Sweetoothwritings

Inside the grandiose cathedral made of white brick and dark stone is a child of God, sitting between the pews and over the hips of her long-deceased companion. Both their hands wrap around the wooden stake pressed against her chest: the sister’s palms over the beginning, and the vampire’s over the body.

They sit there for a moment in mutual silence, lying over a long, narrowing red and gold carpet as their shallow breaths cloud the air, before the woman beneath the stake grins in spite of the bruises on her human flesh and the gash across her freckled cheeks. “We’ve been here before.” She hums. “Think you can follow through this time?” She taunts with a light cock to her neck, enjoying the spotlight of the nun’s hardened gaze.

The sister Paul Kempe grits her teeth and tightens her grip over the wood, but when her head turns with that familiar smirk, her resentment lessens. In Kempe’s eyes, a new face lies above the one below her—her cheeks fuller and flushed with a constantly bright expression, not yet tolled by age and misuse. That smirk becomes a pass at her—back when she was known as something else, that name untouched for decades now—while a woman with her face blurred from an unwillingness to memorize it, takes her hand.

Paul is brought back to her robes and the deep quiet of a Sunday night in chapel when Poena—not Florence—speaks again, dispelling the distant sounds of FM radio and clacking heels. “Agh! Come on! I’m right here!” She encourages, her grip taking precedence over Kempe’s as she thrusts it deeper into her chest, creating a small hole in her thin, red-lace blouse. “Just a little more pressure…” She murmurs. “I know you have the muscle for it.” She teases with a hung syllable as a hand leaves the weapon against her heart in favor of the arm that does, in fact, stiffen at her request.

However, glancing at the curve in her round, dark brows, Paul finds herself defeated and thus, discards the stake. Instead, she tightens her fists over the expensive shirt collar of Poena’s top and throws her body against the floor as she rises from her hips.

Poena’s head slams into the stone beneath the thin carpet with an echoing thud, followed by a gasp and quieted whine.

“Fuck!” Paul scolds herself whilst she kicks her foot against a solid, wooden pew. “What is wrong with you?!” She screams back to Poena, who has coiled into a ball over her side and now claws at the rug in efforts to regain her strength. “Do you want to die?!”

A bubbling, soft laugh returns her. “Do you want me to?”

Paul flinches at this reply, keeping her visceral grimace as Poena comes into a seat. “You’d answer to me?” She wonders, a crease tugging at her lips, disabling what could’ve been passed as morbid curiosity and revealing its true motive: fantasy.

Poena spouts a breathy chuckle. “Not to your command.” She clarifies while her thumb catches an escaping leak of blood from her nostril. “But maybe to your wish.” She sniffs the remaining back, then smiles an irritating grin as her hands settle behind her to support a lean. She smiles wider seeing the fluster she creates bloom over the devout’s cheeks.

Meanwhile, Paul chews on this knowledge, though doesn’t manage to consume it as a baffled, “Why?” Tumbles out of her mouth.

Poena drops her head and makes a performance of looking side to side, as though there was an audience among them in the benches. “You summoned me.” She answers, exasperated.

A sudden fume comes over Paul, and before either of them can recognize the action, her

palm clamps over Poena’s lips. “Shut your mouth, heathen!” She commands, to which Poena only grins, her enamel grazing the rippled skin of the holy sister before her. Against this reaction, Paul grows hot. “So, what?” she snaps. “Is this a ‘mommy’ thing? Am I your keeper?” She questions with sarcasm thick over her curiosity.

Poena’s hands wrap around her wrist, gently persuading it off her mouth, which Sister Paul Kempe eventually relents and agrees to, allowing her to speak the response: “I don’t know; did Florence see you as ‘mommy’ material?” That gets her backhanded in a speed only given to instinct.

Paul even takes a step back, holding her hands to her chest with a squinted expression as Poena coughs over the floor, left on her side once again. Despite the odd behavior, Paul doesn’t hesitate to growl, “What the fuck did you say?” With an uncharacteristic grit.

Despite her ragged appearance—bruised, pink, and bloodied—she laughs. It’s hoarse but obnoxious and, in any other circumstance, would sound genuine.

