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My sister tugs ruthlessly on my arm, and the guard shoves me forward. A sob bursts free of my chest and I raise my hand to cover my mouth, but my sister wraps her bony fingers around my wrist and shoves it to my side.

“Do not embarrass this family further, Sister,” Attina hisses quietly. “Our father and Arista have already done us irreparable damage to our name.”

I take another tentative step forward, and the guard shoves me so hard I stumble, but Attina doesn’t let me fall. I wish she had. Perhaps if my nose was broken, if my face was ruined and no longer beautiful, the Prophet would turn me away from the ceremony. But that does not happen. I reach the dais and I’m pushed to my knees before our holiest of men, but I only see evil, greed, and his lecherous thoughts as he rolls his rheumy gaze over me.

The Prophet will be my first husband, but I am not his first wife. I will be his thirtieth. Some have died in childbirth, some threw themselves against the rocks, and others tried but failed, like Sister Alana. Many of the Prophet’s brides bore him children until their eighteenth year before he cast them aside ... never to be seen again.

I have only a few months before my eighteenth-year celebration. As a Sister of the Moon, I should not even be here, but I suppose they have run out of young girls to marry off.

Our marriage ceremony goes by much faster than I anticipated. I must remain silent throughout, and Brother Ulf reads from the Mother’s scripture as I close my eyes and try not to run. Prophet Job pulls back my veil and kisses my forehead, my cheeks, and then my lips. “Such a beauty you are.”

His fat fingers squeeze my breast, and crimson claws its way up my neck. Laughter fills the room. No doubt the Brothers find a blushing bride endearing, but I want to be sick. I focus on counting my breaths.Openness leads to true enlightenment.The Mother has decreed it so.

Brother Ulf leads the congregation in a final prayer, and I’m urged to sit beside Prophet Job as we’re brought various platters of meats and cheeses and scarlet wine flows from giant carafes. I consume none of it. I keep my head bowed, blocking out the stare of my new husband and that of our people as they eat and drink to our merriment and prosperous coupling.

The Sisters tend to my hair, loosening the tight braids so they fall over my back and shoulders. They fasten a crown of fresh yellow and red blossoms from the many gardens on our island to accent the bright copper of my hair.

I’m stripped of my gown and forced to my knees again before the Prophet, while he sups and stares at my naked breasts. Brothers Ishtar and Ulf approach the dais and spread my legs for the Prophet, so that he may feast visually while he stuffs grapes and great hunks of cheese and meat into his mouth.

When he tires of our audience, the Brothers will usher our people out into the commune where they will chant and sing until our sacred rite is complete. All except the Sisters of the Moon, who will stay for our joining, in case I cannot satisfy my new husband the way a wife should.

My stomach churns and I want to vomit at the thought of his enormous frame moving over me, the rolls of fat crushing me. I take a shaky breath and cast my eyes at the floor.

Prophet Job must signal that the others should leave because behind me I hear the scrape of the long wooden benches as our village gets to its feet and files out of the great hall. I lift my head, but I will not cry. A serving girl comes to take the platters of food from beside the Prophet, but he quickly slaps her hand away.

“Leave it, whore,” the Prophet bellows. I startle, and he reaches out a hand to soothe me while clucking his tongue at the girl. “You have frightened my beautiful young bride. Get out of my sight before I order the Brothers to ruin the other side of your putrid face.”

Tears well in her wide blue eyes and spill from her lashes over scarred cheeks. She is marked by fire, unclean, her heart weighed by the Mother and found wanting.What could she have done to deserve her permanent disfigurement, and by flames, no less?

She backs away from the Prophet, but her gaze darts to the platter of meats and cheeses left behind. A delicate bone-handled knife sits buried in a round of soft cheese.

The serving girl’s eyes meet mine, and in them, I see my future: always cowering before the wrath of our holiest man, buried underneath him as he thrusts his small member inside me over and over, carrying his fat, greedy child who’ll inherit the Kingdom of the Children of the Moon. But worst of all, reflected in her gaze, I envision plucking the babe from my womb, and sporting scars like hers that will never heal.

I wish I had run last night when I had the chance, dashed myself upon the rocks, but they forbid us to trespass on that part of the island. To cross the thorny briars and enter the dark forest is a death sentence.

The serving girl gives a small, infinitesimal nod, and then kicks the platter, upending it. The Prophet roars, lashing out at her. The Sisters gasp in shock, edging away from the girl. I scramble forward, picking up the great hunks of food and placing them back on the platter. I slip the knife beneath the silk bedding and sit back on my haunches as the guards enter the room and remove the kicking and screaming servant girl.

Prophet Job’s eyes land on me and he holds out his arms as if he means to embrace me. “Now. Come here, my pretty little flower.”

I swallow back the bile rising in my throat and move toward him. My heart is beating so fast I fear it may take flight. The Prophet embraces me. His skin is slick with sweat and gives off an odor like soured milk. I let out a small squeal as he pulls my body down on top of him.

He spends a considerable amount of time squeezing and tickling my flesh, my buttocks, my arms, and my sides. His hands are everywhere, and when he forces me to sit up, to sit astride him, I cannot get my legs around his substantial girth. I think he likes that though, how small I am compared to him.

This is not like the many ceremonial rites I’ve endured since I was ten. There is no spearing of members into my orifices, no ankle restraints, no pain ... yet.

“Lean back and spread yourself for me, girl.”

I place my feet on his chest and lean back on my forearms, my limbs shaking like the leaves in a midwinter storm.

“Hmm,” he says. “And they have taken you in the ceremonial rites before?”

“Since I was ten, Prophet.” My voice cracks over the words.

“Did you like it, little bride of mine?”

My shaking stops, and all of a sudden I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. My mind is crystal clear. I grab the knife from beneath the silk cushion and plunge it into his throat. Blood bubbles up around the blade. His eyes are wide with panic.

Somehow, I register the mournful cries of the Sisters, but I block them out. It is his fault any of us have endured years of pain, of brutality at the ceremonial rites. It is his fault we have bled and died from our wounds while locked in cages. His fault we were torn from our mother’s breast, that our father thought so little of his daughters he sold them to wicked men for a promotion.

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