Every morning, I pick crabapples in the arbor.

 

It feels like the right thing to do; it is an important task, it allows me to memorize my studies of the liturgy, and it keeps my hands busy. Proverbs 10:4 states that “a slack hand causes poverty, but the hand of the diligent makes rich.” I wish this were true; as lazy as my Sisters are, laying about the Convent and promising to do their studies (and little else), they earn Mother’s favor above all else, they are the first the Paladins set eyes upon when they return from war, they are closer to great Confirmation than myself. 

 

But still, I pick crabapples in the arbor.

 

Today’s harvest is bountiful; the new seed provided by the Paladins’ last harvest seems to be more resilient, as I’ve never seen less bruised fruit in a bushel before. The veritable volume within my basket tells me that we may not have to choose between tarts and jellies, between pies and stews. We may be able to have all of them, for once. Such small joys bring a genuine smile to my face; something hard to grasp in these days, save for when I enter the Confessional with Mother, save for when Sister Merry comes and makes my acquaintance, save for the feeling when the Bell of Augury rings and I stand at-attention before the Trespass, hopeful that a Paladin will choose me for their bed in that night. 

 

It never happens, but hope is divine; Jeremiah 29:11 states, “For I know the plans I have for you, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.” If the Gilded Lady has plans for me, perhaps I just have not caught the eye of the proper paladin, perhaps the slit in my dress was too small to be noticed, perhaps my belly and thighs are not yet plump enough. Mother does tell me that I’m underdeveloped in regards to my sisters; that I should consume more sanctified wine in our feasts, that I should say more prayers before bedtime, that she could give me special attention if I so desired it. 

 

But I do not deserve it, so I do not take it. Mother has more important things to focus on then the plumpness of my frame; she has a convent to maintain, a Sisterhood to govern, her eyes must be set upon God on High. 

 

In my adoration of her, I almost miss the first resonant hum from the Bell of Augury; I take the baskets of harvested fruit and carry them forth, depositing them in jars to hold them firm against the tides of time. I will collect them later; I am filthy, I am wretched, I am not meant for the eyes of warriors returning from combat. If I am quick, I can set myself before them; I may yet earn their lust. I rush through a quick shower within my cell, adorn myself with my most revealing vestments (those which expose the gentle curve of my midriff and the plumpness of my thigh) and somehow make it to the Trespass before they do, standing amongst the assembly of my Sisters. I set myself next to Sister Merry, as I always do, and she looks at me, smiles, and her smile fades. 

 

“Your belt is loose.” She whispers. I curse. I adjust the tie about my waist. My dress fits better, now; but it exposes my gauntness. I wonder, absently, if the paladins will look past me now. 

 

Before I can fixate on it, the doors to the Trespass open; light catches on the gold heraldry of the sanctified machines before me, nearly blinds me as they approach. The scent of sulphur and oil fills my nostrils. Bipedal machines clad in armor, seals of purity and scrolls of scripture, sent forth by the Gilded Lady to keep us safe. I know not what the world outside looks like, for I have always lived in the convent - but by the scars on the machined plating of the Paladins’ vessels, I can imagine it is something horrific. 

 

There are five machines, in total; Mother stands to greet them as the Paladin Superior, first in line, kneels before Her. To its flank, two bulwarks kneel. Behind them, the remaining two machines do not kneel - because they carry another frame, not of sanctified design. It has been delimbed, but it's torso is intact - glistening chains hold it sealed. Mother approaches it, and I can almost see her form shift in approval - another Profligate brought for sanctification. 

 

We’re never told what happens to the Profligates that enter into our Convent, just that they are given the chance to repent. I wonder, absently, if they are turned out into the world after their retribution is completed, before remembering it is not my place to wonder about such things. Instead, my focus is drawn back to the Paladins as the two carrying the battered corpse walk off, and the three machines remaining open, their operators stepping down from cockpits - glistening with sweat, adorned with gold and white, hair tied back. They eye the assembly of gathered nuns; the Superior chooses first, as is Her right. She kisses Mother’s cheek and collects Sister Anastasia, and sweeps her away. 

