how 𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓮𝓽 the sound

FULL NAME : Grace Hannah North BIRTHDATE : November 15th, 1996 BIRTHPLACE : Holy Wisdom GROUP : Cult OCCUPATION : Unemployed / Church Volunteer STRENGTHS: perceptive , clever , charming , persuasive , protective WEAKNESSES: selfish , single-minded , stubborn , manipulative , cold

Grace’s honesty catches Dolores unawares, even in the confines of her empty home. She feels a pang of pity for the younger woman, despite her acute awareness of Grace’s full capabilities. She’s not sure which is more surprising to her: that Grace is struggling, or that she is so willing to admit it. From Dolores’ isolated vantage point on the fringes of Holy Wisdom’s politics, Grace’s position has looked unassailable: of course her goals are ambitious, but her charm and skill seem unparalleled.

She takes her time replying, turning her attention to the tea for a long minute before finally handing Grace a steaming mug and nodding slowly.

“Of course,” she finally replies, quietly. She doesn’t have words of wisdom to offer, or skilled political plays to map out. What she can offer, humbly, is comfort and a safe haven in the warm glow of her kitchen, gentle encouragement, and an absence of judgment.

 “Do you have a sense of what comes next? What to say and when?” The older woman asks gently, meeting Grace’s gaze with a small, compassionate smile. It’s not a completely disinterested question: Dolores’ stake in the future of Holy Wisdom may be considerably lower than Grace’s, but the events of the coming weeks will decide whether she holds her ground or turns and flees Kentucky entirely.

                 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐆 𝐈𝐒  ,   she   hopes   ,   a   symbol   of   something   much   more.   Of   understanding   ,   solidarity   ,   comfort   ,   even.   Though   ,   Grace   has   long   since   learned   not   to   expect   comfort.   It   is   a   LUXURY   she   cannot   afford.   She’s   not   sure   any   of   the   North   children   have   ever   felt   comforted   —   maybe   only   by   each   other   ,   late   at   night   ,   when   Father   and   Mother   were   asleep.   

                    The   silence   stretches   tersely   ,   a   moment   in   which   Grace’s   fate   hangs.   Purgatory.   She   waits   to   sip   her   tea   until   Dolores   breaks   the   quiet   ,   masking   relief   behind   the   rim   of   the   mug.   “   Thank   you.   ”   A   nod   ,   gratitude   for   both   the   tea   and   the   unity.      

                    A   welcome   change   ,   to   be   met   with   RESPECT.   To   be   asked   directly   about   her   plans   —   to   be   seen.   It   thrills   her.   All   her   life   ,   that’s   all   she’s   craved.   Passing   invisibly   through   sermons   and   treasury   meetings   ,   glued   to   her   Father’s   side   begging   for   a   scrap   of   respect.   Never   seen   as   anything   more   than   a   girl.   Even   now   ,   at   twenty-five   ,   the   youngest   North   was   still   just   a   girl.   A   child   of   the   cult.   

                 She   considers   the   question   CAREFULLY   in   the   wake   of   her   private   excitement.   It   wasn’t   yet   clear   exactly   which   path   she   would   traverse   to   reach   her   goal.   It   would   depend   on   which   elder   stepped   up   to   lead   ,   if   her   Father   was   ever   found   ,   if   her   brother   tried   to   step   up.   But   how   much   to   tell   Dolores   ?   As   pleasant   as   her   company   was   ,   Grace   didn’t   know   how   far   to   extend   her   trust.   “   It’s   not   clear   ,   yet.   Until   I   am   sure   ,   I   will   pray   to   God   to   send   a   sign   ,   to   illuminate   the   path   for   me.   He   has   not   failed   me   yet.   ”   

𝐁𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘  𝐀𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐘  +  𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄  𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝑡𝘩𝑒  𝑜𝑙𝑑  𝑤𝑖𝑡𝑐𝘩 ’ 𝑠  𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑛    (  𝑝𝑎𝑠𝑡  𝑚𝑖𝑑𝑛𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡  ) 𝙷𝙾𝙻𝚈  𝙲𝚁𝙾𝚂𝚂 ,  𝙺𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚄𝙲𝙺𝚈 .

              𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙴  𝙸𝚂  𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙵𝙾𝚁𝚃  .    even  amidst  the  crumbling  remains  of  what  generations  of  town ‘ s  children  have  called  the  old  witch ‘ s  barn  :  where  no  soul  dares  to  go  near  after  the  sun  has  fallen  .    as  a  child  ,  not  unlike  any  other  children  of  holy  cross  ,  even  the  mere  mention  of  the  place  would  have  given  him  the  heebie  jeebies   —   he  would  have  never  thought  it  would  become  his  favorite  place  in  town  .

