I’m so bored I’m reading Deuteronomy. The Bible is the only book I’m allowed to have right now, and if I don’t do something, I might go out of my mind. And I know that virtually everything that’s not Deuteronomy, which is mostly lists of who begat whom, is more applicable to my current situation.

But I’m in no mood to look to the Bible for help at the moment, given that my father’s supposed obedience to its very letter is what got me where I am right now. So, in my boredom, I’m reading the least helpful part I can find, which is about which parts of Israel various tribes are supposed to own.

I flip the whisper-thin page and start a new section when there’s a polite, hesitant knock on my door. That means it’s not Pearl or Joy, whose room I’ve been moved into.

“Come in,” I call, not looking up from the Bible.

The door opens about a foot and one of my new guards sticks his head in.

“Your father’s asked to see you,” he says, sounding a little nervous.

I’ve got three new guards, and I make them all nervous because they’re all members of my father’s church, and I don’t think they like being around the harlot.

That’s me, by the way. Obviously.

“What does he want?” I ask, not bothering to stand or be polite.

“He didn’t say.”

I smile, half-sweet and half-sarcastic.

“Any chance it seemed like he’s going to let me go?” I ask, cocking my head to one side.

The poor guy looks simultaneously horrified and baffled, his mouth opening and then closing once without answering. It’s okay, because I know the answer. The answer’s no, but I guess my father wants to fight about it some more.

I scoot off my bed, my ugly skirt bunching around my knees as I do. I still hate the things, but it’s not like I’ve got many other clothes.

The guard sees me down the hallway, up the stairs, and then opens the door to my father’s office, letting me through. My heart’s beating wildly, thumping through my veins so loud I’m afraid he can hear it, but I steel myself and walk through.

“Ruby,” he says, still sitting behind his massive desk.

The door behind me shuts, and now we’re alone. It’s not the first time that we’ve been alone in his office during the past few days, and if he thinks this meeting is going to go any differently than the others, he’s sorely mistaken.

“Father,” I say.

I don’t move. I don’t step forward, and I don’t give any indication that he’s in control here, even though we both know he is. After all, I learned all this from a consummate politician, even if he wasn’t trying to teach me.

“I summoned you here to offer a truce,” he says, clasping his hands in front of himself on the desk.

For just a second, my heart skips a beat, and I think that maybe, just maybe, my father’s going to be reasonable.

“What are the terms?” I ask, keeping my voice steady and trying not to bely my excitement.

He stands, his leather chair groaning, and walks to the window, hands clasped behind his back. I can just feel a lecture coming on, and I know this stance is the one he does when he wants to seem official and important, like he’s getting his presidential portrait painted.

“Ruby, do you remember making Easter cupcakes in Sunday school when you were five years old?”

Jesus, he’s bringing this up again. I take a deep breath, forcing myself not to roll my eyes.

“Of course,” I say.

You won’t let me forget it.

“Your entire class baked cupcakes to celebrate the Resurrection,” he goes on, the pace of his voice slow and steady, no matter how impatient I am. “When they were finished, there was to be one cupcake per child. Each of you selected your cupcake, and then waited your turns to adorn your cupcake with sprinkles.”

They were blue sprinkles. My favorite color, at least at the time.

“And when it came your turn to adorn the cupcake, you wanted more sprinkles than Miss Nicole allotted you, because she needed to save enough sprinkles for the rest of the Sunday school class. She tried to take them away from you, but because you thought you didn’t have enough sprinkles, you grabbed the container back from her and proceeded to pour every last sprinkle onto your own cupcake.”

I almost tell him that I didn’t mean to. I meant to get more sprinkles, but not all of them. I was five years old and clumsy. It was an accident.

“Your actions deprived the rest of the students of sprinkles,” he goes on, now turning away from the window and toward me. “And I’ve thought of that story again and again over the past few years, each time that your selfishness has outweighed your loyalty and love for this family. In some ways, you’re still that five-year-old, pouring sprinkles onto a cupcake.”

I literally bite my tongue. I wonder if he brings this story up again and again because it’s the only one he even remembers from my childhood. It’s not like he took an active hand in raising me, preferring to be a distant figure while my mother did all the hard work.

“Here we are, once more, the metaphorical sprinkles all over the floor,” he says, and I wonder if he realizes how dumb that sounds. “Your actions have called my reputation into question, as a father and as a politician. Your actions call into question whether I can effectively represent this great state of South Carolina when I can’t even govern my own home. They call into question my abilities as a father, if I can’t even teach my own daughter the difference between right and wrong.”

There’s a long pause, like he’s expecting me to apologize, but I’ve got no intention of doing such a thing.

“What’s the truce?” I finally ask.

He sighs and walks across the office, gazing up at the huge, ugly, backlit cross on one wall. I’m acutely aware that this is all theatrics, all for the sake of appearance, even if it’s mostly wasted on me.

“Thankfully, not everyone is so focused on their own selfish pleasures to the exclusion of all else,” he says. “Despite your insistence on sullying yourself, Kyle Pickett has offered yet again to marry you.”

“No,” I say, the word coming out of my mouth a knee-jerk reaction.

“I told him that you would consider carefully, over the course of several days,” he goes on, like I didn’t say anything.

“I’m not marrying him.”

He can’t force me to marry Kyle, that much I’m sure of. He can do a lot of things, but forcing me to say I do isn’t one of them.

“Ruby, I’m not sure you’ll have another chance,” he says, his voice the epitome of patience.

“I don’t want another chance to marry someone who frequents prostitutes and has never had a two-way conversation in his life,” I say.

“You of all people should understand that someone can change and make amends,” he says.

“I’m not marrying him,” I say quietly, taking a deep breath. My heart’s racing again, but I force myself to sound calm. “I’m not taking a truce. The only thing I’m interested in is walking out of this house, through that gate, and into the world.”

We look at each other for a long, long time, neither one moving or budging. I’ve got a feeling that he’s got a cupcake story, too, that a long time ago as a child he wanted something and took it through whatever means he could.

But instead of being someone’s daughter, he was someone’s son, and what he wanted mattered.

“Someday, you’ll thank me,” he says softly. That means I’m not letting you go.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“It’s my job to have your best interests at heart,” he says, and smiles his politician’s smile at me.

He thinks I have no options left, that after trying to escape unsuccessfully and after arguing with him, after a little while, I’ll come around to his bidding.

But I’ve still got one thing left. I don’t know whether he doesn’t think I’m smart enough to think of it, or if he just thinks I won’t dare, but he’s wrong on both counts.

“Thank you, Father,” I say steadily. “It’s been a pleasure.”

He just nods. I turn, open the heavy door, and walk back to my room, trailed by a slightly nervous guard. Inside, I sit on my bed and turn once more to the tedium of Deuteronomy, but I’m not paying any attention to the words.

Instead I’m mulling over the last, biggest thing I’ve got. It’s going to take some doing. I don’t even want to do it, I want him to call off my guards and let me walk away, but that’s not going to happen.

I’ve run out of options.

It’s time to go nuclear.