 

Then, the right Bulwark - she considers us all for a long time, before Sister Maria catches her eye. She feels through the slit in her dress the weight of her thigh, and chooses her. I feel jealousy curl in my bones - Sister Maria has not once been present at the scheduled readings of scripture, and yet she is rewarded? I wish a dry, painful orgasm upon her, before I note, in my anger, that I have missed the fact that the left Bulwark stands before me. 

She regards me. Looks me up and down. She runs fingers through the gentle curls of my hair. A hand searches beneath my cloak for my breast - she runs a thumb over a firm, waiting nipple. I hold my breath, and her hand searches down, and as she reaches my wound, I remember; they will never choose me. I see it flash across her face as she realizes what I have somehow let slip from my mind. 

 

I am damaged. Impure. 

 

She gives me a gentle, sorry smile - and walks toward Sister Catarina, takes her in her arms, leaves. The gathered assembly fades, and I am thankful; they do not hear the delicate sound of my heart as it breaks. Sister Merry puts a hand on my shoulder. 

 

“Want to come rest in my Cell? I’ve saved some sweets.” She whispers.

 

”Of course.” I say, defeated, and we go, before the snickering of my Sisters reaches my ears; before I can feel my shame seep through my bones once again.

 

-

 

The Cells weren’t far from the Trespass; it was important for us to be close to the entry to the Convent. Mother told us that we needed to be ready in instances that would force us to flee, and Luke 21:36 states, “Be watchful at all times and pray that you may be able to escape all these things that will occur…” To that end, it made sense that we lived so close to the outside, a constant reminder of that which lurked without, and the walls that kept us safe. 

 

The Cells themselves were comfortable; small, single-person lodgings carved into stone, adorned with soft cloth and simple furniture, a place to rest your head alone or with another. The Cells were off-limits to anyone not in the Sisterhood - including the Paladins, after a string of events where overzealous soldiers of the Gilded Lady would storm the halls seeking bodies for warmth. Mother herself even kept her footfalls from darkening our doorways; it was a place of solace for us, a place where we could bend the rules that bound us. 

 

Merry had been exaggerating, as she often did, when she said she’d saved some sweets. Really, she’d saved one - a singular truffle, a smooth chocolate sphere with a sweeter inner core. It was difficult to share such a thing, but we of the Sisterhood were clever - were we to pass it between warmed tongues and teeth, we could indulge all the same without having to risk breaking the treat in trying to split it. If our tongues and lips touched those of our Sisters in the process, well, that much was simply unavoidable. We were indulging - and gluttony was far less desperate a sin these days than lust. 

 

And as I finish the truffle - my treat, given my near-miss with the Paladin Bulwark - Merry pulls herself into my lap, works my dress down around my shoulders, and starts to work away at my hair. She turns long, halogen-kissed, curling strands into a singular braid, works her fingers like pulling wool through a loom, and meets my eyes more than once. She says, quietly, “You should not feel so sad, lovely August. To catch a Paladin’s eye as you are is something special, all the same. So what if they opt not to take you to bed? I’ve heard the Bulwarks are an especially rough pairing, anyways, and I’d not like to see you with bruises about your form.” 

 

It was true, I suppose, true enough at least. I look up and meet Merry’s eyes once again. “I would just like, for once in my life, to be enough for anybody here - aside from you.” I was always enough for Sister Merry, who wore a blush on her cheeks when I came around, who warmed my bed more often than she warmed her own, anymore. “Mother has stayed me from Confirmation once again, and the Paladins will not take me to sleep, and I understand - I do, I understand - that I need to be punished, still, but…for how long? Surely not eternally.” 

 

And Merry bites her lip - the way she does when she’s avoiding a harsh truth - and she says, “I love you, August.” 

 

“And I, you.” I say, quietly, mumbling. 

