“You’re the lucky one, of the two of us,” my younger sister Amabel sighs. She runs the stiff brush through my long auburn hair again, seemingly unconcerned about how rough her touch is. When I make a soft whining noise, she grits her teeth. “Really, Rue. Try to be a grownup. That’s what Prince Henrik expects of his future wife.”

I grab the brush before my sister can make another pass at my hair with it. Turning toward her, I frown. “I’m sure he also expects me to have some hair, don’t you think?”

My sister leans in and wipes at my face with her thumb. “Oh, I guess that’s a cluster of freckles and not a smudge. Hmmm.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I know I shouldn’t, because that is a sign of an insincere heart. Father Derrik preaches about all the different types of hearts that are found in non-believers: insincere, devious, malicious, impious, and envious.

I don’t want to be any of those, really I don’t.

It’s just that at eighteen Amabel is two years younger than me, and she loves nothing more than to rub her flaxen hair and green eyes in my face. Our whole lives she’s been praised for her looks, where I might be complimented on my ability or doing something well.

Unfortunately, the difference in compliments is pretty apparent, especially between the two of us. We’ve always been in a strange kind of lockstep, comparing every shared experience.

Well, almost every experience. There is a strained kind of jealousy that emanates from Amabel every time I am called into private confession with Father Derrik. Not everyone is as unlucky as I am to need such intense sessions… but Ama is resentful, bordering on covetous, of the time the Father spends with me.

She shouldn’t be, though. I sigh.

“You have freckles too, you know.” I stand up, looking around my room. Here at the cloister, we are given very little and expected to be thankful for it. With a bed and a wardrobe as my only furniture, my cramped room is adorned only by a cross and a tiny window, high up on the wall.

Ama doesn’t say anything, she just looks cross. I lay the hairbrush on the bed and walk over to the wardrobe, pulling its doors open. “What should a girl wear to meet the Prince?”

I cock my head, considering the dozen fine new dresses that were delivered to my room, along with the news that I am going to marry Prince Henrick. Ama makes a small sound, but I don’t turn my head to look at her. I know that she’s eaten alive by jealousy, just as she has been about anything good that happened to me our entire lives.

I can’t help but rub her nose in it just a little. Me, Rue Büchel, marrying the Prince of Montenegro? It seems impossible. I was confused at first, wondering if they meant for Amabel to marry him instead of me. But then…

Then I found out that Father Derrik had a hand in naming the future Princess.

My face presses into a frown. Even thinking about Father Derrik steals all the happy thoughts right from the room. I know that as the head of our church, Father Derrik should inspire the most benevolent thoughts from me. I’m failing as a Christian, and as a disciple of The Way and the Light.

Momentarily distressed, I blow out a breath. I won’t think about the Father, not now. Not today, when I’m supposed to meet Prince Henrick.

Ama sighs and flounces over to the wardrobe, elbowing me aside. “Let me choose something. You’re sure to choose the wrong dress.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Doubtful. I mean, they are all the same thing. All white or pink, all probably expensive.”

I reach around her, pulling one of the dresses out partially. It’s a white sheath dress, with a beaded pale pink rose detail on one shoulder.

“Ugh, no. That’s not the first impression you want to make on the Prince. Let’s see…” She flips through the dresses, finally fishing one out and holding it up. It’s strapless and tea-length, white tulle with little cherry blossoms embroidered all over. “This one. This one will make him think, she could be my Princess.”

I reach out with timid fingers and feel the tulle of the skirts. The dresses feel wonderfully soft against my fingers, worn rough from my regular chore of scrubbing the floors.

Actually, everything about this wedding feels odd. How is it that I was chosen, when so many are more pious, better born, and prettier than me? I bite my lip.

“The dress?” my sister nudges me. “I still think that this one is the best.”

“It is nice. I think… I think that’s for a more formal event, though. I should go with the sheath dress, I think.”

Really, all the dresses are too nice for me. I haven’t taken a vow of poverty like the Sisters have, but I have spent half my life around them. Nuns of the Church of The Way of Light abhor things that people from the outside world value. They believe that the pure heart does not envy anything… and the heart certainly doesn’t go around showing off what few nice things it has.

A knock sounds on my door. We both turn, shrinking a little. The door opens and a no-nonsense nun wearing a habit as grey as her hair sticks her head inside. Her mouth is already turned down, as it always is.

“There you two are,” she scolds. I think that scolding is just her automatic way of addressing anyone else. She doesn’t have another setting, it seems like. “Prayer is in half an hour. Just because you’re having a visitor this afternoon does not excuse you from doing your penitence, Rue.”

“Yes, Sister Agathe,” Ama says, dropping her a curtsy. Ama nudges me with an elbow, and I curtsy too. “We’ll be there.”

Her eyes narrow suspiciously. “May he show us the way.”

I bow my head. Ama and I respond as one. “May we walk in the light.”

She looks unsatisfied with my answer, though I don’t know what she expected. That’s been the call and response for the Church of The Way and the Light ever since I arrived here almost seven years ago. Reciting those lines is completely rote to me by now.

As Sister Agathe closes the door again, I take a deep breath.

“You should be more respectful,” Ama says, clicking her tongue. “Sister Agathe is very esteemed by the Church. She’s been here for over twenty years and never been outside the walls of the cloister.”