Paul, on the other hand—not clean of scars that would inevitably come when she stitched her wounds, such as the animalistic bite on her hand that curved the elegant cross beneath her pinky and a laceration over her hip produced by her own weapon used against her, but relatively composed—becomes frozen in light of that laugh, one that whistled through a gap between her front teeth and got choppy by gasps for air even if it was a short amusement.

More embarrassment swarms Paul’s body. “You, creature, are vile—a fiend—a temptress, unworthy of the skin you mascot—“

“Oh, please.” Poena groans, her entertainment falling into an impassioned irritation. “Don’t be obtuse. It’s not attractive on you,” she complains. When Paul only returns a conflicted eyebrow raise back, she sighs and wobbles into a stand that marks another step away from the nun before her. Her head starts to swivel around herself, in search of the olive stake lost somewhere among the many pews. “When you summoned me—” She begins once more, Paul’s eyes yielding their search for a weapon and instead fixing on Poena’s luminescent yellow irises.

“You asked for Florence.”

Paul can feel the heat hit her hands.

“Do you really think—“

They appear stained red with powder. They’re shaking as she strikes a new match against the box, letting the burnt one fall over a pile of many.

“That mother universe—God—whatever you believe in,”

She glances up but can’t keep her gaze on the scene, and so she shoots her attention back down. She lights another tall candle and chokes on a sob.

“Wouldn’t take that offer at face value?”

A burning sensation fills her palm as she drains its flush into a silver goblet.

Sister Paul Kempe looks up from her palm—intact, save the bite her thumb has apparently been holding for some time now. “What are you saying?” She asks, hiding a tremor behind her hushed volume.

Poena tilts her head at an unruly angle, more appropriate for an owl than a human. “I am Florence,” she insists. “You know that; you have to know that.”

She continues to blabber about her identity, but Paul can’t hold onto her attention as her head droops and lands back on her hand. In her scarred palm she sees a barely breathing, fluttering Florence strewn over a chalk-marked floor like a baby in its crib for the first time. She feels the weight of her head, and her short yet soft black hair file between her fingers as she lifts her chin and coaxes her to drink from the cup, her hand occasionally shifting to pet whilst she coos encouragements.

Paul breaks herself out of the memory by digging her fingernail into the wound, igniting a sharp cry from her own mouth as real blood trickles from the puncture.

Poena jumps at the shriek and trembles over her weak balance whilst Paul shakes off the pain and blinks away her tears. She sniffs, “Do you hear yourself?” She spits, a new sense of tire dragging her tone. “‘Whatever I believe in’?” She chuckles in dry ridicule. “You’re full of shit. I don’t know who you are, but martyring her flesh does not make you her.”

“Hm.” Poena hums back with a curt snort, slinking down into a seat among the pew she leaned against. She rests her jaw over her knuckles. “They say that when you die, you know everything,” she returns, the playful tone of a storyteller tipping and sinking her voice. “The secrets of the universe—Heaven, Nirvana, Inferno… What that girl really thought of you…” And then she sighs and rolls her head to the other side. “But you just end up with more questions.” She huffs, though she slowly comes to a shrug. “Maybe I did know all of that when it happened.” She reconsiders. “Maybe cluelessness is the price of living,” Poena concludes, her head coming back to its original position.

Paul scoffs. “Nice fable.” She retorts. “If you don’t know shit, then how do you know you’re Florence and not just tying your damned soul to a good woman?”

Poena laughs. “‘Good woman.’” She parrots, more giggles spouting out of that repetition. “Look, you can rewrite your past and erase all the bad decisions you had every part of—be the good, and sacrificial sister begging for forgiveness you know ‘He’ won’t give.” She prefaces with physical quotations. “But I’m not going to do that.” As her amusement fades, she settles again into a crossed seat. “You want to know how I know?” She provokes, her tone anointed with a unique sense of frustration, one Paul hasn’t yet heard from this new being. “Because I have her cognition, her feelings—I mean, that’s how you found me, isn’t it?” She points out. “The victims?” She adds as though Paul could’ve forgotten for a moment about the bodies—some old friends, some acquaintances, and the rest strangers, though all could be connected in roundabout ways to her, and by their cause of death: a torn neck, shredded by canine teeth, according to the police who had investigated Paul but had no evidence to convict her. The police had seen the guilt bubbling as they interrogated her inside that quaint office room– it was really only luck that kept her from behind bars. She repaid that luck with her own plea.