 

“But you did…” She starts, and I hold a finger to her lips. I can see the way that the blush upon her cheeks turns deeper, the way that her eyes fill with tears, the way her demeanor cracks into a thousand bits of glass. 

 

“I know. Maybe I need to recall that more readily.” I sigh, gently, wistfully, again. “But it is alright, I suppose. I will never sleep alone, will I?” 

 

Now, a smile returns to her face. “You never will.” And she presses her forehead against mine, a chaste gesture, and says, “You were busy in the Arbor today, I feel that has earned you some rest. Will you take it with me?” 

 

“Not yet.” I say, and I retrieve my prayer books, the gilded rosary I bury inside of them. I hold my hand out with the beads wrapped around my fingers, and Merry snorts, quietly, before she inlays her fingers in mine, coiling beads against knuckles, binding us together. 

 

We speak the Magnificat five times and follow-through with three Our Fathers before I allow Merry to coil her body into mine, and we drift into slumber.

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next morning, I am on my way to the arbor when I am reminded by noise from the overhead speaker system that it is a day for Confessions. I curse my absent mind and push back to my cell, passing Merry’s along the way. I consider, absently, that I should move my things there instead of keeping a paltry collection around my own cell - but I worry that will feel too domestic, and encourage Mother to take action to dissuade us from living together properly. There is much in the Gilded Lady’s book about cohabitation and immorality; even if I do not understand all of it, I know enough to understand it would be frowned upon. 

 

So, I do not. I change from the coarse burlap-and-cowcloth of my field-dress into my ceremonial gown, I adorn my arms in golden bands and rings, I lace golden fibre through my braids (and thank Merry for putting my hair up properly, praise the Lady that it has stayed), and then I go. If I am early, I can leave early; if I am late, I will be there until the end of day. 

 

I would like not to hear the trumped-up cries of my siblings while I wait to bear my soul to an exhausted, tired Mother. 

 

When I arrive, there are few others waiting; Sister Merry ahead of me, and Sister Maria ahead of her. Looking at the cunt at the face of the line makes my stomach harden and its contents curdle - especially when she turns her nose up at me. Her face is thin, pretty, separately angular and soft in all of the right places; it is framed by ringlets of brunette, beautifully-kept hair that she claims is natural, strands of gold-blonde dancing throughout it. Her skin is without blemish save for a dusting of freckles so divine you would have believed that they’d been placed there by a godly hand. 

 

I know in my heart it is wrong to covet, to want, to practice jealousy - in this line, moments away from being absolved, I feel that I can allow myself a little bit of sin, as a treat. 

 

My focus is stolen by Sister Anastasia as she leaves the confessional booth, Mother’s hand gently guiding her away. She is a kind, warming presence; the leader amongst our Sisterhood, paired to the Paladin Superior in all but official name, a guiding light like an older sibling. She gives us all a gentle bow, which we return - but as she goes to leave, she takes my wrist in one hand and presses her palm against my knuckles, squeezes twice - a gentle, warm gesture of familiarity. 

 

Then, she says, “The Paladin Superior requested your presence, last night.” 

 

I sweat. “L-last night, Sister?” 

 

“No, you silly girl.” She laughs, gently. “She requested it after we had… finished our dalliance. Asked for you to find her in her quarters later today. I believe she needs assistance with bathing, considering some of her additional…” Anastasia waves her hand, somewhat dismissively. “Augmentation. You know your way around it better than the rest of us.” 

 

That much was true, I supposed. The Divine Gateways that linked the Paladins to their machines were complex, important little pieces of machinery. I wasn’t sure how they worked, but my fingers had a special familiarity with them, as if the Lady had granted me privilege to understand the inner workings of things far more important than myself or mine. Such gifts from God herself were never to be questioned, only appreciated. 

 

I nodded, slowly. “I will go.” 

