And then he disappeared behind the curtain of the room and I stood there for a moment in shock. A shock that was quickly turning to silent rage, like my head might burst like a pressed tomato. I wanted to call his name, but I felt ridiculous standing in the hall, begging for him to listen.

I took a deep breath. There was only one option. Well, two. I could do it the long, quiet way—wait until he was finished with everything and meet him at home. That would probably be another hour or two, and I might not get the information I wanted. Then there was always the quick way, which was … questionable. But I didn’t have an hour or two to wait around.

So I took a deep breath …

I hadn’t screamed so wildly in so long, it nearly shocked me to silence again as it echoed off the stone walls. But, immediately, I heard the desired reaction from the couple of priests on the other side of the curtain in the form of vague frightened exclamations and frantic footsteps. None of them left the room, so I screamed again.

Then, I saw Jember’s bloodred glove peek through the curtain before he shoved it aside, his eyes glinting wild like those of an agitated lion. He still wore his turban but had shed his robes, leaving him in his white pants and undershirt—the same shirt he’d been wearing since I was five, so worn thin in places it looked on the verge of spontaneously tearing. He gripped his maqomiya, the long prayer staff grinding into the floor like it was trying to drill through it, and I couldn’t fight the wince my body had long been conditioned to perform at the sight of it. I backed away a few steps, even though my mind rationalized that Jember hadn’t disciplined me in years, and never within the walls of the church.

Not where the priests could see, anyway.

“Have you lost your mind?” he growled, approaching as quickly as I retreated.

“If I say yes will you listen to me?”

“I could lose my position if they find out it was you out here screeching like a—”

“There’s a dangerous Manifestation that almost—” My bare foot faltered on the uneven stone floor and this time my cry was genuine as Jember caught the front of my loose netela, twisting it to bind it closer to my head, blocking me from escaping.

He used the fabric as a leash, half dragging me into a closet, then shoved me ahead of him. There were no candles inside, but there was enough light coming through the doorway that I could catch myself against the shelves with my hands before I slammed into them face-first.

“I’m shocked, Andi,” he said, slight amusement in his voice. “What would God say about your underhanded tantrum back there?”