Sister Paul Kempe can’t keep her eyes on those yellow rims. “I should’ve killed you that first night.” She whispers through stuck teeth.

Poena chooses to ignore the comment and continue. “I didn’t know what I was feeling then—I mean, I was practically born again! …Working out all the kinks to living….” She slicks back her parted bangs. “Hunger and lust are so much closer than you think they are.”

“Shut up…” Paul warns, uneasy with this direction of conversation.

Poena raises her head instead. “You know…” She begins steadily, her eyes moving up and away in thought. “I don’t even think you’re upset about the killings, or your indictment.” She speculates, her gaze swinging back to look at Paul as her finger taps against her bottom lip.

Paul takes a step forward, still cautious over her direct stare. “Don’t.”

“I think…” She forces a meeting between their pupils for a split second. “I think you’re upset I didn’t kill you.” She concludes as she repositions herself into a proud posture.

Meanwhile, Paul has hastened her movements towards Poena and stands rigid by the bench in front of her. “I am warning you to bite that filthy, forked tongue of yours.”

She doesn’t. “I mean, disobey God—prove his existence by the very action—incite the devil for… What? The girl who didn’t even like you back?” Her smile doesn’t falter, even as the comfort of Paul’s palm harshly cupping her chin returns to her. She only looks into those brown eyes and mutters, “I’d be pretty pissed too.”

“You’re not Florence.” She asserts, her chest heaving now as the whites of her eyes tint pink from held-back condensation.

Poena curls a shoulder. “No?” Then, in awkward movements as Paul doesn’t dare to weaken her grasp, holds up the wooden stake Paul had missed. “Prove it.”

Paul, timidly, removes her hand and takes the wood into her palm. And then, she looks back at Poena, who’s… Still grinning, smiling wildly as sweat rolls down her cheeks and a vibrant flush pierces her cold skin. With another glimpse at the weapon she holds, she makes her decision and tuts, letting the wedge fall to the ground. “You’re not worth it.” She mumbles before pushing her off and against the pew, stepping out of the aisle as her back cracks against the firm material.

Poena blinks, having to shake herself out of the moment before beginning her frantic search around the large interior until she finds Paul, walking steadfast to meet the gigantic double doors of the church. “Paul!” She shouts, though Paul doesn’t flinch. This makes her hysterical; she laughs breathlessly with not a hint of amusement. “Paul Kempe! You can’t just—just leave me here!”

That yelp succeeds in drawing out a reaction. “Watch me.”

She swallows a rough ball of saliva, indeed, watching her hands approach the door's golden and intricate knobs as she untangles herself from her seat. She stammers before the almost involuntary shriek of “Jane!” escapes her.

Paul pauses over that name, and so Poena slows and continues to agitate. “This isn’t over! We can’t leave it like this! I-I’ll kill your entire flock if that’s what’s needed. Do not underestimate me!” Yet as Poena catches her breath, Paul doesn’t move.

When she finally does, Paul just shakes her head, sighs, and then walks out without another word or retort, leaving the doors wide so the moon shines in, coming at Poena with the same vibrancy as the sun she’d forgotten. She kneels inside of it, disheveled, shaking, and abandoned despite great efforts—the threat of her own demise left in her right hand.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

Estella has woken up to many things before: bruises, aches, men, knives—but on this morning, she can say a nun's shoulder is a new one. Although the nun has now shed her veil to reveal the dark curls held closely to her scalp and her robe is blasphemously removed so only her pale undergarments remain, making her appear quite the modern woman. One she may have recognized if their paths didn’t diverge the way they did. 

“Good morning!” The not-nun gleams, her attention, however, pitted to the horses in front of them. 

