Reparation of Sin: A Sovereign Sons Novel, Zavarelli, A. [easy books to read in english txt] 📗

“What’s happening?” I ask, listening as he moves behind me and places his hands on the blindfold. It’s gone, at least for a moment, but then he puts it back on so it’s flat over my eyes. He knots it tightly, catching strands of hair in it, but he doesn’t care when I protest.

He then walks to stand in front of me. I feel him. He’s close but not touching, and I wonder what he’s doing. It feels like he’s just staring at me, and it’s unnerving.

“How did you do it?” he asks.

“What?” I’m confused.

“How?”

“I don’t understand. How did I do what?”

He snorts. “If it were up to me, I’d get that confession out of you at the end of my whip.” He pauses, and I feel him step back away from me. “But fortunately for you, I’ve given my word.”

“What?” My voice breaks mid-word. Is that why I’m here? Why he’s strung me up? Is he going to whip me? “What’s happening? Where’s Santiago?” I can hear the panic rising in my own voice as he puts one finger on the middle of my chest and gives me a push. It’s just enough to make me scramble for my feet to gain purchase and alleviate the strain on my wrists.

He moves around, and I hear different sounds. He’s inside, then outside again. The door is still open, and I think I hear a woman whispering out there. I listen hard, and I hear it again. I swear I do. And then his clear voice, not whispering.

“I told you to stay in your room. Go back to the house. Now.”

The woman’s soft whisper again. I have to strain to hear because she’s talking so quietly.

“There’s nothing for you to see here,” the man says. “Go.” He doesn’t raise his voice. It almost seems like he’s placating her. He’s using a different tone than the one he’s used with me the few times he’s spoken.

He’s back inside, and I hear the clang of the bucket. I had to use it last night even though I didn’t want to. It was either that or pee in a corner, though.

“What’s happening?” I ask again. “Please tell me what’s happening.”

Nothing. Then he’s close again. One arm wraps around my middle as he lifts me just a little, just enough to give the rope some slack so he can unhook my wrists. When he sets me down, he turns me to face him.

“Hold out your arms.”

I do. He’ll just make me if I don’t.

A few moments later, the rope is untied, and my wrists are freed. I scramble away as soon as he releases me, but I trip over the bucket, send it toppling and rolling noisily. I turn back to face him even though I’m still blind. I rub my raw wrists.

“Is it over?” I ask, and for one moment, I believe he’s going to set me free. Yet even as I think it, I realize it’s stupid.

He laughs. It’s a dark sort of unhappy chuckle.

“There’s a change of clothes. Soap and water. Make yourself presentable.”

“For what?”

“The Tribunal.”

“The what? What is that?” I ask slowly as something heavy settles in my belly at his ominous tone and words.

He snorts, and I can almost see him shaking his head. I hear him walk to the stairs.

“Wait!”

He stops.

And although I remember what happened the last time I asked, I can’t help but ask again.

“Is Santiago…is he…going to be okay?”

There’s a long moment of silence, then his feet on the stairs before the loud clanging of the door. It makes me jump, and my already racing heart feel like it will beat right out of my chest. And then I hear his steps and the crunching of branches and leaves. I hurry to push the blindfold up only to see his boot pass by the window, the edge of the black cloak just grazing the ground before I’m alone again. Left in complete silence in this underground chamber not meant for human habitation.

4 Ivy

I washed with the cold water as best as I could, rubbing the bar of soap on the bristles of the bath brush and then scrubbing myself, not even caring about the goose bumps left in its wake. I wanted to be clean or just a little cleaner. To wash away the dirt in my hair, I dumped the cold water over my head, but that was a mistake. It’s now a half-damp mass of tangles, and it’s left me shivering. He only provided a small square washcloth for my towel, and the change of clothes is a long white gown with billowing sleeves and a high collar with the ruffle detail duplicated on my wrists. It’s almost like an old-fashioned nightgown or something you’d wear under your dress in the old days.

The strange dress coupled with what he said, with what I’ve prepared myself for, makes me feel uneasy.

The Tribunal.

It almost makes me think of witch trials of the past because what I’m wearing is ceremonial, and if there's one thing I’m sure of, it’s that The Society stands on ceremony.

I pull my still-bare feet up onto the cot and hug the blanket to myself. No shoes. My feet are freezing. I’ve eaten the bread and another bowl of cold soup. This time, there was an apple too, and I devoured that. The water is gone. Now I sit here waiting for him to return. I’m anxious for it. The longer I sit here, the more time I have to make up stories of what happened. To ruminate over Santiago’s collapse. I won’t let myself go further, though. He’s not dead. I have to believe that. But what happened?

I’m nodding off when I finally hear the sound of footsteps outside. When I sit up, I catch a fast-moving shadow pass by the window before hearing the key slip into the lock. Before he pushes the door open, I remember to pull the blindfold down. I