 

“Good.” Anastasia presses a kiss to my overturned hand, and as our conversation concludes, I hear Maria leaving the Confessional - she among us without sin needs not a long confession - and I go to return to the wall, before Merry takes my shoulder. I look at her. 

 

“Go ahead of me.” She says. Quiet, gentle. 

 

“Okay.” I say, and I squeeze her hand twice. Something like unease rests on her face, but I do not question it.

 

Instead, I walk into the golden light - the warmth of the Confessional. It is, perhaps, the kindest place in the whole of the Convent; the smell of incense wafts, golden light shimmers down from hidden lamps on high, and Mother herself sits in the middle of the room, knelt unto a pile of pillows that provide enough support, an illusion of comfort and grace in the face of the truth of the moment. Despite her leisure, her power radiates - the oldest woman in the convent, gentle wrinkles upon her face, gilded hair turned gray with age over porcelain flesh; the majority of her form is obscured by a black cassock, the white collar of its undershirt flecked with golden jewelry. 

 

She says, “Hello, Sister August,” and even then I am moved by her recognition. 

 

“Hello, Mother Gloria.” I whisper, in response, and I kneel before her. After a period she deems lengthy enough, she takes my hands, runs her thumbs over my knuckles. 

 

“Rise to meet me.” She says, and I do. I take in the whole of her in that moment, we inhale and exhale together, and she says, “You secured quite the bountiful harvest upon your last journey to the arbor, Sister August. Your Sisters in the pantry were quite pleased.” 

 

“I am glad I could be of service, Mother.” I say, simply, responsive; a trained gesture. “But praise should go to the Paladins, who-“

 

”-were responsible for recovering saplings and seeds, yes, I’m aware.” Mother waves her hand, dismissively. I nod in response. “But you and your Sisterhood never receive your proper recognition, and that is simply unfair. It is your collective that keeps this place running, is it not?” 

 

“We receive our recognition in selection at the hands of the Paladins who we warm beds for, Mother.” I pause, wondering if this is a test - if it is, I shall pass it heartily. “And Colossians 3:23 states, ‘Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men.’” 

 

“Always my bookworm.” Mother smiles. “But do recall, Proverbs 3:27 states, ‘Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to do it.’” 

 

My cheeks redden with blush. “I-I am sorry to assume I knew more of the Scripture than you, Mother.” 

 

“You didn’t assume anything, child. I just want you to take credit where it is due.” She takes my face in her hand, once again, and I feel the whole of my body warm. I try to bury my want. “But we have a purpose here today, do we not, my sweet August?” 

 

“We do.” I nod. “Mother, I come before you in Confession, for I have sinned.” 

 

“And how have you sinned?” She asks, flatly, contemplatively; it is not accusatory, it is simply probing. 

 

“I have been envious. I saw Sister Maria taken by the Paladin Bulwark, and I wished unpleasant intercourse upon her.” Mother nods, the ghost of a smile on her lips. “I have been gluttonous - Sister Merry saved a truffle and I took it from her instead of allowing her to finish it.” Again, another nod, another smile. “A-and I have been wrathful, toward myself. Toward my body.” 

 

There is no smile at this, and she cocks her head sideways. “Tell me more about this, my love.” 

 

“I-I had a dream last night. About my incident in the Sacristy, with the Pieta.” I say, quietly. “I…saw it all over again.” 

 

Mother nods, solemnly. “My greatest failure - I have absolved you of this sin. Why do you still dream of it?” 

 

“I am…unsure.” I say, quietly. “I thought I had moved beyond it.” 

 

“As you should have.” Mother nods, again. “For it is your burden no longer, it is mine. And, unfortunately, it is not your place to take things from my plate once again. That power belongs to the Beata Maria, and her seat in High Heaven alone.” 

 

“Yes, Mother.” I nod. “I am sorry for trying to lighten your burden - subconsciously or otherwise.” 

 

She smiles, gently. “You are a loving and gentle thing, August. I should count myself lucky that you entered into my Convent.” 