Estella groans as she shields her eyes and throbbing head from the sun above her. “Not so much.” She returns. 

The sister exhales through her nose. “You’re much the same then?” She asks, and Estella can’t tell if she means her migraine or her feelings about this ‘plan,’ which was less a strategic set of ideals but rather a desperate clawing for something impossible: a second chance. 

The possibility of their meeting alone was rare enough. They had traveled down far different paths that landed them in far different states, all a long way from New Hampshire, and yet, the stars had aligned in such a way for the good sister to lock eyes with a prowling whore. “And you?” Estella deflects as she picks herself up into a proper seat. “You’re rather chipper for an excommunicated nun, Agatha.” 

She frowns at that. “I am not excommunicated.” She corrects. “That implies I was exiled; I was not,” Agatha argues. “And it’s Sarah now, Es, Sarah Miriam.” 

Estella rolls her eyes and leans her back against the wooden seat of their stolen carriage. “I don’t think you get to keep your nun-name when you stop being a nun.” She pushes, a bit teasingly. 

“I don’t think you have authority over that.” Agatha quips back, then shakes her head, where her smile returns to her. “No, I am not the same.” She answers, finally. “I feel clear-headed, and raw.” She summarizes with an awkward pronunciation of ‘raw,’ her mouth opening too wide for the three-letter expression. “I feel sixteen again.” She passes Estella a glance, but Estella shields her face from her view. 

Agatha straightens her lips. “I thought we’d head back north.” She announces, capturing Estella’s wanted attention with a slight tilt to her head that is now glistening with sweat and swarmed by a light flush. “Maybe New York, but that's possibly too close to New Hampshire.” She reflects, a finger coming away from the reins to bounce over her bottom lip. 

“‘We’?” Estella echoes. 

Agatha depresses. “To start with, anyway.” She refines. Then hesitantly she offers, “Unless you have something better to share?” 

Estella tugs on a misaligned strand of her blonde hair. “No.” She admits to the satisfied breath of Agatha. 

She adjusts the cable in her hands whilst she proclaims, “Onwards, then!” With an opera’s dramatism, though it is not too far in the future that their horses slow; their pants pleading for a halt. 

They both notice, but Agatha doesn’t call for it; she, instead, wrestles with the cables, forcing the animals forward until the mainly slack and bored woman beside her reaches out for her hand. “They’re tired.” She states aloud for Agatha as if she simply hadn’t notice. “They won’t last much longer if you don’t let them rest.” Then Estella finds her face and truly peers at it for the first time. Agatha won’t meet her eye, but it doesn’t matter; she knows this face even if she doesn’t recognize the new wrinkles that crease the corners of her lips and eyes, the way they sag as though a frown has replaced her natural smirk, along with the length of her hair that was once incurably bunched over her face and chest but is now boyishly short. Nonetheless, there are things Agatha cannot rid herself of, no matter how she tries to, like the two moles on her right cheek, the cool color of her brown eyes, or her sweet overlapping teeth. Estella takes her hand and gaze away, “and, frankly, neither will you.” 

She responds with a long, defeated sigh Estella has only heard once before; it causes a shiver to jolt up her spine. “We’ll cross into Missouri; find a nice spot there.” She concedes. 

Shaking off that spark of energy, she slinks back against the coach. “We weren’t going to get to New York in a day anyhow.” Estella points out as she crosses her arms. “Don’t know why you’re in such a tizzy over stopping.” She ribs. 

Agatha makes a low, whining “mrm.” Sound. “Doesn’t mean we couldn’t have tried.” She argues though as the reins begin to slip from her moist hands, it's evident a few stops will be necessary. She swallows. 

As Agatha wished, they cross the state border and take pause in a grassy patch with shade and a clearish pond. She lets the horses out of their harnesses to drink and nap and Estella watches her. She supposes Agatha must have a reputation with these animals, as she doesn’t move to tie them down. She didn’t think much of it before, where the wagon came from. Nor did she of their own water until Agatha pushes a tan leather canteen under her nose. 

