Sunday church service starts with a choir of children on the stage in front of me. Boys and girls in all white with glittery haloes made from silver garlands hovering above their crowns. Most of them are barely past toddler age, none of them over five, and they sing about Christmas in a disjointed, cute fashion.

I smile at them from beneath my veil, even though I’m tired. The food Adam slipped me the night before had gone a long way toward putting me to rights, but I’m still worn thin. I look forward to afternoon prayers in my room, where I can nap instead of telling God how great the Prophet is.

Adam catches my eye as he helps some of the children offstage at the end of their number. He treats them with a warmth I didn’t think possible, smiling pleasantly and patting some of them on the back as they toddle away. He’s good with children—the thought strikes me like an odd flash, heat lightning on a summer afternoon.

Once the children are settled in the rows behind us, the Prophet walks onto the stage and delivers his Christmas sermon once the applause dies down.

“We are here to give thanks to our Lord and Savior, to praise Him and celebrate the day of His birth.”

“Amen” rockets around the sanctuary.

“We are also here to plan for our bright future, just as Mary and Joseph did for their little baby in swaddling clothes. Though they had nothing but a child and gifts from the wise men, they were able to raise the son of God. We have so much more.” He raises his hands. “We have each other. We have the strength of our beliefs. And we have the conviction to see God’s plan through to the end.”

Adam keeps his gaze on mine. I can feel it even when I have to drop my eyes lest anyone notice I’m not the demure Maiden I’m supposed to be.

“Many of you have already applied for housing in Monroeville. The houses are going up even faster than I anticipated, and the Lord is pleased. In addition to the housing, we’re clearing land, tilling fields, creating farmland, and purifying water from the Lockahatchee River that runs through the compound.” His voice rises, crowned by notes of triumph. “By the end of next year, Heavenly will be completely self-sufficient.”

The crowd erupts, each lost soul clamoring for the love and safety promised by the charlatan on stage.

“Each of you will make this possible. And God smiles on you for doing it. Here, we will be safe from the coming wars, from the sodomites and the multitude of demons that run this fallen world. We will arm ourselves to defend against those who would seek to destroy us. They are Legion, my friends. Sinners, adulterers, murderers, rapists, liberals, feminists, politicians, Catholics, Jews, Muslims—any and all who deny the divinity of Christ, who would deny the teachings of the Bible—apostates! And they will not stop until all of God’s blessed creation is a smoking ruin.” The fervor from his voice spills into the worshippers behind me, ramping up the wild energy to dangerous heights. “But we will beat them. With God on our side, we are guaranteed to triumph over evil. Together, we will create a new Eden, where we will work to please God and no one else. We will have no other masters. We are chosen. We are God’s most precious children. You—” He points to the crowd “—are the jewels in the crown atop Jesus’ head.”

The floor shakes beneath me as the Heavenly audience jumps to their feet and gives the Prophet a standing ovation. Adam scowls, his arms folded in front of him. Noah stands just behind him, his gaze fixed on the Prophet as he applauds along with everyone else. I didn’t realize it, but Noah is a true believer. I’d assumed he was like Adam, jaded and wise. I was wrong.

When the fervor settles down, the Prophet continues, “But there must be sacrifice, my friends. We must all give something to the Lord. We must all be more godly.” His voice softens, curtailing the fever pitch and pulling the audience in closer. “Tithing is important. And I can easily say I’m proud of how our Heavenly family gives to keep this ministry going. But we must give more. Monetarily, and in other avenues. How many of you have your children in the fallen public schools or worse, the supposedly ‘Christian’ schools that are nothing more than breeding grounds for sin?”

The crowd remains utterly silent.

“I’m here to tell you right now that Heavenly schools are the path for your children’s salvation. You must enroll them now, before it’s too late.”

Agreement rumbles behind me.