sometimes  ,  he  will  find  himself  counting  the  hours  of  the  day  left  —  for  the  sun  to  set  ,  and  the  moon  to  rise  so  that  the  darkness  inside  the  shabby  old  barn  will  give  two  lovers  shelter  .  neutral  ground  —  it  has  become  a  temple  .  his  favored  place  of  worship  :  no  hymns  ,  no  prayers  .  her  presence  alone  is  enough  .  her  touch  a  revelation  .  wisps  of  moonlight  filter  through  every  crack  and  crevice  ,  bathing  their  forms  in  silver  .  she  is  beautiful  :  her  hair  .  her  eyes  .  her  smile  —  he  offers  her  the  old  flannel  shirt  he  showed  up  in  :  it ‘ s  an  uncharacteristically  cold  summer  night  ,  and  just  like  moonlight  ,  cold  air  seeps  into  the  barn ,  and  into  their  bones  .  he  takes  her  pale  hand  into  his  own  ,  and  fingers  interlace .    “    however  long  you  want  .    “   

                    𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐓𝐘 , 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐓𝐇 , 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐘   :   Bailey   Abernathy   oozes   honeyed   sweetness   from   every   delicate   pore   and   Grace   basks   in   it   ,   revels   in   it   like   a   saint   finding   absolution.   His   flannel   is   soft   as   night   against   her   skin   ,   soft   as   his   gaze   ,   his   touch   ,   his   lips.   Cruelly   ,   she   thinks   his   mind   is   soft   ,   too.   But   she   finds   that   to   be   a   COMFORT   ,   trusts   that   what   he   presents   is   genuine.   “   I   hope   you   don’t   ever   change.   ”   She   whispers   into   the   darkness   ,   half   hoping   the   thought   will   be   lost   in   the   swirling   dust   ,   carried   away   by   the   breeze.   

𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄: the ranger station. 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍: june 2021, the days following the 105.2 KVFM bulletin

Jack knew what kind of day he was in for. He too had watched the news program with quiet apprehension, taking long drags from his coffee mug akin to a smoker taking a pull. News bulletins meant public knowledge, and public knowledge meant townspeople, and townspeople meant questions, and questions meant him. The second pot of the day was already half-gone as the ranger sat quietly, enjoying his panoramic view of the Kentucky forest and the comfort of the silence he was sure to lose. Maybe today he'd be lucky - they'd all be too annoyed with The Man for giving up so easily on the Pastor, or maybe the station was too out of the way, with its shit dirt parking lot, he was surely safe from the general public today...

Darnnit. Wrong again. Ranger Jack sighed as he heard the telltale crunch of leaves - an incoming visitor - inhaling through his nose and straightening his back, just like his father would. Arms folded over his chest, his textbook defensive posture as he squared off with the opening door. The jingle bells attached to its wooden frame were Ranger Jack's sworn nemesis, and once again they chimed, pricking his annoyance.

"Howdy - what can I do for you?" His tone was even enough, but he always sounded like he was speaking through gritted teeth, this time no different than any before.

                𝐈𝐓   𝐖𝐀𝐒   𝐀  Saturday   morning   ritual   akin   to   Sunday   morning   mass   and   evening   prayer   ,   an   essential   component   of   the   character   she   offered   to   Holy   Cross.   The   notebook   she   brings   is   well-worn   ,   months   of   weekly   use   have   filled   it   nearly   to   the   brim   with   pages   of   notes   ,   a   history   of   the   town’s   misdemeanors   that   Ranger   Jack   regrettably   listens   to   then   ,   undoubtedly   ,   DISREGARDS.   Not   that   she   cares   whether   or   not   he   does   his   job   —   if   she’s   lucky   ,   one   or   two   of   her   accusations   might   take   hold   ,   might   bring   a   town   resident   down   a   notch   or   two   in   social   standing.   

                  But   ,   no   ,   her   visits   serve   more   of   an   optic   goal   ,   to   remind   the   town   that   she   sees   all   ,   that   she   keeps   track   ,   that   their   sins   will   not   go   overlooked.   “   Good   morning   ,   Mr   Jack.   ”   Her   most   pleasant   of   voices   breaks   the   dusty   silence   ,   meets   his   stony   expression   cheerily   enough.   What   a   tough   man   to   crack   ,   indeed.   “   I’ve   brought   you   some   cookies   that   Sevda   and   I   made   the   other   day.   They’re   chocolate   chip.”   The   platter   is   chipped   but   the   cookies   near   perfection   ,   circular   and   soft   ,   and   she   deposits   them   on   the   counter   between   them.   An   olive   branch.   

WHO: @narrativefm​ members ( open ) WHEN: well past midnight, days following the 105.2 KVFM bulletin WHERE: in the woods, near the abandoned coal mines

It has been determined he most likely went into the woods at night and got lost.

Static mind, a heavy-handed haze aided by a bottle of hooch from the Moonshine Hut. Mahlon had laughed at that – at that part of the broadcast. Of course that idiot got himself fuckin’ swallowed up by the hickories, he’d thought, wading into the woods that night. He patted the trunk of one tree, pouring out a bit of liquor in offering for safe passage. They didn’t look hungry tonight, not for flesh as rotten as his own. 