She looks up at her. How much of this was planned? Then she takes a sip, then a gulp; she hadn’t noticed how dry her mouth had become. Agatha snorts and lets her have the rest. Afterwards, Estella feels grounded and solid again, though she’s unsure of when she stopped feeling so. 

They eat dried meat and picked berries while Agatha rambles about the nature they’re surrounded by and her order of sisters. There’s talk of God too, Estella is sure, but she’s not quite listening by then. Still, she shuts her mouth and doesn’t utter any complaint or tease though many of Agatha's comments warrant them.

It’s not yet evening when they come together in the wagon, flattening a sheet over the old wood flooring that creaks with too much dismay for their weight. They lay their backs over the same fabric yet with a large distance between them and stare at the cotton ceiling, listening to each other's breathing, their quickening heartbeats. 

“Are you going to tell me now?” Estella cuts through the silence. 

“Hrm?” Agatha replies too quickly. 

Estella sits up and positions herself over her, her arms stretched out beside either hip. Agatha meets her eye in the comfort of the dark. “How you became a nun.” She clarifies like it was the obvious answer. “I mean, sure, you were a ‘church on Sundays’ type, but you certainly didn’t give devoted to me.” She refrains from mentioning how she was too, at least purposefully after meeting Agatha and shaking her scabbed, firm hand for peace, or something like that. She never really understood God, His teachings, or the church, but she got very close when she stole glances at Agatha while she prayed. What could words teach her that Agatha’s partly separated mouth couldn’t? Her bowed head, her tight grasp, her mumbled words… Perhaps it was that she knew what worship felt like through Agatha’s mouth and could not figure how it wouldn't be enough. 

Agatha thinks for a moment but only returns the diversion, “What about you?” in an exhale that pulls Estella away from a wave of nostalgia she didn’t realize she got lost in. “You act as though ‘whore’ was a destined title.” Then she frowns a little, “How did you get here?” She murmurs as a hand reaches out but then falters over her stomach.

“Where was I supposed to go?” She contends, her fingers now tapping over the sheet. 

Agatha shrugs. “Anywhere.” She claims. “You’re intelligent.” 

Estella raises a brow. “And what would that get me?” She retorts. 

“You said you were going to go to school.” Agatha offers. 

Estella wants to laugh, but it gets stuck in her throat, so she scoffs breathlessly instead. “I was young.” She excuses. “We both knew that wasn’t going to happen.”

“You could marry well.” She suggests in turn. 

“Then what?” Estella snaps, and Agatha knows she’s pressed on a sore subject as her back shrinks into the wood beneath her. “Fuck around until I get a genius kid who’ll live the life I wanted?” She tuts. “No, thank you.” She violently dismisses. 

Agatha makes another whine-type sound, like a dog scared shitless but still trying to produce a fierce growl. “There are worse things.” She replies. 

Estella does laugh then. “And I have lived them.”

There’s another period of silence after that sour ending, a minute of stillness as Estella has grown tired of talking—reminiscing—and Agatha has run out of things to reminisce over. Still, she holds herself over her body, and Agatha does not squirm beneath her. Her gaze drops over Agatha’s lips, and she regards it. 

She licks them. “Do you remember..” she begins slowly. “When we went camping, near Lake Ontario?” Agatha is staring brazenly into her eyes now, a dull green against the small candlelight flame held up by a bound hay bale. Estella’s attention does not tremble. 

She smiles with a suppressed chuckle, “Of course.” She assures. 

“This reminds me of that,” Agatha tells her, ignoring the sliding movement of Estella’s hands and the lowering of her torso. “I would offer to sit outside,” She trails off, becoming distracted when a palm presses down against her hip bone, and Estella’s eyes begin to close. “But we’d surely be eaten alive.” She concludes.

Estella does not reply as her lips have reached their destination, and Agatha does not stop them; in fact, she grants full entry, and as she does, she realizes how long it has been since she’s last been touched in the most innocent form. The best she could ask for under the order was a draft grazing her skin when she changed in and out of her habit, and now, here she is being wanted, clung to. Her mouth is growing numb fast. She becomes unsure of where she ends and Estella begins; it’s comforting, and she groans into her mouth. Finally, that fallen hand comes over Estella’s cheek as it intended.

