Chapter 3

"I need you to line up now, please, all of you," the reverent said with a voice so soft that you nearly missed the hard edge lying in wait. Beneath the sweep of her wide headdress—studded with five jagged peaks, each holding a swag of tulle—cool blue eyes regarded us with measured curiosity.

My family was outside the temple of the Divided Ones, in the courtyard, and my brothers and sisters wandered about the space, gaping at the stone walls, the mosaics, and the great urns that dotted the perimeter. Each of the vases had been smashed apart only to be soldered back together. Everything felt fractured, yet whole, just like the gods it represented, and I found that the angry, jagged lines made my head ache.

"Sister Ines will not ask again," snapped a young girl beside the reverent. She wore the yellow and green robe of a novice, and though she didn't look any older than Bertie, there was a hardening around her edges, a child forced into adulthood at far too young an age. Her brown eyes regarded us with open disdain. "Do as she says!"

We hurried to comply, and I fell into place at the end of my siblings' line, brushing shoulders with Bertie as we exchanged glances in confused silence.

"Maybe she'll be the one to take you to him?" Bertie whispered from the side of his mouth.

I shook my head. A reverent from one god would not carry out errands for another. My godfather had let another year pass without collecting me, I knew it in my heart.

Mama and Papa offered no answers. They stood in front of the wagon, watching the proceedings as though audience members at a theater. The action onstage—taking place out here in the courtyard—had nothing to do with them. They were separated from us by an invisible fourth wall, content to observe everything from their place beyond the proscenium.

Sister Ines stepped forward to inspect us. The younger girl followed her, making tutting sounds of disapproval, tsk ing over the state of Jeanne's boots and chiding Yves for the curve of his posture.

Only when the revenant approached me did Mama step forward. "Actually—"

She stopped short as the sister raised her hand, indicating that she did not wish to be interrupted. A look of irritation clouded Mama's face, but to her credit, she held her tongue.

"Look at me, please?" the sister ordered me, snatching away my attention from my mother.

I felt like a hare caught in one of Remy's traps, frozen with fear, my heart hammering so fast I was certain its pounding was visible in my chest.

"She has potential," Sister Ines murmured to herself, and I wanted to squirm. What did she see in me that marked me as different from my siblings?

"She doesn't look all that special to me," the younger girl snapped, then scowled at me as she was given a sharp look from the sister.

Sister Ines looked down our line once more, counting and nodding. "A thirteenth child. You don't see many of those."

Mama dared to step forward, laughing, though nothing seemed particularly funny. "Just another mouth to feed. So, so many mouths to feed. Her father and I should have stopped after ten. Well…three, even…one, truly."

My siblings squirmed.

"We can't be all that rare," said the girl, frowning as she breezed past my mother's nervous admission, and I caught her use of the word we. Was this why she so disliked me? Was she another thirteenth child?

"What's your name, girl?"

My throat was too thick for me to answer Ines, and I was ashamed to feel my lower lip quiver.

"That's Hazel," Bertie said, daring to take a step forward.

Sister Ines's blue gaze fell on Bertie once more. "Thank you." She turned back to Mama. Her fine robes were stiff with starch and their folds hung from her back like the wings of a moth. "Hazel will do," she declared.

"That's impossible," Mama began.

"Nothing is impossible for They who demand it so," the sister said, her eyes narrowing. There was a strange quality to her voice now that made it seem as if she was speaking in two pitches at the same time.

Stories were whispered throughout Rouxbouillet about those who chose to leave their lives behind to follow the Divided Ones. Some said the followers trained for days and weeks on end, singing the same holy songs over and over as they attempted to hit two notes at once. Others said this disconcerting talent was due to arcane rituals and surgeries most severe. Everyone agreed that the Divided Ones' revenants all went a little mad, breaking their minds into as many pieces as there were gods to serve.

"Well?" Sister Ines asked, both her voices reverberating with impatience.

Papa cleared his throat, looking uneasy. He crossed the courtyard and whispered into her ear. Though I couldn't hear exactly what he said, I did register the moment she understood his tale. Her eyes darted from Papa to me with alarm. Disgust settled over her features like a fine veil.

"I see," she said archly, taking a noticeable step from my father.

"Get out of line, Hazel," Mama snapped. "You shouldn't even be here."

Though I knew she meant here as now, in this moment, her words sliced deep. I shouldn't have been here—in this family—now or ever.

"What's happening?" I dared to whisper. It was unnerving to be on this side of the courtyard, seeing all my brothers and sisters staring at me. I kept a careful distance from Mama. She tended to speak with her hands when agitated, and since my presence so often went unregistered, I'd learned it was best to stay out of striking distance.

"Your father has accumulated a bit of debt in town, the idiot," she muttered. Her teeth were pressed so tightly together I feared she'd turn them to powder. "More than any pilgrimage coins could cover. So we need to find payment where we might."

"Payment," I echoed, my brow furrowing. I swept my eyes around the courtyard, trying to imagine what we were meant to be selling in the temple. We'd left all our bundles of firewood and tanned hides at home.

Bertie's eyes landed on me, silently asking what I'd learned.

I gasped as understanding dawned on me. "No. You can't!"

Mama's nostrils flared. "I shouldn't have to," she corrected me bitterly. "But you're still here, taking up space and money that we can't afford not to give you. So now, one of my children—one of my real children," she snuck in, her snide addition as sharp as a dagger, "will be torn from their home. One of my children will be gone, forced to worship a god I hate. A god I should have given you to long ago."

"You can't," I repeated, feeling small and stupid and unable to come up with a better argument. "You just can't."

Mama grabbed the collar of my dress and yanked me closer. Her spittle wet my lips, and I cringed from the sudden force of her fury. "You'd be surprised just what I can do for a handful of coins. Never forget that, little Hazel. Never!"

"I do believe we're done here," Sister Ines said, speaking as loudly as her twin voices would carry. "Here's your silver." She handed Papaa small purse of yellow and green twill.

He weighed it in the palm of his hand, hefting it up and down as if that was all it took to count it, then nodded. "Which one?" he dared to ask, and every muscle within me tensed.

The sister sighed, as if her selection had already disappointed her. "The boy," she said, and nodded to the two men standing at the temple's entrance.

They stepped forward and hoisted Bertie from the end of the line as he kicked and squirmed.

"No!" I shrieked, and tumbled toward them, but the men were too big and too efficient, and by the time I'd raced across the courtyard, Bertie had already been taken inside. Before the door slammed shut, I saw the younger girl, the novice, clamp a set of bronze shackles around his skinny wrists, and he screamed.