 

I smile, in return. “I am lucky each day that I am here.” 

 

She imparts unto me my penance - five Magnificat, three Our Fathers, one Hail Mary. It is not so different from my usual routine - for this, I am grateful. I depart, and as I walk, I make an additional note in my prayer book to compensate for the additional items. I return to my Cell, and I change into something more comfortable - and then, I travel to the hall of the Paladins. 

 

The Cells here are different from ours - much more ornate, well-decorated, elaborate. Whereas a Convent Cell would have a singular room with a bed and an attached sparse bath chamber, Paladins are granted ranges, bedrooms, studies, bath-chambers with soaking tubs - the lap of luxury. For the Paladin Superior, summarily, no expense is spared; it is as close to Heaven as one may find on Earth.

 

I knock, and the door opens - the Superior is nowhere to be found. I step forth, and there is a noise like laughter from the bath-chamber, and a voice sings, “Enter, sweet August.” 

 

I do so without comment. 

 

The bath-chamber wafts with the scent of fruit and florals and, coarse on my nose, an undertone of something bitter and sanctifying, something that burns the nostrils. I see it before I process it; a long pipe extends from the Superior’s mouth. Opium smoke wafts from her jaw, locked in place save for where it splits at the pipe, and I am stunned; unable to muster a response. 

 

She points to the side of the tub, wordlessly; I kneel beside her. She lifts her head, wordlessly; I work my fingers against it. I know the Gateway at the back of her skull is the primary worry, her most divine connection to the machine she will operate in the field. I work absently; my fingers in a cycle of repetition, tying her hair back and up so that I can wash away the scarred flesh around the Gateway. 

 

I am stopped, briefly, when my eyes set upon it. I wonder why it continues to scar - installed properly, a DS-3 Neural Uplink will have no issue with rejection; compatibility with most (if not all) organic tissue was prioritized in the shift from the second generation model to the third. Such a volume of scar-tissue indicates improper installation - mercifully, the 3rd Generation Model is able to correct improper installation without usage of heavy equipment. 

 

My fingers move before I can think - I find the little release nodule at the base of the skull, and I press it. The implant shunt exits the spinal basin where it has settled, and I use my thumb to hold it in suspension as I loose a chunk of wastebone from the basin’s channel; dropping it to the side of the tub and then the floor below. Almost instantaneously, the uplink slots back into place, and the Superior lets out a gasp - liberated from pain. 

 

I am unsure how I knew how to do that. 

 

A silence falls over both of us; the Superior in an Opium fog, myself in a dissociative fugue. I try to go back to what I was doing, one hand settled on her braid, the other wiping flesh away from her neck. 

 

Then, she speaks. 

 

“August.” She says, simply. There is no formality here. Sweat beads on my neck. “Are you feeling alright?” 

 

“Never better, Madame Superior.” I say, quietly. 

 

“Could you explain to me, in brief, what you just did?” 

 

“Yes, Madame Superior.” I cannot lie. I am compelled not to lie. “I believe your… gateway was installed improperly, so I adjusted it.” 

 

“You… adjusted it. ” She says, quietly. “Hm.” 

 

“I meant no harm, Madame Superior-“ I start, but she stops me in my tracks, turns to face me. Her eyes, wide and dilated, focus with a vicious efficiency. I feel my heart catch in my throat. 

 

“Do you remember?” She asks, and I feel it at the back of my skull; a scratching, hounds at the door, barking and slamming paws against wood.

 

Everything in my body tells me to lie. 

 

“I don’t.” It is a half-truth; I know there is something I am forgetting, and it is rapidly coming into focus; I am simply unsure of what it is. I am, however, entirely certain that if I tell the truth here, there will be only suffering to follow. “I assure you, Madame Superior, I don’t.” 

 

She regards me for a moment longer - and then, the opium haze drifts over her again. She takes her pipe, takes another long pull, puts herself back into oblivion. 

 

There is not another word shared between us for the remainder of the time we spend together. 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I wake. The girl from my dream is coiled on my chest. 

