“Did you have an accomplice, hellion?” Eola demanded. “I know you did.”
I shook my head. I wouldn’t lie to Father Cullard . . . but Mother Eola? Different story.
The matron of the House took me to the courtyard where a fifteen-year-old boy wrapped a rope-whip around a paddle.
“Five strikes,” Eola told the boy, before setting me on my knees facing away from them.
My forehead was placed against the trunk of the lone tree in the courtyard. Brothers and Sisters popped their heads out of windows and crowded the entryways to watch me receive my punishment.
Eola pulled my tunic down from my shoulders, exposing my smooth back. It had the effect of baring my front side too—including my budding breasts—to everyone watching, and filled me with shame and embarrassment.
As the paddle-wielding Brother reeled his arm back for the first strike, a voice cut through—
“Stop!”
Baylen shoved his way past the crowd.
My heart soared as my gaze snapped over to him.
“It was me!” he yelled. “Give me the punishment, Mother Eola. I implore you. I’m the thief. I stole the ornament for Sister Sephania.”
Eola trudged forward, arms crossed, eyes narrowing on Baylen’s shorter frame. Her eyes veered to me. “So you lied.” Next, her eyes moved past me to the boy with the paddle. “Make it ten lashes.”
“No!” Baylen cried.
I gasped.
Eola shoved a gnarled finger toward Baylen. “You can join her for your malfeasance, Brother Baylen. Ten strikes for the boy!”
Housemates gasped at the cruel decision.
All thoughts fled my whirling mind when the paddle abruptly struck my back without warning. The pain was intense, fierce, cold, as the thick rope bit into my flesh and drew blood.
I wailed, unable to stop myself. Tears flung from my eyes. The pain scoured to my bones, zinging past muscle and veins and igniting something inside me that told of uncontrollable rage.
I was no longer sad or guilty about what I’d done. No, in my young mind, I was furious at the indignity, unfairness, and humiliation being doled out to me for no reason.
Baylen went to his knees beside me, reaching out to hold my hand as he was disrobed from his tunic and struck by another boy with a paddle.
The next lash across my skin was no less painful. It wasn’t until the fifth that my bloodied back grew numb.
I saw Father Cullard watching our disciplining from the window of his writing room. His face was concerned yet he made no move to stop the injustice.
I cried out with every hit, until my voice became hoarse. Glancing over at Baylen, his fingers squeezed tightly around mine. His eyes were screwed shut, fighting off tears from the paddle across his backside.
All because of a silly hair bow.
That was how I learned no good would ever come from someone standing up for me.
Chapter 3
By the time my wounds had scabbed and turned into scars, and I emerged from the recovery room to start working the corners again, Baylen Sallow was gone.
My friend’s meager possessions had been cleared out. His cot was taken by a new Housemate fresh off the streets.
Indignant, I barged into Father Cullard’s writing room, shouting, “Where is he, Father?!”
Cullard put down his quill, lifting his head on stooped shoulders. He stared down his nose at me with a sad smile. “Sadly, the boy is lost to the Truehearts. His formative years have been a failure. Brother Baylen shirked our teachings. There was nothing more we could do for him.”