Estella cuddles into her palm and hums before biting down on her lip, surging independence in Agatha’s again as she gasps, and Estella pulls away, though only to move her body over hers in a straddle over her hips. There is no question to her experience compared to Agatha’s and her younger years, and yet a juvenile fervor consumes her. She is dizzy, and hungry, and needy like she has never been before. It is only to her luck that she’s used to performance while Agatha is entirely unprepared. Nonetheless, her heat and pulsing body is tangible under Agatha’s hands as they dip to hold her thighs. 

“Is this what you do?” She wonders curiously without the air necessary to warrant the ask. 

Estella runs her fingers through her hair and remembers when she could wrap her curls around her skin until the circulation broke or how she'd ease snarls from inside the mass. There are no more coils to pull back, but she finds the gentle flow of hair through the webbing of her fingers just as gratifying. “No.” She mumbles. “They pay first.” 

This makes Agatha smile; she can feel it against her cheek, which is a saving grace, knowing Agatha would never admit to thriving on this behavior. “I don’t have any money.” She apologizes through a false plea. 

“Don’t matter.” Estella returns, pulling her head away. “You’re no man.” And her mouth is over hers again. 

Agatha’s hands surge upwards, one over the base of her spine and the other underneath her dress. The tips of her fingers toy with the frills of her sheer drawers as Estella grips whatever hair she can get between her fist, her back arching against the touch. “Sarah…” She moans into the humid air surrounding them.

And Agatha freezes. She understands the intent was innocuous, if not provocative in the opposite way, but the meaning doesn’t change the surge of reality Agatha’s mind receives. Suddenly, she is not the young and promising Agatha Price who got her rush of delinquency through a girl she hardly made room to understand as anything more than a lover. Rather, she is Sister Sarah Miriam, or was, before she dropped her life of loyal devotion to run away for the very same reason conducted in her youth. The thought becomes overwhelming, and she is nauseous in Estella’s arms. “I can’t.” She whimpers as her legs curl forward, pushing Estella off. 

She struggles for a moment as she repositions herself onto the sheet once more, attempting to contend with the sudden shift in mood. “What?!” She yelps, feeling flustered and teased. 

Agatha shakes her head and lowers her gaze. “I…” She smacks her lips. “I may have left the church but not my faith, and I just…” She bites back her trembling frown. “I can't.” She looks up for a split second but finds her will to face Estella is too weak and she surrenders back to staring at the floor. “I'm sorry.”

She scoffs scornfully in return. “Are you fucking kidding me?” She spits. She's almost laughing now, but it's angry and nervous; there's no entertainment inside. “Don't act like this… This ‘devotion’ you have isn't a farce!” She grits while Agatha’s still-averted face hardens from guilt to frustration. “You think this life is going to cure you?” She laughs with the same jagged tone. “Well, trust me, sister, it won't.” Her act dies as a hateful face takes its place, though a curve in her brows betrays this new performance.

“You're acting like you know me.” She murmurs in premature defeat.

“I do!” Estella exclaims with a hitch of what sounds like desperation in her tone.

“You did.” Agatha adjusts, hearing that sentiment for the first time herself. She inhales and straightens her posture against the wagon walls, exhaling a long breath before she starts again. “I joined the order, not because I hate myself, or you, Estella.” Her eyes run up her body; Estella flinches, then her tensity falls into exhaustion. “But because it was simple. God gave me a purpose, a plain path. One that relied on self-preservation and humility instead of wealth or status… or love.” She bites her lip. “I was content.” She answers at last. 

“Then why did you leave?” 

The answer, of course, was that she saw her. She met those uniquely dull-colored eyes for the first time in a decade as she walked home, and Estella roamed the corner with two girlfriends on her arm, and she remembered the first bare body she ever saw. The devotion she felt to those irises and skinned knees washed over her, as did the giddy, and the curiosity, the desperation, the sneaking, the fear, and the thrill-- It all came back to her as if it had never left. Just then, her veil had grown heavy, her faith felt misplaced. With only that quick meeting, she felt that a life with her was possible, however improbable it was. “I don’t know.” She says instead. 

