“She’s in the chapel,” Ama said simply, looking her in the eyes. Taured motioned for her to step forward. She glanced behind her at the procession of women sent to collect her from hell, and they nodded encouragingly. Her discomfort stalled her feet; from behind, she felt one of the women give her a little shove forward. Was she more afraid or less afraid after being locked in that place? Summer considered that as she moved slowly toward him. He looked like an actor in a movie, but not a handsome actor like she used to think. He looked... She couldn’t find the word.

You’re too tired and hungry to be scared, she thought. But she knew that wasn’t true.

The word came to her as she came to stand sentinel in front of him: Small, she thought. He looks small. Or did I get taller?

Taured didn’t say anything until she was right in front of him. He looked sick. His eyes, which were usually alert and dancing, now looked dry and red. She shifted her feet, fixing her gaze on his face. What she saw in the deadness of his stare made her so uneasy her bladder stung for release.

“Congratulations and blessings on you, Summer, for the tremendous feat you have accomplished. You have shunned your flesh, defied it and risen above in triumph.”

She’d heard all this before. Her mouth was dry, and swallowing made it worse. She flinched halfway through his speech as a result, and his eyes focused sharply on her face, his words becoming more clipped. She didn’t know what he was saying and she didn’t care.

When he was finished, he nodded to the women behind Summer, who stepped forward at once to collect her. Their procession would now move to the chapel. She kept her eyes on him even as they steered her toward the doors, twisting her neck as far back as it would go, conveying her hate and her weakness all at once. He stared back unmoving, the cold of his eyes reaching for her, as well.

She could hear singing as they turned down the hallway where the chapel was, the hypnotic hum of voices. It wasn’t so much singing as it was chanting, the men and the women holding hands, eyes closed, their mouths molding over the words holy, holy, holy.

Sara had left the procession at some point and had gone ahead to the chapel, because when they entered through rear doors, she saw the back of her friend’s head in the last row. They’d snuck in here together many times, using the key they’d stolen. Now her back was to Summer, her shoulders pressed forward; Sara wouldn’t look at her.