Deeper he pressed into the unholy hour of the night, until he was engulfed in the belly of the backwoods. Rock dust and dirt scented the air, damp as he neared the old mines. In the baptism of moonlight trickling down between branches, Mahlon closed his eyes, face upturned, a private expression of something like intimacy. But he was not alone here. Paper bag crinkled, contents swishing as he turned, eyes meeting bright ones staring back like orbs.

“Careful,” he grinned. “The woods are awfully dangerous at night.”

                𝐀𝐍 𝐎𝐃𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓  ,   the   pastor’s   daughter   ,   clad   only   in   her   church-approved   nightgown   ,   wandering   the   woods   past   midnight.   Flimsy   fabric   clings   to   her   calves   ,   brushes   against   bony   ankles   as   she   pads   barefoot   across   old   leaves   and   crackling   sticks.   Morning   light   will   reveal   ANGRY   scrapes   ,   bruised   reminders   of   a   sleepless   night   ,   but   now   ,   beneath   the   moonlight   ,   she   walks   as   if   in   a   trance   ,   feeling   nothing   but   the   words   of   God   that   echo   within   her   skull.   Grace   North   ,   more   like   her   Father   than   she’d   ever   admit   ,   following   her   own   tortured   path   into   the   Kentucky   backwoods.

                   She   hears   him   before   his   shadow   is   visible   ,   hears   the   crinkle   of   paper   and   the   slosh   of   liquor.   Frozen   feet   hold   her   in   place   as   their   eyes   meet   ,   and   she’s   scared   ,   feels   like   she’s   waking   from   a   nightmare.   Heartbeats   echo   in   the   night   alongside   invisible   footsteps   and   cicada   cries   ;   she   swallows   the   urge   to   SCREAM.   

                 “   Is   that   a   threat   or   a   piece   of   friendly   advice   ?   ”

Who: Birdie & (open) @narrativestarters​ Where: Taylor Cemetery When: Early morning, mid-June 2021

Birdie’s never particularly liked coming to the cemetery when there are other people around. It feels wrong, feels like a hospital waiting room, she thinks, surrounded by people in pain with no privacy  —  no matter how lively the picnics might get on a Sunday afternoon, there’s always tension in the air and Birdie can’t stand it. So she comes early or late, in the middle of the week or when something is happening elsewhere, any time she can be sure of some solitude.

This time it’s just after dawn on a Tuesday, truck parked in the patch of gravel that serves as a lot  —  the county’d had to put something down after a hearse got stuck in the mud during an April funeral a few years back. Birdie ignores the tables and heads for the back row, camp chair in one hand and a six-pack of Yuengling in the other. She doesn’t see the other figure until it’s too late, and when they make eye contact she sighs internally even as she musters up a polite, if not overly pleased, smile.

“Sorry if I startled ya - wasn’t expectin’ to see nobody out here so early.”

                  𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆   ,   it’s   chilly   ,   stubborn   breeze   calling   goosebumps   to   the   surface   of   Grace’s   bare   arms.   Superstition   might   attribute   the   cold   to   the   spirits   swarming   the   air   ,   tethered   to   gravestones   and   bouquets   of   flowers   decaying   like   the   flesh   they   memorialize.   How   strange   ,   to   mourn   caskets   full   of   bones   ,   nothing   but   carbon   returning   to   Earth.   Nothing   of   the   person   remaining   except   memories   :   photographs   ,   old   clothes   ,   perfume   scents.   Grace   has   neither   ;   her   Mother   ,   buried   somewhere   in   Boston   ,   belongings   donated   to   Salvation   Army   and   photos   discarded.

                   Still   ,   somehow   ,   the   graveyard   brings   peace   ;   Grace   can   pretend   at   a   connection   ,   at   mourning.   Maybe   ,   eventually   ,   it   will   feel   real   ,   she   will   be   able   to   speak   to   her   Mother   like   others   speak   with   loved   ones   who   have   passed.   Maybe   then   she   can   ask   some   questions   ,   get   some   answers.   She’s   alone   ,   until   she’s   not.   The   figure   appears   suddenly   the   next   row   over   ,   offers   a   resigned   smile   and   a   greeting   that   Grace   returns   reluctantly.   Her   arms   fold   self-consciously   across   her   torso   as   she   nears   ,   feeling   caught   ,   GUILTY.   

“Kind’s not the word I’d use for it. It’s just basic human decency.” But Ches never did like it growing up when people called her kind. Kind made her sound like some Disney princess chattering to the wildlife on a forest floor, and while, to be fair, she’d actually love to befriend wildlife the rest of the concept made her feel ill to her stomach. But it was clear Grace had more to say, and she was censoring herself for Ches’s sake. Shit. “Hey, it’s okay. I don’t mind if you finish what you were saying, fair or not.” She reassures her friend. “Right now the priority is making sure we do what you need, okay?”

