Series: The Un Series by Izzy Sweet
Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 109192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109192 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
It takes Renee a couple of tries to get up and back on her feet. When she finally approaches Sister Agatha, the nun is quick to side-step her, as if she’s afraid the girl might touch her, and motions for her to go ahead.
The two disappear and the other girls giggle louder, no longer holding them back.
“That was mean, Charity!” Michelle says.
The blonde girl with curls grins. “She deserved it. She shouldn’t have been so close to me!”
The girls giggle all the harder.
Then Sister Agatha’s face suddenly reappears, pushing through the curtain. “Charity, you’re next!”
Charity instantly snaps to attention, her giggles cutting off and replaced by a look of supreme worry.
She casts a nervous glance back at her friends then darts forward.
The red curtain swings back into place.
Sister Agatha calls out in Latin and a voice answers back.
Then a few heartbeats later the pain slams into me. Squeezing my insides so tight, I begin to fear they’ll never stretch back to normal again.
My mother has warned me about crossing my eyes. Telling me if I did it too often, they would get stuck and then I would be even uglier.
Is that going to happen to my stomach? I wonder in terror as girl after girl in front of me is called out.
Whatever they’re doing beyond the curtain gripping my insides in an iron fist.
When it’s finally my turn, when I’m the only girl left, I don’t know whether to be grateful or more terrified.
I’m trembling and covered in sweat. There’s wetness under my arms and my white dress is now sticking to my knees.
I feel disgusting, and like someone used a rolling pin to roll me flat.
But I didn’t puke.
Somehow, I was strong enough not to puke and embarrass myself like Renee did.
“Alena,” Sister Agatha says, poking her head through the red velvet curtain. “Come.”
There’s no irritation in her tone now, only weariness, but I rush to obey, regardless. Ready to be done with all of this.
As I approach, though, Sister Agatha’s eyes narrow and run down my body.
Pulling the curtain back for me, I hear her hum thoughtfully in her throat before she grabs my hand.
I’ve been given no instructions. My mother didn’t prepare me for anything that is about to happen. My father only told me to do what the other girls do, but I didn’t get to see what they did when they left the curtain.
As Sister Agatha’s cold, clammy fingers squeeze tight around my hand and she leads me toward the front of the cathedral, I know I should be quiet and keep my eyes cast down, though.
If there’s one thing my mother hates more than my stupidity, it’s embarrassment.
If I make even one tiny mistake in front of everyone, she’ll punish me for days.
The hardwood flooring beneath my slippers scrolls by like the ending credits of a movie, and the heavy weight of the entire flock’s eyes watching me burns into my back.
But I don’t get a glimpse of the man now sitting in the strange throne until Sister Agatha leads me right up to him.
Jerking me to a sudden stop, she calls out something in Latin.
The man instantly answers back.
Behind the curtain, whenever he answered Sister Agatha, he simply sounded like a normal man.
But now, standing in front of him, his voice grates against my nerves.
It’s only a voice, yet my skin feels raw, as if something rough has been rubbed all over it. My ears throb and itch. Every little hair on my arms stands at attention.
And my stomach squeezes. Not as hard as earlier, but hard enough to remind me of all the pain I’ve endured so far.
Daring to sneak a peek, to see the face of the man who spoke, to make sure he really is a man and not some evil demon, I quickly glance up.
Seated on the strange chair like the evil king I first imagined, the man is clothed in a silky black robe that looks like what the priests usually wear on special occasions. The robe drapes off of him, though, and pools on the floor.
Creating a silky puddle of blackness.
With all the candles gone, the only lights comes from shafts of colored sunlight beaming through the stained glass windows.
The air is thicker here, smokier. A brazier full of incense placed on the floor at the man’s right giving everything a hazy appearance. But the golden hem of his robe shines so bright I can easily make out the pattern of an endless chain of figure eights lining the edges.
Instead of wearing a tall, embroidered hat on his head like the priests usually wear, he wears a hood so big it hides his face. His features hidden in the darkness of impenetrable shadows.
This must be the Prophet, I realize.
The one who will see me for who I really am.