hit the floor, but Hannah caught her and eased her into a seated position, bent awkwardly with one leg splayed out in front of her. Brenda took a key from her neck and worked at the manacle until Monica’s other leg was freed, and then she moved the leg gently into place as though concerned only for Monica’s comfort.
She stepped out of the way and her handiwork was on full display. Monica stared out into the crowd with pain-
