“I need to bathe,” I said.

“Now?” she asked.

“Yes, I seem to be dirtier than usual, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to eat without being clean.”

“Very well,” she said, “but please hurry.”

I quickly excused myself and hurried down the hallway to the staircase, pattered up the steps to the second floor, and slipped into the first door on the left that held the bathroom my mother and I shared. A second bathroom downstairs belonged to Jamie, which neither of us women would dare use.

Inside the small washroom, I turned on the warm water and stripped. It took some time to remove the required layers of clothing, all of which were naturally white. The long-sleeved dress that hung only inches above my feet. The thinner undergarments and the compressor, which every woman over the age of twelve was required to wear. The corset ran six inches in length and pulled the breasts closer to the chest. Uncomfortable at first, it was something you got used to after a while.

Women’s clothing was designed to hide the body from the eyes of men. We wore white to symbolize our purity as the bride of Jesus. Stains of any kind were a sign of waning devotion. But I’d begun painting simple designs on my white undergarments when I was sixteen because I missed wearing color and I didn’t think Jesus would mind. No one could see the red and yellow flowers I’d painted. In fact, I’d convinced myself that they were a gift to him as much as to me.

But seeing the simple designs painted on my undergarments now, I felt a pang of guilt. The smallest sin was as black as the greatest sin—plenty of sermons using many Scriptures had made that utterly clear. Black was black. Whether lust or dust, sin was sin. And I was covered in it.

Stepping under the flowing water, I grabbed the bristle brush, harsh but necessary, and scrubbed. My hands, my arms, my legs, my shoulders, every inch. My skin turned pink from the agitation and scalding water.

I treasured the absolution of that pain. Slowly I washed my sins down the drain. Tomorrow would be a new day.

But still . . . still I knew that inside, both Jamie and I were dirty. Guilty. And the guilty had to be punished.

Dear God, what was happening to me?

Chapter
Three

“GRACE! WAIT A SECOND.”

I was hurrying to the Chapel the next morning after a disturbing sleep when Alice’s voice called to me from behind. I stopped and turned to see her holding the hem of her dress off the ground as she approached me with bright eyes.

“Good morning, Alice. We’re going to be late.”

“We have a moment. Please, just a moment.”