I repress a sigh. Trying to keep my mind humble, I lower my head. “I know that.”

Amabel frowns. “I wish you would tell me what you did to make her dislike you so.”

Blushing, I drop my gaze. “For the thousandth time, I don’t know. Now, are you going to let me get dressed?”

“Yes,” she says, crossing to the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to walk you to the chapel.”

I nod, turning my back on her. As the door shuts, I’m already pulling a fresh penitent’s garb out of the wardrobe. Dark gray and made of scratchy wool, the dress covers me from the top of my throat to below my knees, leaving only my back bared. All the nuns in the convent wear the penitent’s garb to the evening prayer.

I quickly change, smoothing the dress down in the front. Then I head out to meet Ama, walking behind her on the way to the chapel. I try not to stare, but Ama’s back in a mess of scars from seven years of lashings. The latest set is still red and angry, maybe showing signs of infection. I touch her elbow.

“Remind me to get some willow bark and witch hazel to put on your back later,” I whisper.

Ama shoots me a look, whispering back. “I’m fine. If I don’t suffer a little, the Lord doesn’t hear my prayers. You know that.”

I clamp my mouth shut. I don’t disagree, but this would be the third time that Ama fell ill from not taking care of her penitent’s wounds this year. I soak mine in witch hazel and willow bark every single time, but Ama is either too lazy or too stubborn.

As we’re walking down the hallway, Sister Anne comes around the corner. “Rue, you’re wanted in Sister Marguerite’s office.”

I slow. “Now? I was just on my way to prayer…”

“You’ve been given leave to skip evening prayer tonight,” Sister Anne says kindly. She’s one of the younger nuns here, only a few years ahead of me. Amabel and I have been here for way longer than her four years. “Amabel, you go on ahead.”

Amabel nods and wanders toward the chapel. I turn and follow Sister Anne. “Why am I missing prayer?”

Sister Anne smiles, leading me around a corner. “I believe that Father Derrik is here to see you. He’s in a bit of a hurry, from what I can tell.”

My stomach falls to my feet at the use of his name. My tongue is made of lead, it seems. “Oh?”

Sister Anne just smiles as we come to Sister Marguerite’s office. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

She has taken my expression as being concerned about making a good impression. It’s almost hilarious, how wrong she is. Father Derrik and I know each other very well… but she doesn’t need to know that.

Except for Sisters Agathe and Marguerite, I pray that no one ever knows how the Father treats me when we are alone. Sister Anne pulls the door of Sister Marguerite’s office open and I bow my head, stepping inside.

She closes the door behind me, leaving me facing the abrasive Sister Marguerite, sitting at her broad oak desk. She’s easily the oldest person I’ve ever met, and she has the disposition of rotting old lemon. She scowls at me, her wrinkles hinting at a lifetime of making the same sour expression.

“Sit,” she commands, raising one bony finger to point to the pair of uncomfortable visitors’ chairs before her desk.

Bowing my head, I hurry to comply.

“Not that chair!” she hisses as soon as I start to sit down. “The Father likes to sit on the right.”

I’m not sure that’s even true, but I apologize and switch seats. “Pardonnez-moi.”

Sister Marguerite looks at me like someone would view a cockroach. I may be imagining things, but I feel a tension in the room that is not usually there. It’s as if the Sister has a bee in her bonnet about something else, other than my failing in the eyes of God.

“Father Derrik will be here soon,” she says, eyeing me. “I tried to explain to him that you are not the ideal candidate to be married to the Prince, but he won’t hear of it. Even though everyone knows that your sister would be better suited to the role. She’s much more devout than you and so much more attractive…”

My heart sinks. Of course, Sister Marguerite is against me leaving the convent. There is a petty part of me that can’t wait to get away from her and Father Derrik, a part that probably won’t ever come back here again once I’m free.

Sister Marguerite leans over her desk. “There is something wrong with you, Rue. A rotten part that thinks that you are special. That you are going to escape the fires of hell without ever truly worshipping at the Lord’s feet. Even Father Derrik hasn’t been able to wash the sins from your soul, though he’s tried for years...”

The door behind me opens and I stiffen. I don’t even have to smell the heavy frankincense and stale communion bread to know that it’s him. My shoulders hunch. A cold dread fills my veins without me even turning my head.

I’m so scared of Father Derrik that a sweat breaks out across my brow at his creaking footsteps. His hand lands on my shoulder, making me jump.

His voice is mild when he greets me. “Rue.”

Licking my suddenly dry lips, I refuse to look up. Sister Marguerite looks pleased at the fact that I’m terrified.

“Father, come in.”

His hand is removed and then he comes into view, sitting in the seat beside mine. Dressed in head to toe black with a little white square just below his Adam’s apple, our Father Derrik is blond and handsome, just as I imagine the snake was when he first appeared to Eve in the Garden. He’s graying a little at the temples and smiling just like the devil himself would.

My fingers itch with the need to make the sign of the cross. My eyes mist over.

“Sister Marguerite, I think you should leave Rue in my care for a bit,” he says. “Her confession is long overdue. Isn’t that right, Rue?”

I start to tremble as Sister Marguerite rises from her seat. Looking down at my fingers knotted together in my lap, I know what long overdue means.

He’s going to hurt me far more than usual.

As Sister Marguerite leaves the room, I close my eyes and begin to pray.