The office smelled of cedar and old books and the particular musk of masculine authority.
Eve sat in the penitent's chair — dark wood, high-backed, designed to make her feel small — and stared at the velvet curtain that separated her from the Brothers.
It was crimson, heavy and fringed with gold tassels that caught the dim light like drops of blood. Behind it, she could see shadows — two distinct shapes, tall and broad-shouldered, seated in judgment.
"Begin when you're ready," Brother Marcus said, his voice carrying through the fabric with gravel and smoke. "Confess your sins, child. We cannot heal what we do not know."
Eve's hands twisted in her lap, her plain cotton dress riding up her thighs. She was twenty-one, but the cult had kept her innocent in ways that now felt like ignorance