And when Grace thanks her, she nods, playing with a strand of her red hair again. “Maybe that’s where I’ve been going wrong, sometimes the things I pray for are pure, sure, but they’re not entirely genuine.” But the solution to that would likely be never praying for her own father again at this point, because she doubted God wanted to hear about how much she longed for Edward Elswood to break his nose tripping over a pew or something equally as mortifying and painful. “It just slipped out, it won’t happen again. It should have never left my mouth to begin with.” As if it wasn’t the absolute favorite word in her vocabulary. But it was just like on her YouTube channels, and she hopes she can tune into that version of herself for the rest of the conversation. “He’s going to be okay, Grace. God works in mysterious ways, and whatever is happening now is a part of his plan. We just have to trust in Him, and everything will work out as it’s supposed to.”  That didn’t mean she couldn’t hope the way it was supposed to be worked out with Pastor North never coming home and finding himself in purgatory, however.

               “   𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋….”  A   nervous   hand   skitters   across   her   collar   bone   ,   fidgets   with   her   hair   –   as   if   the   words   aren’t   crafted   with   pointed   intent   ,   as   if   she   cares   about   the   WOUND   of   impact.   “   I   wish   you   hadn’t   left   us.   It’s   hard   without   you.   We   miss   you.   Now   more   than   ever.   ”   She   plays   as   if   she   can’t   meet   Ches’   eyes   ,   as   if   she’s   overcome   by   grief   and   guilt   and   concern   ,   studying   the   sidewalk   instead.   Finally   ,   she   lifts   them      gauging   Ches’s   reaction   and   assessing   for   cracks.   All   it   takes   is   a   single   fissure   for   her   to   worm   her   way   in.   

                 “   The   Lord   can   always   sense   ingenuity.   He   can   see   into   the   truth   of   our   hearts   and   He   will   know   if   your   prayers   are   untruthful.”   Her   hands   clasp   in   front   of   her   ,   pale   against   her   black   dress   ,   as   Ches   apologizes   ,   continues   on   to   comfort   her.   “   Everyone   keeps   telling   me   that   –   that   he’ll   be   okay.   I   wish   I   could   believe   you   all.   ”   In   the   back   of   her   mind   ,   she’s   annoyed   by   Ches’   reference   to   God   ;   she’s   betrayed   Him   with   her   actions   ,   with   her   carelessness   ,   so   how   dare   she   use   His   name   when   convenient   ?   

“Peppermint! Oh, I’m not sure we have specifically peppermint. But,” Hanaka looks under the counter. “I keep a stash of plain mint tea for myself. I can make it sweeter with honey if you’d like.” She feels for a packet, smiling when it’s the one she needs. Grace deserves the best today. 

“Ah, I moved back only a few weeks ago. Maybe a month ago now? But it’s been years since I was in town. It had to be 2018 shortly after Holy Wisdom introduced themselves.” Shit, she has a paper due. The university has been kind enough to let her study in an accommodated way. That will have to wait until later. “I understand that I don’t look like a local. Don’t worry about being awkward with questions if you have any. I’ve heard them all.” 

The coffee is almost ready. She just has to pour in creamer and get the cinnamon on top. “Ah, that smell! Cinnamon is an amazing scent, don’t you think?”

              𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒   the   woman   with   mild   interest   –   anything   more   and   she   fears   she’d   betray   herself.   Or   ,   perhaps   ,   she’s   more   afraid   of   betraying   her   community.   She   was   raised   to   reject   modernity   ,   to   remain   turned   inwards   ,   to   rely   only   on   the   knowledge   of   the   Church   to   move   forward   in   life.   “   That   would   be   lovely   ,   thank   you.   ”   She   ducks   her   head   appreciatively   ,   tucks   her   hair   behind   her   ear.   “   I’m   very   grateful   for   your   time   today.   You   have   a   kind   and   generous   heart.   ”   

                 She   does   have   questions   ,   ALWAYS   has   questions   ,   but   she’s   so   unaccustomed   to   voicing   them.   Her   mind   teems   with   curiosities   that   never   see   the   light   ,   a   dusty   attic   brimming   with   unpacked   boxes.   “   Welcome   back.   ”   Holy   Wisdom   has   invaded   in   her   absence   ,   and   Grace   wonders   distantly   if   this   woman   is   one   of   the   locals   who   would   turn   a   suspicious   eye   on   Grace’s   friends   and   family.   “   Yes   ,   I’m   a   member   of   the   Holy   Wisdom   church.   We   truly   appreciate   the   town   graciously   welcoming   us   into   their   space.   ”   

oh how she wished she could take the pain away from her friend — to see her smiling and laughing once more, just as if they were still children, playing together. grief is a horrible thing to have, a devastating effect it can hold onto a person and that is something she would have never wished upon her worst enemy, if she had one. the hug was at least one thing that she can offer the other, hoping that would take away some of the ache that the other may be feeling at this time. her fingers rubbing up and down as she spoke, careful not to talk until she could get it all out. giving her time, something that was certainly much needed for all. 

but the hug ends, and time has never once been kind enough for a pause. sevda gives her a soft smile, one that she hoped conveys some form of understanding despite not truly knowing how grace feels. pastor north was lost to all but no one in the church could understand what his family was going through at this time. the only hope they may have is to pray and hope. “ he’s going to come back, ” an empty promise, one that she knows she may not be able to fulfil. “ i know it. God is looking after him right now and He will lead him home to us. ” 

