Page 10 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

“Yes, Mama,” I whisper, defeated. “I’m ready.”

I feel like I’m at war with the voices in my head as I follow my mother out of the room and downstairs where the lily-white carriage is waiting. A man in a white mask is seated up front, holding the reins of the white horse.

He doesn’t say a word to us as we clamber up into the compartment and settle into our seats. As soon as the door shuts, he clucks and the horse begins trotting, whisking us away towards the cathedral where everyone is waiting.

“Where’s Theo?” I ask Mama.

“Already at the cathedral,” she replies. “Zipporah and Evelyn took him there earlier.”

“Why wasn’t I consulted?”

“Father Josiah’s orders,” Mama replies brusquely.

I look at my mother. She looks so much older than she did when I left, even though it hasn’t been that long. It was a hard year for her. For my father, too. Both of them are gray and weathered, and when I catch them staring off into the distance, it’s like they can’t wait for this miserable life to be over.

“Are you even going to look at me, Mama?” I ask quietly.

She exhales loudly but still doesn’t turn from the window. “Why are you insisting on making everything difficult?” she ponders out loud. “You didn’t used to be like this.”

“People change, Mama. I’ve changed.”

“This is why we warned you about leaving the compound,” she snaps, whirling to face me. “This is the very reason. The outside world exposes you to unnecessary behaviors. It makes you want dangerous things.”

“What I want is for you to care,” I say softly. “That’s all.”

Her eyes go wide for a moment and a ripple of sadness flickers across her aged features. “What makes you think I don’t?” she asks, but there’s no real feeling in her voice.

“Come on, Mama. You haven’t even picked up my son. He’s your grandchild. Your only grandchild.”

“He is the child of sin,” she clips.

Her words strike hot and painful in that moment. Like that innocent little boy is something grotesque, something monstrous. The air between us boils. A tear slips from my eye as I turn away from her.

We stay silent for the rest of the ride.

A few minutes later, we draw to a stop. The horse’s clomping hooves cease. The driver hops down and opens Mama’s door. He helps her down, but when it’s my turn to step out of the compartment, he turns away. I’m left to struggle with my skirts on my own.

It’s eerily quiet out here. A few tumbleweeds blow past in the hot, sandy breeze. The cathedral beckons just a few yards away. It’s the biggest building on the commune, though that isn’t saying much. The white adobe walls glow in the sun.

Mama is waiting on the other side of the carriage. She offers me her elbow without a word. It’s a silent order.Take it.

Sighing, I do as she expects. We carve our way across the hard-packed sand and up the three short steps. The doors swing open.

And hundreds of blank faces turn to look at me.

No one makes a single noise. Just the rustle of fabric and quiet breathing.

Do they envy me? Do they hate me? Am I a princess or a pariah? It’s impossible to tell. Nothing on the Sanctuary is ever what it seems to be.

I scan the crowd for my son, but I still don’t see him. I try to swallow down the tide of bile that rises in my throat every time I look for Theo without success. A month here and I still haven’t gotten used to the separation.

My father stands from his seat in the rearmost pew. No one else has moved. He stalks over, rips my hand from my mother’s elbow, and plops it on his own. Then we start the stride down the aisle.

I watch my feet so I don’t trip and fall. Papa’s grip on my wrist is ironclad. I’ve never been surrounded by so many silent people before and my heart is starting to beat so fast from the anxiety that I wonder if all these people can hear it.

If they know what I’ve done.

If they know why I ran.

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