I'll soon be intheground. Down there among the dirt,clumps of stone, and muck-covered roots. I’ve been before, down in the Pits, where evil goes to die, but I've always been pulled back out, unlike Margaret, whose body is decaying there now.
The three handmaidensbathe me anyway. Their faces flush from the plumes of steam as they prune and prod me. The chains of the Shroud clank noisily as they usher me this way and that. One of them lifts at the chain veil to draw a coarse rag over my mouth and then crams it under the golden cross that intersects my forehead, while the other pulls at my hair from under the bar, cutting down the back of my skull.
My mind retreats into dark corners. What manner of things I’ll be subjected to this evening after I’m wed and the Shroud is removed, my face bared for the first time in twelve years—handed over like a wrapped gift to those who do the bidding of the devil himself.
I dig my nails into the wooden grain of the tub. The usually dull, milk-pale skin of my thighs is red and scalded from the near-boiling temperature of the water, but I don’t utter any complaints. The pain is a welcome distraction from the throb and burn of the daemon that sings its usual song through my limbs in white, hot rhythms.
They’re much more thorough in bathing me than usual, lathering me with oils of myrrh and sandalwood. Nadine, my sister’s regular handmaiden, is quiet, lips pursed. She won’t meet my gaze, eyes rife with guilt at what she’s preparing me for.
The other two handmaidens nudge elbows into each other’s ribs as they whisper and giggle. As castle handmaidens, they do not usually work in the House of Shroud and it’s apparent by their behavior why they’re not chosen for such an honor.
But their presence here today is intentional. They do not recognize me for who I really am. That I am not my sister, even though I’m so obviously marked asotherby the daemon in the pigment-less white of my hair and the splotchy white mark stretching across my chest.
“You shouldn’t fear it,” one of the handmaidens says, interrupting me from my spiraling thoughts. “Use it to your advantage.”
I lift my head in her direction, chains tinkling. Everything about her is curved and soft, from the waterfall of locks descending her shoulders to the plump shape of her lips.
“They may have power, but this is a woman’s power. This is how we survive.” My posture grows rigid as she trails a hand over my hip to further demonstrate her point.
“Tabetha! You can’t really be advising her to seduce a witch,” the other handmaiden whispers.
Tabetha only grins, flicking droplets of water in the other’s direction. “Even witches must have cocks,” she says, lips exaggerating the consonants of that final word. “And anything with a cock can be…swayed.”
They both erupt into hushed giggles, and Nadine sends them a disapproving scowl. Definitely not fit to work in the House of the Shroud. If the Grand Prioress heard them, the pillory would be the least of their worries.
They finally tug me out of the tub, dry me, brush the tangles out of my long, stark white hair, and fasten it into an intricate braid. Not that it matters. Once they clasp the white fabric piece to the bar of the Shroud, my hair won’t be seen at all. They dress me in the white, billowy gown, almost identical to the dress I wear daily except for the line of golden beading along the sleeves and the hem.
There are no mirrors in the House of the Shroud, but it’s easy to imagine that with the white of my hair hidden by fabric and bars, I’m a mirror image of Syra, my twin. Nadine dismisses the other two handmaidens. As soon as the door shuts behind them she turns a grimace on me. So far, everything is going to plan. Last night, I’d taken to Syra's chambers, and she’d taken to mine to make the switch.
Blinking back traces of remorse, Nadine heaves a sigh. “Ready?”
I only nod, not trusting my ability to speak with the hardening of my throat. She holds open the door, and we both stop short at the sight at the end of the hallway.Syra.
She shuffles forward a few steps as tears spill from her eyes that quickly vanish behind the chains of the Shroud. Panic tightens my ribs as I check the hallway to see if anyone has noticed her. “You’re not supposed to be here,” I hiss.
“I can’t do it,” she chokes. “You can’t go in my place. I’ll go. It’s supposed to be me.”
“Syra,” I say carefully. “You have already agreed. We have all agreed.”
“You don’t understand,” she sobs. “It’s supposed to be me. All of this is my fault. For what I’ve done with—“
I start forward and clamp a hand over her mouth, chains and all. “Quiet,” I hiss.
She jerks her head back. “I’ve already let them take Margaret, and I can’t do it again. I can’t, I can’t. I deserve this,” she sobs.
“You think I don’t?”
“You don’t. You never have. You’ve always gotten the worst, and I’ve never done anything to protect you. I let them—“
My eyes widen in surprise, but her words turn unintelligible with the force of her sobs. It’s been years since we discussed my predilection with the daemon.
But she’swrong.
I check the hallway. We’ve already made it so far…she’s going to ruin everything. With Syra still burying her face in my shoulder I throw Nadine a look and point at the chamber door. She appears hesitant only for a moment before she nods gravely. Because we all know Syra does not make sense.
I make sense.
Why my father would choose her over me baffled us all. She’s everything a Shrouded should be. Everything I am not. Not tainted by the daemon.