Estella has lost all her passion, both in opposition and attraction, as she presses the bases of her palms into her eyes, taking away the flicker of light and any trace of Agatha’s person. “I don’t know either.” She sighs. “I should head back.” She whispers, almost to herself, as she lessens the pressure of her hands and replaces it over her head. 

Agatha grimaces. “To that filth?!” She exasperates, horrified to hear an inevitable tone to her voice just as it sounded years back when she would always foil their fantasies with the farewell, ‘I should go home.’ “Why would you want to go back to that?” Until, of course, she left without her. 

Estella rolls her eyes and adjusts onto her knees. “It pays.” She curtly responds. “I am fed, and housed, and satisfied.” She defends with a huff for punctuation as she forms into a crawl. “It’s a better fate than yours.” 

Agatha recognizes her movements and comes up herself. “You’re better than this.” 

Estella doesn’t stop until she is outside the wagon, entering a dark clearing before miles of trees, where she returns. “So are you.” Before walking away with no food, water, or navigation tool under her belt. 

Agatha slides to the lip of the vehicle and stammers there, trying to conjure up the exact wording Estella needs to hear, but she realizes she doesn’t know what those are and gives up, left to call out, “Where are you going?” Instead, the involuntary voice of her mother following behind. “We’re not around anything!” She continues to yell reason while Estella marches forward without so much as a second thought. Agatha drops her feet over the dirt. “Estella!” She screams, then goes faint and drops her face against the cool wood. “Come back.” She pleads, nearly silent now. “Please.” 

When Agatha wakes up, she half-expects Estella to be beside her or sitting pitifully with the horses, where, in either space, she would look up and mumble a begrudged apology that would be enough for Agatha to forgive her and she would kneel between her legs, forgetting about God and setting her devotions right as she should've last night. But she isn’t.

In fact, Agatha finds herself more alone than she thought, with no horses strewn across the grass to greet her this morning. She sighs there and holds her hands over her eyes as her chest begins to heave along with her whispered counting. “1…2…3…” 

But then she hears a lapping tongue against water and looks up from her palms to find the chestnut mammal she named Maria—because the rancher she cared for as part of her devotional vows only called them ‘Horse’ collectively—drinking from the other side of the pond. 

She sighs again, but this time it’s shallow and relieved, though her chest hangs unsettled still. She wipes her eyes, takes hold of the bridle and reins, then walks the trek over to collect Maria. 

Together, they wander in sync over the tall grass that occasionally blooms with dandelions and asters along with ivy and its variants as the sun rises to help their search for the other mare, Eden, and perhaps Estella too. When Agatha grows tired, having no clean water left in her missing flask, she comes back to their site empty-handed, save for her damp shoes and heated insides. 

The barren camp does not help dissuade the pit of dreaded hope tangled in Agatha’s stomach, and so they wait out the day again, making fresh water from makeshift supplies that need precise measurements she doesn’t bother to account for, and emptying her rations in hopes she will be acquainted with any company, if not Estella’s. But by the time the sky illuminates with orange, Maria has grown restless, circling in far too small dimensions, and Agatha becomes too anxious to stay. “Okay, girl.” She nods with defeated affection as she uses her nudging mouth to bring herself up from her seat. “You’re right. We ought to get on.” She concurs with a hmph before patting down her mud-ridden gown. The horse taps its hooves and reflects a similar sound back to her. 

She smiles and pets her mane while leaning her head back to look behind the wagon and across where Estella disappeared into the trees. She exhales one last time and then flashes a smile at the animal who had, too, lost their companion, before starting the process of getting onto her back with no tools but rope to help her on her way. She struggles but manages it on the third try with her hair surely a mess and her white clothes yellowed. She shakes off the whiff of nature’s defiance, then clicks her tongue, where Maria springs into a swift stroll, leaving her life and faith behind with the wagon that, for just a minute, held it all.