“ you never have to thank me grace, i’m always here for you, ” now that could be a promise she can keep, one that she wants to. her friend means so much to her. the gratitude that her friend displayed makes her embarrassed more than anything else, but still. she was grateful for her words, grateful that the other speaks so positively even at this time. arms linked, sevda led the way. a silent wish, a silent hope that her father would not be home when they arrive knowing how he desires to take over for pastor north. but it is not the time for that conversation.

as they walked, she began to ramble. to fill the space in the empty air in hopes of a form of distraction for the other. “ i believe i have enough to make a batch of cookies. not sure if i have any chocolate chips, however. i could do some snickerdoodles if you would wish to assist me? perhaps if we make enough, we could offer up our leftovers to others in the church, or those in need? ”

                 𝐈𝐅 𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐄   ,   if   He   was   as   pure   and   good   and   right   as   she   believed   He   was   –   no   ,   as   she   knew   He   was   –   He   wouldn’t   watch   over   Noah   North.   Or   ,   if   he   did   ,      it   would   be   only   to   ENSURE   his   demise   ,   to   lead   him   to   absolution.   To   lead   him   to   HELL.   Between   tears   of   sorrow   and   silent   pleas   for   forgiveness   ,   that   was   what   she   wished   ,   to   hear   that   he   was   dead   ,   and   to   know   that   he   was   damned   to   eternal   suffering.   That   was   the   only   ending   befitting   a   man   so   deeply   entrenched   in   a   web   of   suffering   ,   the   epicenter   of   harm   in   her   and   her   siblings’   lives.   But   ,   Grace   can   certainly   never   voice   these   thoughts   aloud   ,   certainly   not   to   Sevda.   A   soft   smiled   mask   hides   the   truth   as   she   wipes   away   tears   ,   sniffles   a   few   more   times.   “   I   hope   you’re   right   ,   dear   friend.   ”

                    What   must   it   be   like   to   exist   in   such   a   PURE   form   ?   Though   Grace   knows   she’s   a   child   of   God   ,   that   she’s   following   the   path   that   He   has   chosen   for   her   ,   her   purpose   requires   a   hardness   that   Sevda   lacks.   But   ,   every   now   and   then   ,   she   feels   a   twang   of   jealousy.   She   wishes   she   could   exist   softly   ,   sweetly   ,   follow   the   current   of   the   world   around   her.   At   the   same   time   ,   however   ,   she’s   horrified   at   the   thought.   To   be   towed   along   by   the   will   of   others   ,   to   not   know   ,   always   ,   the   end   destination.   In   a   way   ,   there   could   be   nothing   worse.   “   But   I’m   grateful   nonetheless.   You   are   too   good   for   me   ,   for   everyone.   We   don’t   deserve   you.   ”   And   maybe   there’s   a   flicker   of   truth   –   a   fleeting   sense   of   guilt   for   the   way   Grace   uses   her   as   a   shield   ,   as   proof   of   her   innocence.   If   only   there   were   another   way.   

     SOMETHING WARM INSIDE HIM STIRS when grace calls him by the name she’d affectionately given him in their youth, the name that stuck so effortlessly like paper and glue and paper. it reminds him of warm, youthful summers in the girls’ room where he would hide away with his sisters knowing that their father would come looking for him. now, they were looking for their father. what’s funny is that even though the man is missing, a cross standing where some might hope he would miraculously appear, hal’s instincts still tell him to hide. 

but when grace calls him by that name and looks at him all innocent and helpless with those big, doe eyes, it reminds him that he has responsibilities, as an older brother, to fulfill. that the last thing he should be doing is hiding. so he presses grace’s head gently against his shoulder, lets her cry, and strokes her downy hair like he used to do when she couldn’t sleep. 

“it just doesn’t make any sense…” he narrows his eyes at the cross: a symbol of hope to many of them, but a sign of something much more ominous, sinister, to him. he winces, and shakes his head as if to will the thoughts away.

and just then, a shrill sob rises from the low hum of prayers. quickly, he turns his head, disturbing grace’s posture against his shoulder. he sees a woman, one of the older church members, kneeling on the dirt. a sheer black scarf is draped over her head and her arms lifted towards the sky as she cries, forgive us, o lord! forgive us!

a chilling response follows from the rest of the mourners, repeating the desperate pleas for penance to the air. hal sucks in a deep breath, wincing. 

“let’s… take a walk,” he tells grace, not wanting her to be subjected to their agonizing cries. 

                 𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓  ,   of   course   :   it   doesn’t   make   sense.   Henry   North   ,   far   more   observant   and   astute   than   she   could   ever   give   him   credit   for.   If   only   he   had   a   little   more   confidence   ,   some   substance   to   his   bleeding   heart   ,   they   might   have   made   a   wonderful   pair.   She   could   have   rested   her   head   on   his   shoulder   ,   let   him   braid   her   hair   while   they   plotted   a   MUTINY.   But   instead   ,   he   insists   on   questioning   Holy   Wisdom   ,   questioning   their   true   purpose   and   their   commitment   to   God   ,   leaving   Grace   to   gather   the   pieces   and   shelter   him   from   the   wrath   of   their   community.

