I heard Rider’s sharp intake of breath. “I’ve . . . I have done bad things.”

“Is that why you are in that cell?”

“Yes,” he replied, sadly, but there was something else laced in his voice—confusion, hurt . . . anger?

The sound of my cell door opening filled the room. I rushed to sit as I had been before, wiping my remaining tears from my face. I would not let them see the evidence from my moment of weakness. I was afraid that it was one of the guards, but as the door opened I saw a familiar face.

Brother Stephen.

I relaxed, praying that the man from the cell next door did not speak. I did not know why I did not want Brother Stephen to hear him. I knew he would not care that I had been talking to the stranger. But he also would not want me to put myself in any kind of jeopardy. Speaking to a fellow sinner would most certainly fall into that category.

“Hello, Brother Stephen,” I said quietly.

Brother Stephen walked into the cell, a tray of food in his hands. He crouched down, placing it at my feet. I cast him a grateful smile. Brother Stephen looked behind him to the door. When he saw it was clear of any guards, he said, “Two disciple guards from Puerto Rico have been put in charge of us here in the cells. The prophet’s head disciple guard, Ezrah, decided it would be best since they are familiar with us.” I drew in a deep breath and slowly released a long exhale. Relief settled over me.

The sound of Rider moving around in the next cell came drifting through the small crumbled gaps between the old bricks in the wall. Rider let out a low, pained groan. Brother Stephen frowned, and his dark eyes darted to me.

“There is a man in that cell,” he whispered, almost inaudibly. “I do not know who he is. All we know is that he is a defector from the faith and is being punished. Badly.”

Brother Stephen gave me a meaningful stare. My heart slammed faster in my chest. I nodded to show that I understood. Checking again that the coast was clear, he added, “He is not our responsibility—mine and Sister Ruth’s. Women from the main commune come to feed and bathe him daily. He is also taken away each day by the prophet’s head disciples.” Brother Stephen shook his head, an angry flush crossing his face. “I saw how they brought him back. They are truly making him pay for his transgressions, whatever they may be. He is in a very bad way.”

I swallowed hard, fear for my own safety threatening to rise. I pushed it down. I would not let it consume me. Brother Stephen gave me a sympathetic look. “We do not know what Prophet Cain intends to do with you yet. He may yet deem you a non-Cursed and that will be that.”

My heart beat faster and my blood rushed in my veins. “I know,” I whispered back. “But I am sure I will be branded.”

He lifted his hand, about to lay it upon my head, when the sound of a guard’s boots echoed down the hallway. I placed the tray back in Brother Stephen’s hands just as the door opened. Disciple Guard Solomon stood in the doorway. I relaxed.

“I was delivering her food,” Brother Stephen informed him.

Brother Solomon nodded. He stepped back, waiting for Brother Stephen to place the tray on the floor. Brother Stephen did so, then got to his feet. He nodded at me, looking into my eyes.

I breathed deeply and nodded my head, letting him know I was fine.

When Brother Stephen left, Solomon also nodded at me. A tight smile pulled on his lips, then he shut the door. I looked at my tray. Vegetables and bread. I knew I should eat it to keep up my strength, but I could not stomach it. The fear of being here was still too raw.

“Harmony?” I jumped when I heard Rider’s low, husky rasp.

Moving the tray out of the way, I slumped back down to the gap in the wall. I rested my head on my hands. “I am here.”

This close, I could hear Rider’s crackled breathing again. I winced, now understanding why it sounded so strained. He was being punished daily. Badly.

“Who was that?” Rider asked. “Who . . . who came to you?”

“He is called Brother Stephen,” I replied. “He is a friend.”

Rider was silent for several seconds. I turned my ear to the gap, fearful that he had lost consciousness, but then he asked, “He is to care for you in here?”

Relieved that he was okay, I replied, “Yes. He and Sister Ruth care for me. They protected me from something they should not have.” I paused, debating whether I should reveal anything more. I found myself adding, “They are being punished. They share the cell next to mine, but they have been assigned to clean and maintain this block of cells as their penance. They bring me my food and clothes. You will hear them coming in and out of my cell several times a day.”

“They are being punished for protecting you?”

“Yes.” The sound of shuffling sounded again from his cell. “You are in pain.”

Rider’s sharp inhale was all the answer I needed. The anger that I had kept hidden for so long began to build, bubbling in my blood. Rider was silent.

“Yes,” he eventually answered. “I’m in pain.”

My hands balled into fists. Yet another person hurt. “What are they doing to you? Why?”

I counted four deep inhales and exhales from Rider, before he said, “They beat me.” My eyes closed and I shook my head. “They feed me only minimal food, and clean me, only to start again the very next day. They are trying to make me break.”

“Rider,” I whispered, not knowing what to say.

I heard the sound of rain hitting the roof of the cell. I lifted my head to look out of the tiny window at the top of the far wall. The sky had darkened, and fat drops of rain were falling from gray clouds. As I stared out of the window, my mind drifted to what the prophet had announced a short while ago. The Lord’s Sharing. Disgust built in my stomach as I pictured the depravity that would be happening in that hall . . . the pain and suffering of the women that would be caused by the guards and the disciples.

I cursed the day Prophet David wrote the scripture that endorsed such events. I cursed the day he revealed to the people through his letters that the Cursed Sisters of Eve were to be celestially cleansed by the purest of his chosen men . . . ritually cleansed from the age of eight. Every time I would read our holy books I would almost burst with fury.

“They want me to repent.” Rider’s voice made me turn back to the wall and refocus.

Resting my head back down on my cupped hands, I asked, “That is why they beat you? To make you repent?”