“No way.” I take a step back on the uneven, rocky floor. “Why?”
The priestess clicks her tongue as Brahm does to me. “I must make you presentable for the Offering Ceremony. To honor the goddess Bergot with your purity and cleanliness.” Her voice rises as if she’s smiling under that macabre veil. “Now, off with your clothes. You will not need them.”
My fingers cling to the collar of my blouse. “Yes, I fucking do! I’m not going anywhere naked.”
“Language, Gisela,” she says in a high-pitched, mocking tone. “You will not be naked long, I promise.”
I release a surrendering grunt. “What’s your name, priestess?” I unbutton and remove my blouse. “Is there anything you can do to get me out of this? You saw my sister; I know she looks older, but her mind is like a child’s. Thora needs me. Please?”
The veiled lady’s head tilts to study me, but she doesn’t answer my question. I hesitate to slip off my skirt and, when I do so, the sheathed dagger is exposed. The dark leather strap against my paler-than-milk thigh is not easy to miss. Although I can’t see her eyes, her head moves, and her gaze hovers over my brother’s weapon.
“I’m not removing this.” I hold my head held high as I tap my fingernail against the decorative hilt.
She offers a single, slow nod and turns toward the table.
The damp, cavernous air causes goosebumps to spread over my naked body. I cover my nipples with my hands. Using the moistened towel, the priestess cleanses my face and body. The water in the pitcher must be perfumed, as the towel smells like fields of lavender. I try not to curse at her while she cleans my breasts, but when she wipes a certain place, I nearly snap off her wrist with my thighs.
Releasing a throaty giggle, the priestess folds the towel and rests it on the edge of the ceramic bowl. From the pile of chains, she lifts the piece with circular links. It’s barbed and the perfect length for...no. I lunge toward the door, but the priestess glides before me.
“This will not hurt as long as you behave,” she draws out the last word. “Give me your other thigh, Gisela.”
I hyperventilate a few breaths and stick out my leg. The priestess hooks the cilice around my thigh. The chain of sharp barbs pokes my flesh but doesn’t pierce through. She glides back and waves her palm in the direction of my thigh. The chain tightens, proving her control over the contraption.
I grit my teeth to keep myself from screaming and glare at her through the sharp pain. I wish she’d kill me now rather than treat me like an animal. The heat of anger rises in my cheeks, and my temples pound.
“Stop!” I shout, falling to my knees.
The priestess waves her hand, loosening the cilice. I sigh with relief and stand. She steps to the table and unfurls the white fabric, revealing a long garment. She helps me slip on the peasant dress, which has a hint of lace around the low neckline, cuffs, and hem. I tie the silk-ribbon sash around my waist. The priestess allows me to put my boots back on while she turns toward the wooden table.
With the brush and a few hairpins in-hand, the priestess pushes down on my shoulders until I squat for her.
“I once had beautiful red hair like you, Gisela.” She runs her linen-wrapped fingers through the length.
“You did?” I ask in surprise, turning my eyes to her veiled face. “Papa said his Oma had it, too. Do you think we’re related?”
Saying nothing, the priestess hums and arranges the top of my hair into a crown-like braid. She brushes the rest into soft curls flowing down my back and over my shoulders. I close my eyes and dream about Thora playing with my hair.
The priestess stops brushing, and I jerk open my eyes. She glides behind me and, before I can turn, covers my head with the black bag, shrouding me in complete darkness. I reach for the bag, but a sharp pain squeezes around my thigh. Wincing, I lower my hands.
“No, Gisela. I am sorry,” she says. “I told you to behave. For your family. For Thora.”
You bitch.
The Offerings
THE PRIESTESS TUGS AT MY WRISTS. Her linen wrappings press into my skin, jolting my other senses to life. When the door creaks open, the barbed cilice tightens around my thigh. Gritting my teeth, I can do nothing but follow in my state of darkness.
I take careful steps along the stone ground, smooth and slippery from a thousand years of foot traffic. A heavy perfume of incense stings and clears my nostrils. The tiny echoes in the tunnel grow louder. With a hint of light peeking through the black canvas, I sweat in the humidity of my breath. I trip over my feet as we make a sharp turn. Then another. She presses down on my shoulders.
“Sit, Gisela.”
I obey, and my ass finds a cold, hard surface. The rock bench in front of the statue. Where the Offerings are presented. I lean to hover my left thigh above the seat—otherwise, the barbs dig into my flesh.
The thud of a heavy body sits next to me. A fellow Offering. Six more shuffles and thuds sound down the line. All eight of us are here. Who are they? Who are they leaving behind?
“Offerings,” the priestess’ whispery voice rings through the darkness, “your hoods will be removed shortly. I will warn you only once: do not speak, scream, or protest in any way during the ceremony, or your families will be fined a hefty price, and your cilices will be tightened. You are to present yourselves with dignity as Offerings to the benevolent goddess Bergot. Do not shame yourselves or the people you leave behind.” She pauses. “Remove their hoods.”
Behind me, hands lift my black hood. The bright sunlight streaming between gray curtains blinds me as I suck cavernous air through my nose. I stare at the billowing tapestries and let my eyes adjust.
Maybe it’s the anxiety coursing through my body, but one of the images of a maiden in a high tower appears to move. Rapunzel tosses her long braid out the window where a handsome prince waits. I blink my eyes a few times to make it stop.
I snap my head down the line to view my fellow Offerings. All the air escapes my lungs, and my sternum collapses around my paralyzed heart.
Three seats away from me is Brahm.
He stares back, shaking his head with tears in his eyes. “No, Freckles,” he whispers.
“Shh,” I hush, so he doesn’t get fined or harmed.
How’s this possible? Of all the people in the valley and both of us were chosen in a lottery? No. It’s not possible. Is it?
The priestesses draw the large curtains which were separating us from the Sanctuary. I sit back and watch the procession of villagers enter the cavern. Brahm’s parents sit a few rows back to my right.
Odella Wolf claps her hand over her mouth and shudders when she spots me. She was always sweet to me growing up, giving me tips on raising chickens and goats. Brahm’s mother is funny and shares his outgoing personality and light brown skin. His father is a hard-working man who shares Brahm’s height and high cheekbones. Brahm’s an only child. His parents wail into one another’s arms; I cannot fathom their pain.
A sob escapes my mouth when my family moves down the aisle on the other side of the Sanctuary. Mama and Papa are pale as the moon, aside from their puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. My heart aches for them, and I can’t believe Mama is truly here. The last time she left the house was Wil’s funeral. I suppose this is mine.