                    No   ,   it   doesn’t   make   sense   –   and   it’s   been   nagging   at   her   ever   since   her   Father’s   disappearance.   Their   Father   claims   a   message   from   God   ,   wanders   off   into   the   forest   ,   disappears.   It’s   too…convenient.   Too   easy   an   exit   for   Noah   North.   Too   good   to   be   true.   There   has   to   be   a   catch   ,   a   consequence   LURKING   in   the   shadows   for   her   ,   waiting   for   her   to   finally   relax.   Feeling   her   brother   shudder   ,   her   own   shiver   of   anticipation   ascends   her   spine   ,   leaving   a   scalp-tingling   fear   as   she’s   forced   to   pull   away.   

— 𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐓𝐓’𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 , 𝑯𝑶𝑳𝒀 𝑪𝑹𝑶𝑺𝑺 // 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 @grxce

The surprises kept on coming. Not only did Elliott not expect Grace North of all people to turn up at his doorstep, but he certainly did not expect her to be asking about being tutored in self-defence. It was evident that she was being deadly serious from the way her gaze settled so sternly on his own. 

Baffled by her request, Elliott’s mouth fell open, not entirely sure how to answer. Part of him was disappointed that Grace hadn’t shown up with a case for him to dig into and solve- he was hungry for one just like a starving dog would be for a tiny meaty morsel- but at the same time it would give him a chance to brush off the dust on the part of the life he’d left behind. Not that anybody knew anything about that. 

Instead of settling on a definitive answer, Elliott slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and glanced up curiously at Grace. “May I ask why you wish for me to teach you to fight?” 

                  𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍  shouldn’t   surprise   her   ,   but   she   still   takes   a   pause   ,   exhales   a   soft   breath.   The   potential   consequences   of   this   meeting   ,   this   request   ,   hang   in   the   air   like   dust   caught   in   the   sunlight   ,   swirl   around   her   and   settle   on   her   shoulders.   “   Does   it   matter   ?   ”   A   placeholder   response   ,   a   question   for   a   question   ,   but   it   LIFTS   the   pressure   from   her   chest   for   a   moment   ,   allows   a   breath   of   air   to   enter   her   lungs.   

                      She   shifts   ,   sits   up   a   little   straighter.   “   It’s   a   valuable   skill   ,   no   ?   ”   A   dark   eyebrow   lifts.   “   Or   do   you   think   since   I’m   a   woman   I   don’t   need   to   know   how   —   or   ,   rather   ,   is   it   because   I’m   sworn   to   God   ?   ”   She   feels   the   wheels   spinning   ,   momentum   building   as   her   mind   takes   over   and   propels   her   forward.   The   bible   verse   falls   to   her   lips   like   a   piece   into   place.   “   PSALM   144:1   —   ‘   Praise   the   Lord,   who   is   my   rock.   He   trains   my   hands   for   war   and   gives   my   fingers   skill   for   battle.   ’   The   Lord   compels   us   defend   ourselves   and   our   fellow   people   when   we   have   no   other   choice.   ”

Dolores feels her eye twitch lightly at Grace’s perfect recitation of the verse. As manipulative as she knows Grace to be, Dolores finds Grace’s piety convincing. Too convincing for comfort. At a time when Dolores’ own faith feels like grasping at mist, there is something profoundly unnerving about those around her who seem to worship with such ease.

She doesn’t know whether Grace’s displays of faith are the calculated, demonstrative display of something fundamentally genuine, or whether they are as insincere as her grief. In any case, she daren’t pry for fear of exposing the depth of her own artifice. Dolores, even at her most devout, has happily relied on her inexperience in American religious circles to justify her subdued approach to worship. It shielded her from suspicion even as her conviction in Pastor North’s message began to wane, and she has no intention of drawing attention where none is currently being cast. For this reason, among others, Dolores is relieved that Grace has accepted her offer. As the pair make their way away from the crowd, she feels her tense shoulders begin to relax.

The walk to her house is brief, and she remains quiet and sombre, wary of rousing suspicion among anyone else they might encounter. Grace, she knows, will need to respond appropriately to any condolences thrown her way. When they reach her home, she unlocks the front door and holds it open for the younger woman. Once they are inside, she locks the door and kicks off her shoes, making her way swiftly to the kitchen.

“How are you, love?” She finally asks, leaning against a kitchen counter, her brow softly furrowed and her voice low, though not unguarded. She knows better than to ever completely relax around Grace.

