Chastity shoulders a backpack as we walk out of the Cloister and into the blustery afternoon. The sun is out, and I’ve never felt such a delight from the simplicity of soaking in the bright rays.

“Let’s go.” She sets off down the sun-dappled lane, and I keep up, drinking in the smells and sounds of the woods.

Though Grace clearly intends this trip to be some sort of punishment, my spirits lift as I see blue sky between the overarching tree limbs and hear birdsong. I’m never taking these things for granted again. But I have to turn my thoughts earthward, to Chastity. This may be my only chance to speak to her without any listening ears around.

“So, how did you come to the Cloister?” I tuck my hands into the too-big white coat she’d handed me before we left.

“We aren’t supposed to talk.” She crosses her arms over her stomach as a breeze rushes down the curving road.

“Oh, I just thought—”

“No talking.” She gives me a stern glare, then glances behind us.

I follow her gaze and find a Protector ambling up the road, an assault rifle slung on his shoulder. What the hell?

“Grace,” Chastity whispers and picks up her pace.

That’s the only explanation she needs to give. Even walking through the open air on the Compound, we’re watched.

We walk in silence for another ten minutes, and I try to focus on the world around me to temper my disappointment. But my thoughts stray back to Georgia, and then to Adam. His darkness is deep, seemingly complete, but he killed Newell to save me. That single event—even though I’m not allowed to speak of it—tells me that there’s light left in him somewhere. Maybe buried beneath an avalanche of gloom and horrible deeds, a sliver of hope remains. Or, it could be that I’m delusional and looking for things that aren’t there. But if that were true, why would he want me to trust him? Is it just another mind game meant to break me down?

We top another rise, and on the downslope, a church sits off to the right. It reminds me of country churches I’d pass on the highway when driving from Louisiana to Alabama. In my drone surveillance, I just assumed it was an old worship space, maybe the first Heavenly Ministries Church before the huge stadium sanctuary was built.

Chastity moves to the edge of the road, heading straight for the white church with the steeple reaching ever heavenward. A couple of Compound jeeps and golf carts, along with an out-of-place black limo are lined up in the gravel parking area beside the structure.

The Protector with the rifle follows at a distance, more of a warning than an immediate threat.

“Is that the Chapel?” I keep close to Chastity, our elbows bumping.

“Yes.”

“What is it?”

She hefts the backpack higher on her back. “Hell.”

My gut sinks as we crunch into the gravel parking lot. The sharp-edged rocks press into the bottoms of my white flats, likely leaving stone bruises in their wake.

“Just follow my lead. Don’t talk to anyone.” She walks up the peeling wooden steps, the white paint wearing off to show graying boards beneath, then opens one of the front double doors. Warm, perfumed air flows out as we enter the vestibule. The first thing that strikes me is purple. The carpet, the walls, the doors—everything is done in varying shades from lilac to eggplant.

An armed guard sits in a chair to the right of the next set of double doors leading to the sanctuary. He chews on a toothpick and plays on his phone, giving us a simple grunt and cocking his head toward the sanctuary.

My stomach churns as faint noises make it to me through the wood-paneled walls. Sighs, moans, masculine laughter. We shouldn’t be here. I want to turn and rush out the door into the sunlight again, but the Protector who’d been following us walks in, blocking the exit.

“Let’s go.” Chastity leads the way across the too-plush purple carpet and enters the worship space.

But it’s not a sanctuary at all. The narrow center aisle creates a corridor where, on either side, scaffolding has been erected to create two stories of rooms, all open. Some have gauzy curtains hanging in front of them, others are bare. Inside each is a woman. Some on the second story sit on the catwalk along the front of the rooms, their bare legs dangling. Others lounge in beds or chatter with each other while sending us inhospitable looks. Most are naked, young, and hostile as I follow Chastity down the row of what has to be two dozen women stacked in open cubes.

We pass one on the right with two women inside, a gray-haired man grunting and thrusting into one while the other plunges a thick dildo into his ass.

I put my hand to my mouth and speed up, almost stepping on Chastity’s heels. But she’s slowing down. I peek around her and see a man in a suit standing in the aisle, watching three women in one cube lick and grind on one another. He’s in the middle of taking off his tie as we try to pass.

He holds out his arm, blocking us in next to the narrow stairs leading to the upper level. Mid-thirties, blond, handsome—but nothing warm lives in his light blue eyes. “Are you two on the menu?”

“No, sir.” Chastity shakes her head, eyes downcast.

“I think you should be.” He takes my hand and pulls me toward him.

I dig my heels into the purple carpet. “No.”

“No?” He laughs and yanks me close. “You’re going to say no to a U.S. Senator?”

All the blood drains from my face, and I can’t seem to breathe. He leans close, as if he’s going to kiss me.

I shove away from him and try to retreat down the aisle, but his grip on my wrist is like a vise.

“Look who’s back.” A woman in a black bustier and stiletto heels walks down the rough wooden steps from the top catwalk. “I’m sorry Senator Roberts, but these two belong to the Prophet. If you’d like more company—” She snaps her fingers, and three more women exit their rooms and hurry toward us. “I’ve got you covered.”