“And women, your men are sacrificing their head of the household income, but what are you giving? Are you in perfect obedience? Perhaps you think you are, but look down right now. All of you, look down. Can you see your bare legs? If you can, I’m here to tell you that you are not in perfect obedience. Are you wearing pants that leave nothing to the imagination? If you are, I’m here to tell you that you are not in perfect obedience. Are you showing your body to men other than your husband? If you are—” he shakes his head and tsks “—I can assure you that you are not in perfect obedience. Women are sacred treasures and should be treated as such. But how can men treat you as godly when you dress like common prostitutes? When you do everything you can to inflame their lust?” He drops to one knee, as if he’s proposing to all the women in the audience. “I humbly ask you now, as your Prophet, to sacrifice your vanity. To be pure and holy for your husbands. And even if you aren’t wed, to dress as a woman of worth, not of a worldly harlot. These are the small sacrifices the Lord requires of you.” He casts his gaze heavenward. “Do you think you can do these things, for Him?”

Shouts of “yes” rise to another crescendo.

I squeeze my hands so tightly I fear I’ve drawn blood. But I don’t move.

The Prophet points into the crowd. “Sister, where are you going?”

I cast a look behind me. A woman stands on a side aisle, a little girl pulled close against her as Protectors and a handful of Heavenly officers close in around her. She’s far away, but I can sense her protective stance, see her backing away.

“Why do you run from the Lord’s truth?” The Prophet shakes his head and rises to his feet.

The Heavenly officers take her by the elbows, and a Spinner grabs her daughter. They are marched out of the sanctuary, and I can only imagine what will happen to them.

“Fallen women are, sadly, rampant in this world.” He turns back to his flock, a benevolent smile on his face, the fatherly nature of his words smoothing over the scene’s discomfort. “But we can save them. And we will, with God’s blessing.”

Applause. The audience actually applauds what just happened, and I feel sick. The Prophet’s words disgust me, but no one else seems to feel the hatred and misogyny seeping from him. No one except Adam. His scowl has deepened, and now he’s glaring at his father. He’s forgotten himself, let his mask of obedience slip. Relief is too vague a word for what washes over me when I see the naked hatred in Adam’s eyes.

Once the Prophet is satisfied that the crowd is onboard, he turns toward discussing the night of Christ’s birth, and the star that led the wise men to Him. It’s an empty homily after his calls for hatred of anyone outside of these walls. But Adam seems to relax as the Prophet treads less fervent ground.

I shoot a glance to my right. Sarah’s spot is empty. Her loss is a nagging rot in my gut. Why would they keep her at the Rectory for so long? I have to assume she received the same torture as I did. A shudder rushes through me as I feel the ghost tap from the ever-dripping water. I clasp my hands together so hard that my knuckles turn white and pull myself together. Sarah, I need to focus on her. Maybe Chastity can find out what’s going on?

Once the Christmas sermon ends, the Maidens rise and file out of one of the side doors. The children from the rows behind us mill around in the wide hallway, playing chase or speaking to each other in words only toddlers can understand. The Prophet sweeps down from backstage and grabs the first child he comes across, swinging the boy up and hugging him.

“And how are you today, Elias?”

The boy, no more than three, squirms and grins as the Prophet tickles him.

Adam stands at the top of the stage stairs, a silent hawk.

I can’t help but stare at the curious scene unfolding before me. The Prophet seems to genuinely care about the children. He sets Elias down, then kneels to speak to a little blonde girl, her dark eyes wide as he pulls a piece of candy from his pocket and hands it to her.

“What do you say?” a Spinner behind the girl prompts.

“Thank you.” She clutches the candy to her chest as the Prophet kisses her on the forehead. There’s a familiarity to it that stops me, and I look up at Adam. His stone countenance gives nothing away, but he’s watching me just as closely as he watches his father.

I peer down the long hallway where churchgoers are exiting the sanctuary. No adults walk toward the children, no parents coming to claim their little ones. Only the Prophet, greeting each child by name. My mouth goes dry as the suspicion blooms into more, and I remember Adam telling me that there’s a worse fate than being sent to the Chapel.

“Go.” A Maiden pushes me forward as the Spinners herd us away from the Prophet and my grim theories.