                  𝐎𝐍   𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑   𝐃𝐀𝐘   ,   in   another   life   ,   maybe   ,   it’s   a   pleasant   walk.   In   a   parallel   universe   ,   through   some   invisible   ,   gossamer   fabric   ,   Grace   and   Dolores   traverse   the   sidewalk   ,   basking   in   the   June   sun   ,   gossiping   ,   laughing   ,   trusting.   Or   ,   perhaps   ,   Holy   Cross   is   cursed   in   every   universe   ,   doomed   to   treachery   across   the   universe.   As   it   is   ,   the   ashen   sidewalk   carries   on   beneath   sandaled   feet   ,   the   sun   is   too   hot   ,   the   approach   of   falsely   sympathetic   Holy   Wisdom   members   CLAUSTROPHOBIC.   Her   whole   life   ,   she   has   prayed   her   way   to   this   moment   ,   clawed   hands   clasped   in   faith   ,   to   stand   on   the   precipice   of   an   opening   :   the   gaping   ,   bottomless   cavity   her   Father   has   left   in   the   Holy   Wisdom   ranks.   So   why   ,   Lord   ,   was   she   suddenly   so   exhausted   ?   

                    It   is   with   marked   relief   that   she   ducks   into   the   cool   ,   quiet   home.   Dolores   has   always   occupied   a   peaceful   space   in   Holy   Cross   ,   one   that   Grace   has   visited   ,   admired   ,   shied   away   from.   It’s   undisturbed   calm   is   almost   frightening   to   her   with   how   FOREIGN   it   feels   against   her   tortured   skin   ,   so   accustomed   to   discord   and   disapproval   is   she.   Here   ,   at   least   ,   she   feels   she   can   just   be   ,   as   she   is   ,   a   feeling   only   ever   echoed   in   prayer.   

there   was   a   tingling   sensation   on   the   surface   of   her   skin   where   grace’s   hand   had   clasped   hers.   (   firm   ,   but   reassuring.   almost   necessary   ,   if   anything.   )   for   even   now   ,   there   was   such   a   feeling   of   foreign   sensation   that   came   with   being   touched   ;   with   being   given   inescapable   ,   tangible   proof   that   she   really   was   real.   all   week   long   ,   and   she   had   been   so   helium   full   ,   hot   air   ready   to   simply   …   float   away   ,   that   in   comparison   ,   the   simple   gesture   felt   utterly   grounding.   there   was   a   part   of   her   that   almost   missed   the   ease   of   false   pretenses   ,   but   even   then   ser   knew   it   couldn’t   last.   no   ,   no   it   couldn’t.   not   when   there   were   people   that   needed   better   from   her   ,   that   deserved   better   from   her   :   her   sister   most   of   all.

               ❛               grace   ⸻   i   bought   it   …   trust   me   when   i   say   there   wasn’t   a   single   dry   eye   in   that   crowd.               ❜               and   while   she   couldn’t   say   for   certain   which   tears   had   been   real   ,   or   even   sincere   in   their   emotions   ,   she   knew   that   no   one   would   be   looking   towards   her   sister   with   suspicion   after   that   prayer.               ❛               i   think   they’re   all   too   happy   to   give   us   a   moment   to   gather   ourselves   in   private   ,   actually.               ❜               and   the   appearance   of   her   white   laced   kerchief   was   slow   and   meaningful   as   she   moved   to   dab   at   the   corners   of   her   own   eyes   ;   doe   eyed   and   dewy   as   she   went   through   the   motions   of   composing   herself.   (   but   her   feelings   were   true   ,   were   they   not   ?   they   were   ,   they   would   be   ,   and   in   convincing   others   ,   so   she   too   would   be   convinced.   )

               ❛               do   you   really   believe   that   …   ?   that   he   really   might   be   ⸻               ❜               her   words   were   caught   somewhere   in   her   throat   ,   the   hitch   in   her   breath   nearly   painful   as   it   pulled   at   her   lungs.   ’   unbelievable   ’   was   all   too   appropriate   a   word   it   seemed   ,   her   sister   ever   the   intellect.   her   father   had   always   seemed   so   much   larger   than   life   ,   more   omnipresent   than   god   himself   in   her   life.   so   how   was   one   meant   to   move   on   from   that   ?   how   was   one   meant   to   mourn   that   loss.   

                       𝐀 𝐆𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐏𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄  ,   it’s   a   reflex   to   preen   beneath   her   sister’s   reassurance.   Convincing   was   the   closest   thing   to   real   that   she   could   muster   when   it   came   to   their   Father   –   the   highest   compliment   ,   then.   Especially   from   her   saccharine   sister   ,   the   living   shadow   of   Grace’s   deception.   There   are   times   she   itches   to   strike   her   ,   to   wake   her   from   the   doe-eyed   coma   she   inhabits.   Moments   filter   through   ,   however   ,   moments   where   Grace   sees   potential.   Serenity   dabs   at   dry   tears   with   a   handkerchief   as   pure   as   she   and   Grace   warms   with   a   reassuring   PRIDE   ;   though   she   might   not   admit   it   ,   she   has   a   sense   of   how   to   pretend   ,   the   image   to   project   to   the   leeches   that   circle   like   sharks   around   blood   in   the   water.   

