bottle of homemade wine had been emptied, everyone drifted to separate parts of the house. Relieved, Sophia escaped to her bedroom and plopped down on her bed. Earlier she’d thought she would welcome a good cry, but the initial numbness had seeped through her veins and now all she could do was stare up at the ceiling, dry-eyed and sick to her stomach.
Rachel came in quietly. Since they shared the room, she didn’t knock. She sat next to Sophia on the edge of the bed and waited, aware her silence was its own form of support.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Sophia finally blurted out. “I had so many hopes, so many dreams. Now they’re nothing. How can I marry him? I just can’t, Rachel.”
Instead of overreacting to her desperate plea, Rachel simply nodded. “You don’t care that it’s a great honor, do you? Of course not,” she answered her own question. “You’ve always been a romantic. This development calls for you to become a realist.”
The words calmed Sophia, exactly as Rachel had known they would. In reality, there was nothing Sophia could do about her impending marriage, so she might as well resign herself to it.
“Status,” Rachel said, poking her. “I know you’re looking for something good and right now that’s the only thing I can think of. Right now, you’re just a regular person. Sure, you’re one of the Chosen, but so is everyone else. Once you’re married to Ezekiel, you won’t be regular any longer. Your status will be hugely elevated.”
“As if I care about that.” Sophia’s laugh verged on the edge of hysterical. “All I ever wanted was someone to love who would love me back.”
“Well, maybe Ezekiel will love you. And you never know, you might come to grow fond of him, too.”
Sophia stared at her friend in disbelief. “Talk about rose-colored glasses,” she said.
This made Rachel laugh. “I learned from the best, you know. You can’t let your shock kill your positive outlook. After all, it isn’t like you have a choice.”
While her words might be harsh, she was right. Again. Because Sophia had no choice. She needed to figure out a way to come to grips with the turn her life had taken.
“I just need time,” she said, her tone firm as her confidence returned. “Time to get used to the idea.”
Rachel nodded and hugged her. “That’s the spirit. Now, come help prepare dinner. You know it’s our turn to cook.”
Sophia jumped to her feet. “Good. That’s exactly what I need. Busywork, to keep from dwelling on this mess.”
“That’s the spirit.” Rachel grinned. “Much more like the Sophia I know.” She linked her arm through Sophia’s. “Come on. Let’s make something delicious for our dinner.”
Sophia let Rachel drag her to the kitchen. Reminding herself that she had time made it much easier to breathe. Maybe she could even figure out a way to extend the time and make her upcoming wedding date even further away than the one month Ana had mentioned earlier.
She couldn’t help but hope she’d have some wiggle room on the date.
Following his new pals outside, Jack looked around carefully, squinting in the bright daylight. The sun, warm for spring, sat high in a bright, blue, cloudless sky. It wasn’t humid, though, but a dry heat, and not nearly as hard to take as spring in Texas. The air felt different here, purer somehow. Must be the higher altitude. Surrounding the compound as well as within, there were lots of trees, evergreens along with hardwoods. His first impression was wilderness. The cult’s encampment appeared to be in an isolated area, far from any other dwellings, towns or people. All around the settlement he saw nothing but undeveloped terrain.
The building they’d left, the hospital, looked identical to several other cinder-block buildings loosely grouped around what appeared to be some sort of central square. Everything had been painted a pale shade of dried mud. Boring, yet soothing, too. There didn’t appear to be any external individualization—no colors or decorative accents adorned anything. He couldn’t even tell which structures were residences and which were businesses—assuming they had any. He’d venture a guess that any type of monetary capitalization was frowned upon here—no doubt the leadership dispensed what was needed to the residents. That way they were dependent on the organization for everything in every aspect of their lives.
It definitely seemed slower paced, more evenly regulated than the competitive world he was used to. And as far as he could tell, none of his companions seemed to be suffering. As they walked, the other men joked with each other, jostling elbows and laughing easily in a way that reminded Jack of college kids. He supposed these guys weren’t much older than that, which made him feel sort of ancient. But, no matter. He hadn’t come here to make friends. Though being pleasant wouldn’t hurt. More flies with honey and all that.
The paths were all gravel or cobblestone; nothing as efficient or modern as pavement.
His companions stopped in front of a single-story, unassuming building, one of many in a neat row. These were slightly smaller than some of the others, their rectangular shapes and placement reminiscent of row houses.
“Here we are,” Phillip said, beaming with pride. “Home. Thomas wants you to room with me. Here, single people all live together, two to a bedroom. I have an empty bed since Prescott got married.”
Jack nodded. “Sounds good.”
Phillip opened the front door with a flourish. “Come on in. I’ll show you where you’ll be living.”
Stepping inside, Jack looked around. After the outside, he’d expected a seriously Spartan interior, with scant decoration and functional furniture. He saw he’d been correct about the furniture—the small living room contained a boxy, two-cushion couch, one chair, a plain, rectangular coffee table and a matching end table. But the real surprise hung on the walls.
Paintings—splashes of lush color—hung on the walls. A landscape here, a floral there. An abstract, and a portrait. All of those in one room. Intrigued, Jack strolled over to inspect the landscape, which appeared to be inspired by the local forests surrounding the compound.
Now, Jack was no judge of art, but he knew what he liked and this—clean lines, bold brushstrokes of color—was it. “That’s amazing,” he said. “Who’s the artist?”
“Me,” Phillip responded, pleasure warming his voice. Jack turned to see his new roommate beaming with pride. “When I was in school, I demonstrated this talent, so I was permitted to keep it as my hobby.”
“Permitted?” The word slipped out, but Jack felt it was reasonable.
“Everyone is allowed to have one hobby, as long as it doesn’t interfere with their work and study of the Volumes of Choice.”
Though Jack hadn’t heard of the Volumes of Choice, it seemed pretty self-explanatory. It must be COE’s religious tenet.
Instead of commenting, he moved on to inspect the next painting. A single flower, painted in five different shades of the same color. Beautiful, in a completely different way than the first painting, though the artist’s style remained the same.
He
