She huffed in amusement. “You’re a sharp one, aren’t you? Of course I’m trying to help you. I told you that before.” Fydelia pulled a thread from the hem, wrapping it around her finger. “I’ve been here longer than most. I’ve seen a few penitents disobey the rules over and over. Their stays in the crypt stretch longer and longer until they never return.”

The lump that had been my supper rolled over, threatening to push bile up my throat. Fear and uncertainty churned inside me. I’d panic, except I trusted my guys. The vision of Odd’s expression flashed before me and I repeated the words to myself. I. Trusted. My. Guys.

“What’s the message for Melina?” Fydelia asked.

“Why? She’s in another tower. You can’t talk to her, either.”

Again Fydelia hesitated.

“What else are you keeping from me?” I asked.

“I’m not telling you everything for a reason. When you’re taken to the crypt, the guards ask you questions. Lots of questions. They sense we’re not as obedient as we act. Weaker penitents will blab and we’ll all suffer.”

Ah. “And you don’t know if I’m the type to blab.”

“Right.”

I mulled over what I’d learned so far. They had some type of silent communication system in place. “All right. Can you please tell Melina that I have a message for her?”

“And just how are you going to deliver this message?”

“I figured she’d arrange that. It’s obvious you trust her.”

“How do you know that?” Fydelia demanded.

“You didn’t ask me how you’d get my message to her, which means she didn’t blab to the guards.”

Fydelia tapped a finger on her temple. “Too sharp, Irina. That will get you into a whole heap of trouble.”

Funny, I already thought I was in a whole heap of trouble.

* * *

Over the next two horrible days, I spotted Odd and another man on his squad among the guards, bringing me a bit of mental relief. I kept track of the times when the shift changed. No Quain or Loren, but I hadn’t seen any priests. No Melina, either. I worried Fydelia hadn’t delivered my message in order to save me and Melina from getting into trouble.

Day four in hell, Odd caught my attention while we filed in for prayers. He gestured, using the signals we’d developed for the times silence was needed during a patrol. Too bad I’d forgotten most of them. I shook my head.

After the torture of staring at the stained glass window, I shuffled to the dining room. Halfway there, Odd yanked me out of line. The others didn’t miss a step as they kept moving.

“Did I hear you talk, Penitent?” he demanded.

“No, sir.”

He struck me on the arm. It sounded painful, but didn’t even sting.