                           “   I’m   sure   they   are.   ”   She   murmurs   her   assent   ,   smile   remaining   downturned   ,   shoulders   drawn.   Hazel   eyes   ,   though   lowered   ,   track   movement   in   their   periphery   ,   assessing   ,   analyzing   ,   watching.   “   Father   John’s   watching   us   like   a   lion   ,   perhaps   he   thinks   we   are   PREY   without   Father   around   ?   ”   Lips   scarcely   part   for   the   sneered   comment   ,   eyes   flashing   a   private   moment   of   amusement   for   Serenity   only.   “   I   suppose   his   eldest   son   is   pretty   enough.   Bit   of   a   dolt   ,   though   ,   don’t   you   think   ?   ”   

                             Strings   at   the   corners   of   her   mouth   ,   tugging   her   lips   into   a   sly   smirk   that   is   dropped   instantly   at   the   approach   of   a   church   elder.   Condolences   ,   which   Grace   accepts   sorrowfully   ,   eyes   shimmering   poetically   above   flushed   cheeks.   “   All   we   can   do   is   continue   to   PRAY   ,   Mrs.   Denaux   ,   and   we   will.   The   Lord   will   send   us   answers   ,   I’m   sure.   ”   A   bowed   head   sends   the   woman   away   ,   leaving   the   sisters   alone   once   again.   

he   wasn’t   trying   to   look   ,   not   really.   (   but   then   again   ,   was   not   not   trying   to   look   really   the   same   thing   as   not   trying   ?   )   and   shit   ,   did   she   send   his   thoughts   reeling   or   what   !   his   head   fucking   hurt   with   the   endless   overthinking   ,   and   his   hands   trembled   where   they   clenched   into   fists.   he   wanted   to   touch   ⸻   to   taste   ?   he   wanted   to   see   the   ever   rumoured   perfect   daughter   of   the   pastor   becoming   something   wild   at   his   side   :   something   so   beautifully   free.  

he   simply   wanted   ,   so   fucking   badly   ,   that   she   almost   made   his   teeth   ache   with   the   urge   for   it   ,   did   make   them   ache   from   holding   back   that   he   did.   silence   had   never   been   a   strong   suit   for   hughie,   and   especially   not   when   he   wanted   to   indulge   as   badly   as   he   did.   ’   the   very   touch   of   you   corrupts   ’   they   had   said   ,   and   that   was   just   it   wasn’t   it   (   his   lips   remained   parted   on   a   bated   breath   at   the   realization   ;   mouth   hanging   open   in   near   awe   )   grace   fucking   north   would   taste   of   a   corruption   that   sang   to   his   own   ,   and   how   sweet   the   fucking   sound   it   really   was   ⸻      how   it   would   be.

               ❛               so   what   if   i   did   ?   s'it   a   crime   to   think   you   deserve   a   break   ?               ❜                  there   was   a   near   goading   edge   that   seeped   into   the   sincerity   of   his   words   ,   in   the   gleam   of   his   eyes   ;   an   arch   of   his   brow   that   invited   nothing   but   challenge.   ‘cause   if   grace   was   willing   to   take   the   first   dive   ,   who   was   hughie   to   do   anything   but   accompany   her   for   the   plunge   ?   

                      𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃   for   power   and   here   ,   beneath   the   moon   ,   BARE   skin   sticky   against   leather   seats   ,   he   gives   it   to   her   ,   offers   it   on   a   gilded   platter   without   argument.   It’s   intoxicating   :   the   sweat   at   his   brow   ,   the   darting   of   his   eyes   from   eyes   to   chest   and   back   again   ,   his   pretty   lips   fallen   open   with   pure   lust.   A   more   cautious   girl   than   Grace   would   withdraw   ,   having   fed   strength   from   his   weakness   ,   but   she   is   marbled   with   ABANDON   ,   temporarily   relieved   of   the   heavy   crown   worn   from   birth   –   or   was   it   a   collar   ?   Either   was   too   tight   ,   too   heavy   ,   left   her   body   longing   with   a   desire   for   more.   

                          So   she   toes   the   edge   of   the   precipice   ,   unrecognizable   depths   looming   between   them.   As   helpless   as   he   is   ,   she   is   too   ;   was   this   how   the   Devil   swayed   God’s   children   ?   The   air   is   heavy   with   sin   :   it   kisses   her   cheeks   ,   brushes   a   FEVERISH   rhythm   against   her   heart.   “   Not   a   crime   ,   perhaps   ,   but   surely   a   sin.   ”   She   speaks   slow   ,   low   ,   a   voice   of   honey   and   hurt.   To   break   away   from   his   gaze   is   to   concede   ,   and   Grace   North   has   never   conceded   ,   not   truly.   “   But   ,   Hughbert   ,   what   would   my   Father   say   ?   ”   A   slight   pause   ,   then   a   silken   laugh.   “   Oh   ,   wait.   ”   Brown   eyes   become   flint   ,   spark   with   a   dangerous   flicker   of   amusement.   “   My   brother   ,   then.   Hallie   will   lose   his   mind.   ”