He finally loosens his grip enough for me to wrench my wrist away. I wonder if he’s re-aggravated the healing skin, but everything seems fine.

He smirks. “A Maiden, eh?”

I try to shrink, hunching my shoulders forward and clutching my elbows.

“I’ll be seeing you.” He winks and returns to the debauchery in front of him.

“Come.” The tall woman in the bustier walks ahead of us, her hips swinging and her hair falling behind her in a straight, dark slash.

She passes through a door and up a few shallow stairs to the old church’s altar. It’s been converted to a lounge area, couches and a desk filling the space. An area to the right is walled off with a door leading to a separate bedroom. The baptismal is filled in with dirt, exotic plants with deep green leaves unfurling in the colored sunlight streaming through the stained glass. Two bronze birdcages hang on the branches of a lemon tree, the birds inside oddly silent and watchful.

Sinking onto an ornate wooden chair with gold cushions, which could have been original to the church, she crosses her legs at the knee. “Take a seat.”

“We have work to do.” Chastity pulls her backpack off and sets it on the desk.

“Can’t spare me a moment?”

At first I thought she was older, but looking at her in the light filtering through the stained glass, I can tell she’s maybe late twenties. Beautiful, her bare breasts don’t need the bustier’s help to sit up and demand attention. I study my fingers, but glance up at her when I think she’s not looking.

“I’m just here for the swabs, Jez, nothing else.” Chastity’s voice turns harder than I’ve ever heard it.

Jez reaches out and touches Chastity’s skirt. “How’s the scar?” Something in her face seems to crack, the overdone makeup unable to hide her sorrow.

“It doesn’t hurt.” Chastity pulls out an array of long swabs, like extra-large Q-tips, each enclosed in a sterile blister pack. “Can you call the girls?”

“Can we please talk? Just for a minute?” Jez’s eyes water, the deep brown glistening like melted chocolate.

Chastity shoots a glance to the upper front corner of the sanctuary. I follow her gaze and see a camera, the red light flashing, pointing right at us.

“We can’t.”

Jez lets her hand drop and retreats into the golden chair, but she never takes her eyes from Chastity. I appreciate being ignored as I try to take it all in. A whorehouse on the Compound. Then again, what is the Cloister but a whorehouse-in-training?

“What’s wrong with you?” Jez glances at me.

“The Maidens. We come here? This is where we end up?”

Jez grins, the warmth she’d shown to Chastity draining away as she looks me up and down. “You too good to spend some time at the Chapel?”

The word “yes” lights up in my mind and pops like old-timey flashbulbs. “I-I—”

“We’re ready.” Chastity hands me a pair of medical gloves, then frowns at the broken finger. “Just be careful not to touch anything with your bare hand. I’ll hand you the sample. Each one goes inside one of these.” She sets an array of long glass vials onto the counter. “Before you place it inside, you’ll need to write down the girl’s name. I’ll either say it or ask her when she comes in.” Pulling a Sharpie from her bag, she gives it to me without looking at me.

“What exactly is it that we’re doing?” I eye the long swabs.

“This one talks too much. I thought Maidens weren’t allowed to speak unless spoken to.” Jez shrugs. “Maybe rules have gotten lax since my time at the Cloister.”

I glance to Chastity, who continues with her work as if she hadn’t heard me. I try again. “So, we’re doing what?”

“STD testing.” Jez smirks. “We can’t have the girls passing shit to the fine, fine gentleman who frequent this establishment, now, can we?” Her tone tells me she’d be more than happy if every man who visited left with herpes.

“What about HIV?”

“More questions, Maiden?” She looks me up and down. “You’re an interesting one. We give blood samples every six months. But our clients are more worried about the clap than anything else.”

“Oh.” I say ‘oh’ as if that clears everything up for me. As if a whorehouse on a religious compound makes total sense. As if I don’t have questions about how Maidens end up here. I do some quick math and reassure myself it’s impossible for every Maiden to be in the Chapel. There isn’t enough room, and I didn’t see that many women on the way in. Not to mention, I know some get married off to important or wealthy men. Some of the others return to the congregation or their parents, but very few.

“Go ahead.” Chastity motions to the door, and—with one more long look—Jez walks over and opens it.

When she turns her back, her dark hair brushing to one side, a row of scars appear. Small circles sprout in a row down her spine and disappearing into the bustier. Though I can’t be certain, they look like cigarette burns.

She swings the door open and calls out, “Girls, time for the check. Get on in here if you aren’t busy. If you are, come when you can.”

“I’m already coming,” a man yells from down the corridor. Some of the women laugh. Others silently exit their cubicles and make their way toward us. Most are nude, which has become frighteningly normal for me. I’m more often naked than clothed at the Cloister.

“Here we go.” Chastity lowers herself to her knees.

The first woman comes in, her mascara already streaked and dried down her face. Her ribs protrude, and she looks ten years older than she probably is. She gives Chastity a glare, then turns her gaze to me. Something like molten fury passes across her face. She steps toward me, but Jez grabs her too-thin arm and whips her around. “Get it done.”

