I let the sounds wash over me, lifting my gaze to contemplate the image of Yeshua on the wall above the altar.

I tried to envision him as Yeshua-that-was, willing his stern visage to soften into the gentler one Rebbe Avraham described.

“What is it you will of me?” I whispered under my breath, asking the question in earnest for the first time.

A vision unfolded behind my eyes: Yeshua ben Yosef as savior and intercessor, coming to my aid as he had come to the aid of the adulterous woman in one of the tales Aleksei had read to me.

And truly, his face was oh so very kind.

And as in the tale, Yeshua stooped and traced an unknown word on the ground. Then he stood and touched my chains one by one, and one by one my chains fell away. He reached out his hand to me, beckoning for me to take it.

I gazed into his eyes.

They were dark, dark and wise and fathomless. There was an entire world behind them, a night sky filled with stars, vast mountains blotting out sections.

No.

The mountain moved forward and dwindled, taking on a familiar shape, taking on mortal dimensions. I gazed through the eyes of Yeshua into the eyes of the Maghuin Dhonn Herself, and they were filled with infinite sorrow.

With infinite regret, She turned away from me. I felt the divine spark of my diadh-anam go out like a blown candle and gasped, my soul suddenly empty and hollow.

There would be no more twilight, no more gifts, no more magic. Never again would I sense the slow thoughts of trees growing, the flickering awareness of animals in the field. Never, ever, would I pass through the stone doorway. That was the price of accepting Yeshua’s salvation.

“No!”

The world, the real world came crashing back as though I had released the twilight. I hadn’t known I’d shouted aloud until I heard the echoes of my own voice in the sudden, shocked silence. My chains were shivering, the sigils on them glowing.

My diadh-anam blazed within me. It had only been a vision-a true vision, mayhap, but a vision nonetheless.

I had not taken Yeshua’s hand.

I gasped again with relief, and then a third time as Luba fetched me a great, ringing slap across the face, knocking me sideways, staggering in my shackles. Without giving me a chance to recover, she grabbed the chains that ran from my collar to my wrists, hauling me out of the temple unceremoniously.

I stumbled in her wake, scarce able to keep my feet, my wits addled and my face stinging. The anger that Aleksei’s compassion and the Rebbe’s book had softened returned full force. Halfway to the door to the living quarters, I got my feet beneath me, planted my heels, and yanked the chains out of her grasp.

Luba reached for me. I grabbed her arm first, pivoting on my heel to swing her against the outer wall of the temple.

Her grey eyes went wide and shocked.

I leaned my right forearm across her throat. “I am not a dog, and you will not treat me like one!”

And then there was the sound of running feet and shouting, and there were hands dragging me off her, many hands. I didn’t fight. Three Vralian men held me uncertainly, waiting for the Patriarch, who came striding down the street, his fine vestments swinging, his face filled with anger.

“You disappoint me, Moirin,” he rumbled. “You disappoint me sorely!”

Behind him, I could see Aleksei shaking his head in frantic warning, urging me not to further anger his uncle.

I gazed at the sky and breathed the Breath of Ocean’s Rolling Waves, willing myself to find the still, calm place within me that Master Lo had taught me to seek. It had been too long since I had practiced the discipline of the Way.

It helped.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” I said to the Patriarch. “A kind of fit came over me.”

It was an answer he could understand, and the worst of his anger abated. “It is Naamah’s curse within you struggling against the forces that would contain it,” he said in a judicious tone. “In my eagerness, I fear I misjudged your progress, as well as the tenacious nature of the curse. I should have allowed you to finish a full cycle of penance before exposing you to God’s holy liturgy.”

I sagged a bit in my captors’ grip. “Thank you, my lord. I’m very sorry.”

Pyotr Rostov said somewhat in Vralian to the men holding my arms. They let me go with alacrity. Luba coughed and massaged her throat in an ostentatious manner, malice in her gaze. Rostov turned back to me, his face grave. “You understand, of course, that you will have to be punished. It is for your own good. I fear the demons that possess you will only respond to strong discipline.”

“Of course, my lord.” I met his gaze. “For my own good.”

He smiled with gentle regret. “I’m glad you understand.”

THIRTY-TWO

My punishment was a whipping, and the Patriarch administered it himself.

Of course.

It took place in a small inner courtyard I hadn’t even known existed. There, I was made to kneel on the slate, my chained wrists draped over a hook on a large post. With great delight, Luba took her shears to the back of my dress, cutting downward from the neckline and parting the flaps of fabric to lay my back bare.

Pyotr Rostov beat me with a knotted rope, administering twenty firm lashes, counting out each one in a solemn voice.

It hurt.

I’d only ever been struck thrice before in my life. Once, when I told Jehanne I was leaving. She had slapped me with surprising strength, and fallen weeping at my feet. That was one blow I didn’t begrudge her. The second time was in the Great Khan’s ger. To be fair, he hadn’t hit me hard. It had only been a warning.

The third time was Luba, and that, I did begrudge her.

This was much worse.

The rope was heavy, and the knots struck with bruising force. I managed not to cry out loud, but I flinched in anticipation of each blow. My breath grew ragged and helpless tears filled my eyes. There are those who find pleasure in pain and in Terre d’Ange, it is one of Naamah’s arts, but it was not one I had ever relished.

After ten blows, my back was a welter of pain. By fifteen, I was biting my lip and squeezing my eyes shut, willing it to end.

“… eighteen.”

Thud.

“… nineteen.”

Thud.

The Patriarch was beginning to breathe hard, too. Through the haze of pain, I sensed that there was more than exertion in it. Although he might deny it to himself, he took pleasure in administering this punishment to me, as surely as he did in forcing my unwilling confessions. The exercise of power aroused him.

“… twenty.”

Thud.

It was finished. He unhooked my chains from the post and helped me to my feet. I stood unsteadily, my back throbbing in agony. My violated dress hung low on my shoulders, baring the upper swell of my breasts. He looked away, but not before his gaze had skated oh so briefly over my exposed flesh. A dark flush suffused his face, further betraying him.

Valentina hurried to my side, a needle and thread in her hand, yanking my dress in place and beginning to stitch.

“Very good,” Rostov said brusquely. “Sister, see Moirin to her chamber. She is to fast for two days. Luba, Aleksei, come.”

Oh yes, the entire household had been required to bear witness to my punishment. I glanced at Aleksei, who was staring fixedly at his feet. He went with his aunt and uncle without a word, without ever looking in my direction.

“Why do you persist in defying him?” Valentina whispered behind me, stitching furiously.

I turned my head in her direction. “I didn’t mean to, not this time. I had a vision in the temple. It caught me unaware.”

Her voice was low. “And assaulting Luba?”

I rolled my shoulders, testing the depth of my pain. It was considerable. The Patriarch was a fairly strong fellow, and he had not held back. “Ah, no. That I meant to do. And it was almost worth it.”