 

I am more aware of my truth then, perhaps, I have ever been. I am not meant to be here; this place is not my home, these beliefs are not mine. All the same, I am empty - I have a name (not the one they’ve called me) and a body (not the one I inhabit), but nothing else. I look down at the girl resting upon this new form , the malformed thing I now call my flesh , and I push her off - gentle, so as not to wake her - and I stumble out, leaving my things behind. 

 

I return to my Cell, and search for something suited for running - most of what I find are dresses, whorish and awful, exposed and loose. I settle on a tunic and loose pants, tuck my feet into working boots, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the space’s mirror. I am entirely unrecognizable; harsh edges ground to softness by force of stone, supple breasts adorn my chest, hair never allowed to grow long by regulation or the memory of such a thing now flowing over my shoulders. I am filled with a sick, tepid fury that boils up in my gut. 

 

Eventually, I will return to normal. I will find a way.

 

I storm into the hall, caring not for the noise I make, caring not for who I awaken. I try to recollect the layout of this Hell from elsewhere in my mind, and come up blank - again and again. I try to dig for memory, but it is lost; repetition over repetition, days of picking apples in arbors, days of reciting prayers, days of gentle touch and longing. It is not mine. It was never mine. 

 

I dig, and I dig, and I dig, and I come up empty - wet clay and dry sand. It brings a fury to my mouth I cannot quantify, but I shove it down. I focus. I hone my brain. 

 

At the end of my search, I find myself in a familiar space; a circular chamber at the end of a long hallway. At the center of it, a pilot kneels; arms tied behind them with chains. An apparatus is bound to their face by leather straps - a complex mechanism with a half-face mask covering their eyes, glimmering golden light emanating from beneath it. Between the eyes on the mask is a chemical basin holding a shimmering golden liquid - and from the basin, extending upward, is a needle, pressed through a small gap in the flesh and skull directly onto - I imagine - exposed brain tissue. 

 

The pilot’s coveralls are filthy - covered in drool and piss - and, mentally, they seem to be entirely absent. I stare at them for a long while - too long, because I hear movement in the doorway, and I turn over my shoulder. 

 

There, standing in the entryway, is the armored woman from my dream. I clench my fist and let out a roar as I swing at her - and she catches my hand and slams it into the doorframe, breaking what I imagine to be half of my fingers with immediacy. She throws me to the ground, and I get a brief look at the steeled toe of her boots before they drive themselves into my rib cage - again, and again, and again. My breath is stolen from me, and as I try - desperately - to breathe - the same boots connect with my head, driving my temple into the concrete below.

 

When my vision stops swimming and I come back to, the pilot at the center of the room is gone - and I kneel in his place. I want to spit vitriol at the world, but I’ve been gagged. I want to be furious, but it sputters out - and when I look up, I am greeted with a mirror image of my dream. 

 

”I told you,” The Paladin Superior muses. “We should have killed it when we got it. We should have killed it each time we ended up here. It is clearly not fit for this life - not as a Paladin, not as a Nun, not as anything. The longer we keep it here, the more dangerous it becomes.” 

 

“I don’t know.” Mother murmurs, quietly, adjusting the collar of her cassock. “I’m coming around.” She looks at the girl between them. “I’m sorry, Merry. We tried.” 

 

“But we don’t have to stop trying.” Merry huffs, the voice of an impotent child. “We can put her back through again! Look - she’s almost perfect.” 

 

“Almost.” The Superior scoffs. “Almost might get someone killed. It’s a miracle that it hasn’t already, praise the Lady.” 

 

“Praise her, indeed.” Mother takes a step toward me, and I shudder - but I can’t go anywhere. I am stuck, both by my restraints, and the power she exudes, the way it still carries some level of sway over me. She takes my chin in her hand, and, quietly, sighs. “What am I going to do with you, August?” 

