That made sense. I nodded slowly, still feeling the unusual fabric. It was much softer than anything I was used to. The dress was more like the ones in pictures of movie stars and rich politicians I'd seen in my father's old magazines.
Relics, he called them, a shortening of the Prophet's own impure relics. Now, I was wearing one, corruption clinging to my skin. The old me would've shaken and tried to tear it off.
But only if I was going to get caught.
I'd figured out a long time ago these things weren't sins like the Prophet said. I pulled at the skirt's hem, running it between my fingers, standing like a dummy.
“You coming, or what?” Evan had the big door leading outside the room propped open, standing in the frame. Waiting.
“Sorry!” I ran after him, wondering if he'd give me some shoes later on.
Would I get to wear heels? Maybe the crazy, stilted things Daddy cursed while he secretly looked at them with lust?
I'd seen those pictures too. Heather and I both had, sneaking through his things on the rare occasions when we were alone. I saw the slim journals he hid beneath his bed, packed with women wearing high heels and hardly anything else, things that no pure man in Beacon Grove was supposed to enjoy.
My stomach growled, making me walk faster. Some real food would be nice, especially if anybody in this household could actually cook. We'd been eating out of cans for as long as I remembered, junky crap the congregation pulled in through outside donations.
I didn't know much about the great beyond outside our town, but it wasn't hard to tell we were getting the stuff no one else wanted.
My heart jumped into my throat as soon as we entered the dining room.
A jaw-dropping spread unlike anything I'd ever seen was laid out. Steaming ham, potatoes, and salads I couldn't start to identify all beckoned on a long table beneath a fancy looking chandelier.
Jesus, forget the food. I'd never been in a home like this. Period.
“Sit,” Evan commanded, pulling aside a chair for me.
He took the head spot, while I carefully moved into my place across from a woman with a sour, pale face. She looked at me knowingly. I realized she was the mysterious caretaker he'd mentioned. Despite at least eight more chairs positioned at the table, there was no one else.
“I'm glad you're finally up.” She stuffed a fork full of meat into her lips, without so much as a smile. Something about her tone said she wasn't concerned about me either. “Isabella.”
I looked at her, not understanding. Evan took the empty plate beneath me and began loading it with food, a little of everything, then sliding it in front of me when it was full.
“Forgive her bad manners. She's going through a stressful fucking time. If you hadn't guessed, that's her name. But you can call her Izzy, same as I do. Dig in.”
Izzy shot an angry look at both of us. “Oh? I thought this was supposed to be formal? Controlled?”
Evan shook his head, a different anger flaring in his eyes. “Forget it. Doesn't fucking matter if she calls you Queen Anne. It's what we do that counts. Now shut the fuck up and let's eat.”
I didn't understand what they were talking about or why he was so hostile, too hungry to focus on anything except the food. The first few bites were truly as good as they looked.
No, after the hell, I'd been through, they were downright divine.
“How old are you, Cassie?” Izzy raked her knife against the plate, sending loud scratches echoing through the house.
“Go easy so the girl can answer,” Evan snapped, giving her the second evil eye of the evening.
I wondered how they knew my name. I must've let it slip during the fever.
“Twenty. Way past marrying age,” I said absentmindedly.
Evan laughed once, a deep throaty sound. “Is that really the bullshit they pull there? Wedding you off to some stud as soon as you're eighteen?”
“Sometimes younger,” I said, stopping to chew the succulent meat and potatoes again. “It all depends. My little sister's closer to getting married than me and she's eighteen. Always was Daddy's girl.”
“Sister?” Isabella made a movement like she kicked Evan beneath the table. “Were you and her close?”
I stared at him, swallowing my food more slowly. Were they always like this? Why did outsiders talk so strange and cryptically?
“No, not really. I mean, there were times when we played together and did what my father said. She always lived by the Prophet's word better than me, I guess. Kind of kept us apart.”
“She won't miss you, then,” he said confidently.
I dropped my fork. Izzy did too, and then ran a long, firm hand through her hair, as if the noise was giving her a really bad headache.
“You could say that. I know I'm not meant to go back there. Not an option after what happened, right?” Enough said. I didn't dare mention the incident in the rain, the way I'd met him. “What's going to happen to me?”