“Cherry,” Chastity says.

Cherry bends over and spreads her cheeks.

“Cherry.” Chastity gives me a pointed look.

“Oh, right.” I grab the Sharpie and write the woman’s name on the vial.

Chastity takes a clean swab and gently inserts it into Cherry, then pulls it out and hands it to me. I place it in the vial and press the top on.

“Is it in yet?” Cherry laughs, but there’s no joy in it.

“You’re done.” Jez motions for the next woman to come inside.

We spend the next few minutes taking samples. It’s demeaning, but none of the women seem to mind. They walk in dead-eyed and leave the same way. Most of them verge on emaciated, though a couple are large, as if they’ve been treated differently to please certain clients’ particular desires. It isn’t lost on me that Chastity seems to know most of their names.

When we’re done, Chastity collects the vials and places them in the backpack.

“That’s it, then?” Jez speaks with too much force, but volume can’t hide the vulnerability in her eyes.

“Until next month.” Chastity hefts the backpack. “I’ll send these off to the lab as soon as possible.”

“So efficient.” Jez steps closer to Chastity.

“Jez—”

She touches Chastity’s face so softly that I suddenly feel out of place, a spectator to an intimate scene.

“They’ll see,” Chastity hisses, but leans into Jez’s touch all the same.

I turn my back and side step until I’m standing in front of the camera. The angle is tricky, but maybe I can shield them, at least a little bit.

“Does it hurt?” Jez’s voice is soft, the venom gone.

“Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” Jez’s voice cracks just a bit, a hairline fracture.

Chastity lets out a breath. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours either.”

“We have to go.”

“I know.”

I can’t tell if they embrace, but then Chastity is tapping my shoulder. “Come on. We need to get back.”

I catch Jez’s eyes, the tears that threaten, and she covers her mouth with her palm to stifle a sob.

Chastity walks out, her long skirt swishing on the garish carpet, and I follow her past the grunting senator and some other scenes of depravity. Skin slaps on skin, women moan loudly, and I focus on getting out of here. Keeping my eyes ahead, I stay in step with Chastity until we push out the doors into the vestibule. The guard doesn’t look up as we pass, and a rifle leans next to the outer doors. It wasn’t there before. For a second, I consider grabbing it. But the foolishness of the idea keeps me walking. It would accomplish nothing, and after all, I was in this until the end—until I found out about Georgia.

The cool air washes over me as we exit into the sunny day, and it’s as if I can finally breathe again. No more cloying perfume or the thick scent of sex.

As we start walking the road back to the Cloister, I glance behind us. No guard. That must have been his gun by the door. He’s still inside the Chapel, one of the many faceless users I’d heard as I walked through.

Chastity hurries up the rise. I almost have to run to keep up, and I want to ask her to slow down, to enjoy the freedom for as long as we can, but when we’re out of view of the Chapel, she whirls on me.

Grabbing my coat, she pulls me face to face. “You will say nothing about what you saw and heard today.”

“I wouldn’t.” I try to square this fierce Chastity to the meek one from the Cloister. “I’m your friend.” My words aren’t a manipulation. They’re true. Ever since the night with Newell, I’ve known that Chastity was different than the other Spinners. I just didn’t know how different until I saw her interactions with Jez.

She loosens her grip. “It’s just, I don’t want Jez to—”

“Get in trouble. I understand.” I grip the back of her hands and put my heart into my words. “I’d never do something to hurt you.” She’d already been hurt enough, judging by the scar on her forehead and the feelings she swallowed when we were in the Chapel.

“Thank you.” She releases me and steps back, then lets out a shuddering breath. Playing the heavy isn’t her style, but she definitely gets her point across when she wants to. “We better go.”

We walk elbow to elbow, not hurried but not slow, down the tree-lined road back to the Cloister.

“Can I ask you something?”

She tenses.

“Not about that.” I jerk my chin toward the Chapel. “Something else.”

“Sure.” Her answer is guarded, but I take what I can get.

“When were you a Maiden?” If she was in Georgia’s “class,” I may finally be able to get some answers.

“Three years ago. Why?”

Shit. She was one year before Georgia. “So, when your year was up—”

“That’s not something I want to discuss.”

My heart sinks farther, deeper, and flirts with despair. “I was just wondering about a Maiden that was here after you. The one that got hurt…” I take a deep breath. “Got killed.”

“We are forbidden from speaking about her.” Her words are curt, signaling the end of whatever confidences just passed between us.

The Cloister comes into view, the prison bars beckoning us closer. We walk in silence, heads down, and the breeze loses some of its clarity, the landscape no longer giving me heart to go on.

When we’re a few yards from our jail, Chastity puts out a hand and stops me.

I turn to her, the blue of her eyes brilliant even against the backdrop of the azure sky. “What?”

She chews on her lip, then says so softly that I almost miss it. “She talked about you.”

“Who?”

The door hinge creaks, and the Head Spinner walks out of the back of the Cloister, her raptor-like gaze landing on us with eerie focus.