 

“That’s not my name. ” I snap. “It is Augustine! ” 

 

“Yes, just like the saint.” She sighs, again, and pushes my head down. “Yet you have shown no drive to be as your namesake. You were happy, August, happier than you have ever been, and you want to throw that away? For what?” 

 

“I…” I wasn’t entirely sure, really. Because it was wrong? Because I’d lost myself here? That had to be it. “I didn’t have a choice in being happy. You forced it on me.” 

 

“Maybe so. Maybe it was for your own good.” Mother muses, quietly. “You were a rabid animal when we found you, you know. Lashing out at anything and everything, underfed, depleted. Had someone else found you, they’d have done worse than we did. We gave you a gift of life - and a better one, all the same. I removed that nasty thing from the back of your neck, too.” She cocked her head to the side. “But you didn’t even remember having one.” 

 

“I did-I did! I-uhm.” I’m lost for words, again, because the memory was barely there. The muscle memory, sure; sleeping with my head at an angle, fixing the Superior’s uplink - but having one myself? Surely not. 

 

She looks at me with something like curiosity in her eyes. “You’re a terrible liar, August. Such sweet girls like you shouldn’t try to lie.” 

 

“I’m not a girl!” I howled, angry, but it was foolish - anyone who saw me wouldn’t buy that for a moment. 

 

“Let’s assume that I am wrong, and that you are not. ” Mother cups my chin, fully, picking my face right back up. “Regardless of what you feel - that doesn’t matter to those beyond our walls. If you go out looking like that, what will you do? Even if you found a replacement uplink, or stole some machine to get you going, you’d end up in someone else’s hands eventually - someone far more crude and far less suited to taking care of you than myself, than the rest of us. You may think this is horrific, but I assure you - blissful ignorance is much more suitable for you than whatever enduring abuse that the dregs of the waste would put upon you.” 

 

“I DON’T WANT IT!” I cry, this time; weeping, sobbing, falling to pieces. Any semblance of confidence and resistance is gone. “If I am to die, then let me die. If I am to be abused, let me be abused on my own terms! I don’t want this! I don’t want this anymore! I am barely myself anymore - if I am allowed to make one last choice, then let me make this on my own - let me die with dignity!” 

 

The three figures ahead of me fall into a temporary silence. The Superior reaches for a sidearm I have not noticed until now - tucked into the armor at her thigh. The Mother seems deep in contemplation. Sister Merry looks as though she’s about to fall to pieces. I feel a pang of sadness in my heart - as much as the rage that fills me threatens to spill out, she doesn’t deserve it. She is kind, and gentle, and, perhaps, as much a victim as myself - she knows not what she does. I tell myself. I hang my head, I let a sob rack my throat, and I stay there - the fight has bled out of me with my last words, and I pray - pray, for the first time, with sincerity - that the Paladin Superior splatters my brains on the concrete below. I hear the gentle click of the pistol’s hammer, of a weapon leaving its sheath - and then, nothing.

 

A pregnant moment passes, and something clinks in hand; my eyes look upward, and I see Mother holding the golden needle previously affixed to the pilot’s skull, beamed into their brain. A shuddering whisper of ‘no, no, no, no, no’ echoes forth from my throat, but it is pointless; her mind is made up.

 

“Her word is in my heart like a fire, a fire shut up in my bones.” She murmurs, gently. “I am weary of holding it in; indeed, I cannot.” She takes my face by the chin, again, and she wraps the first portion of the device around my eyes; I am greeted with golden light, something just beyond the veil projected directly into the battered recesses of my brain. There is a sharp pain at the top of my head - and a cold air that spilled forth into an absence within my skull. “For the forgiveness of sins will be preached in Her name to all nations, beginning… here. ” 

 

“Please,” I whisper, but it is a desperate cry on deaf ears. I cannot see her; I can only feel the warmth of her palm against my cheek, the softened bones of my face. 

 

“This will be your seventh time through baptism, sweet August. Thrice as a Paladin, thrice as a Sister. Those last vestiges of rebellion truly cling desperately, but I can see; you are so close to perfect. ” She taps the needle’s basin, and at the first drop…

 

I…

 

 

 

…

 

…Every morning, I pick crabapples in the arbor. 

 

I do it because it is the one thing I can remember to do - when words are really hard and when I forget which clothes to wear when, I know that the burlap dress is for picking crabapples. I know this ‘cause Merry has told me, again and again, that the rough fabric is meant both to be pulled up to hold our bounty, and to dig into my knees to remind me of, uh, the hard times!

 

Sister Merry is so, so smart. She made Confirmation last week. I was so happy for her - I was right there with her, holding her hand, just like she wanted! It made me a little jealous, ‘cause I’m never gonna make Confirmation, ‘cause I keep messing up the words of the day’s prayers, even though I say them every day! It’s a little embarrassing, but Merry keeps me on the right track, tells me it’s okay if I’m a little stupid, ‘cause she’s gonna take care of me anyway. 

 

I wish I could make Confirmation - but Mother tells me it’s alright, when I go in with her for my special lessons, when she puts the warmth in my head again and, uh…I can’t…really remember, but she tells me that it’s okay, so it is. Mother’s always right, and if she says that the ‘divine truth’ is that the Gilded Lady makes sure that even dumb girls like me can go to Heaven, then that’s what it’ll be. 

 

I consider myself lucky that so many people are looking out for me - I don’t know what I would’ve done without this place, if I were to go through the Trespass. When we lay in bed at night (and after she’s done kissing me even more stupid), I ask Merry what she thinks about leaving, and she says it's foolish, before admitting that she’s dreamed of the world outside before. She’s dreamed of warm fields and barley as far as the eye can see, under real sunlight - not the, uhm…fake ones that hang over the arbor. 

 

When we go to sleep that night, Merry asks me what I dream about, and I scratch my brain - I try really hard - but I tell her the truth; I don’t dream about…anything.

 

In fact, I don’t think I’ve had a dream in my whole life. 

 

-

 

From a distance, the Paladin Superior watches Sister August fumble through pulling crabapples down from the largest tree in the arbor. She stumbles, drops the bounty, picks it up, stumbles again, drops it again, and then settles on her ass. She laughs, like a child - loud and obnoxious, abrasive on the ears. 

 

Absently, she thumbs the hammer of her pistol. To her left, Mother sits. 

 

“Speak your mind, Sera.” Mother says, finally. 

 

“Is this…just?” The Superior asks, eyes flitting to the left. “You promised me last time would be just that - the last time. Still, week in and week out, you go, again and again. There’s so little light left in her eyes at this point, I feel…” She huffs. “I don’t know if the Gilded Lady would approve of this. I feel we may have strayed too far from the path.” 

 

In response, the Mother is quiet, contemplative. Then, she says, “The book of Corinthians states, ‘Each one’s work will become manifest, for the Day will disclose it, because it will be revealed by fire, and the fire will test what sort of work each one has done.’” She lets her words loom for a moment, before saying, “Our work is difficult, Sera. It was never meant to be easy - but faith preserves, and faith saves. The girl is too hollow to know that now, but tell me; is this not more just then pitching a plump hen into the wastes, unto whatever horror would befall her?” 

 

Again, the Superior is contemplative, before saying, “It is more just than that, yes, but-”

 

“But nothing. ” Mother’s tone is sharp, firm, cold - as clear an indicator as any to be silent. The Paladin Superior fixes her jaw, and she continues, “We will maintain what we have always had here. We have always been of strong faith, and we will continue to be of strong faith until She comes to guide us home.” 

 

Defeated, the Paladin Superior lets out a wistful breath, and says, “Of course, Mother.” She lets her eyes drift over August one more time, and her thumb touches the hammer once again, and she imagines ripping the weapon free and doing what feels most just. 

 

Instead, her faith stays her hand - as it always has. 

 

As it will, forever.