(Hidden Necromancer 02) The Accused Dead [A] Read online

  “Matron Felice has a few words to say,” Jane announces.

  Elder Johan’s wife steps forward. Her black hair flecked with white strands is a halo of tight curls around her head. She wears a rose-colored dress under a long white cloak, a symbol of her position as the Matron of Brides. A wide grin forms on her dark face as she spreads out her arms in welcome. “My lovely young women, Pious, Dutiful, Plain, and in Good Standing, I welcome you to the Great Hall where you will discover your future. Will you become a Bride? Will you become Unclaimed?”

  The murmur of voices interrupts her, and I’m not surprised when most of the girls look in my direction.

  Speaking above the whispers, Matron Felice continues, “Both are vital roles in our society. As a Bride, you will become the wife to one of our men of Good Standing. A faithful, pious man who works hard for his future family and for our settlement. He will take you into his home, cherish you, and fill your belly with many babies. You will give birth to a new generation that will adhere to the Lost Texts and spread the truth far and wide.”

  The young women around me giggle and their faces redden. Any girl married today is expected to give her virginity to her husband tonight and be with child within a few months. This is the future I used to believe in, but now I feel a bit sick that this is all we’re worth to our society.

  “As Unclaimed, you will serve others, working hard to sustain our community, and supporting our precious families,” Matron Felice says with her bright smile, but her words sound empty. “We all have a role to play in the Atonement Settlement. Today the fate the Three Gods have chosen for you will be revealed. May the Three Gods bless us on this day.”

  “Amen,” we reply in unison.

  “May the Three Gods bless our families, past and future.”

  “Amen.”

  Our voices echo through the room as the Matron of Brides exits the dais and we return to our breakfast. I nibble on the corner of my toast, my appetite having dissipated as I listened to the speech. The tension in the room grew while she spoke as the enormity of the day settled on all of us. I can see it plainly in the faces of the other girls. Their expressions run the gamut from terrified to confident. I hope I look calm and not afraid. I don’t want any of these girls to have any satisfaction in my circumstances. Their cruel words after my mother died drove me far away from them and left me with only one friend. A part of me wishes Prudence was here with me. It’s still hard for me to accept her betrayal.

  Thunder booms. It sounds like the storm is directly overhead. A few girls glance up. Most are paying attention to a small slip of paper and a pencil being passed from girl to girl. Some read the paper and giggle while others appear annoyed. A few girls read the paper and pale, but add a mark to the sheet. I dread to see what’s written. I poke at my eggs with my fork, watching the paper move around the tables.

  When it reaches Beth, she unfolds it and reads it. She lifts her head and regards all the snickering girls around her with contempt, then writes something in big bold letters. Instead of passing it on to the girl beside her, she stands and walks over to me. Dropping the note next to my plate, she returns to her table.

  All eyes are on me as I open the note. I’m not surprised to see what’s written across the top.

  WHO WILL BE UNCLAIMED? VOTE!

  All the names of the potential brides are written in one column. Checkmarks are added next to names. It’s no surprise that Beth and I are the only two names with checks next to them. Across the page, Beth has written I WISH YOU WERE A NECROMANCER AND WOULD KILL THESE BITCHES.

  I’m startled by the coarseness of her language and the sentiment. I lift my eyes toward Beth, but she’s not looking at me. She’s the only one not watching me, waiting to see if I’ll cry or have a tantrum. Instead, I push the note into my tepid coffee, soaking it. As the other girls gawk, I take a spoon and swirl it around until the paper starts to tear apart.

  I’m still stirring when we’re told breakfast is over and it’s time to dress. The Matrons of Honor claim their designated Potential Bride, but mine makes a point of being busy talking to Matron Felice.

  Alone, I follow the others as they’re ushered through a corridor into a long narrow room with plain concrete walls and a high roof crisscrossed with metal beams. Dressing cubicles are set in two long rows and spaced out in intervals. The faded orange walls of the freestanding structures look ancient and many are missing doors and have hanging cloths instead. Our names are posted over the cubicles and I search for mine. Maneuvering through clusters of friends chatting excitedly, I feel more alone than ever.

  As I look about for my cubicle, I notice a few of the other girls are off on their own. A few are crying, one has her eyes closed and her hands clasped in prayer, another mutters to herself while pacing, and one girl is shaking so violently her Matron of Honor looks frightened. I spot Beth seconds before she steps into her cubicle and slams the door on her Matron of Honor.

  When I finally find my cubicle, I’m not surprised by its placement. It’s in the corner near a metal roll-down door and more than double the length of distance from the nearest cubicle as the others in the row. The rolling door is so old the hinges are rusted. I doubt it opens anymore to the loading dock behind the building. Water drips down the surface from gaps near the top to pool along the cracks and gouges in the cement floor. I hear men’s voices drifting in from outside, mingling with the high winds of the storm. Most likely they are wardens protecting the Potential Brides. I heard in years past some young men attempted to charge inside to kidnap their secret love.

  My cubicle is so close to the door, I can clearly hear the steady rainfall. I pull aside the flap of cloth covering the entrance to the cubicle to peer inside. In the cramped space are a small vanity and stool. There isn’t a roof and a gas lamp on the vanity casts wavering light over the dim interior. My wedding attire is hung on hooks. My heart sinks when I notice that two inches of the hem of my dress are completely sodden.

  I may have been declared innocent, but it appears some believe I still should be punished.

  Stepping across the damp floor, I lift my dress onto a higher hook and wring out the bottom. The fabric is stained from the rusty water. Rage fills my chest and tears flood my eyes. My aunt designed this dress and it’s her final gift to me.

  “...should have canceled it,” a male voice seeps through the metal door.

  I instantly step closer to the orange wall closest to the loading area. I gingerly rest my ear against it, straining to hear.

  “...got the Beloved Dead out of the Perdition Sanctuary is what I want to know,” a different man answers.

  I swallow against the hard lump of fear forming in my throat.

  “It’s sacrilege. Pure and simple. Stealing those folks future resurrection is heresy.”

  “It had to be necromancy. There’s no way to get that many Beloved Dead out without someone seeing.”

  “And that girl is in there right now. Hoping to get married.”

  “We should have burned her. Like the old days.”

  “She’ll be Unclaimed soon enough without anyone to protect her. Then we’ll deal with her.”

  Trembling, I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “If she’s smart, she’ll run,” one of the men says.

  Laughing, they move away from the door, their voices fading into the storm.

  I fall onto the bench near the canopy, the old faded mirror reflecting my pale, terrified face.

  Did I just really hear that conversation? Was it a hallucination born out of fear? Did the necromancer plant it in my mind? Or worse yet, were those men hoping I would hear them?

  “Quade will save me,” I whisper.

  But doubt has taken root and dread blooms in my soul.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Potential Grooms

  “Oh, isn’t that a shame,” Matron Nowak says, pushing back the curtain of my cubicle.

  I notice she doesn’t even look at my sodden dress before saying the word
s. She’s not even trying to conceal her contempt and delight. I meet her gaze defiantly, unwilling to give in to the anger and pain burrowed into my chest.

  When I don’t respond, she continues, “Unfortunately, there aren’t enough volunteer bridesmaids today. We didn’t realize there was a shortage until it was too late. I have to make certain that the bridal displays are laid out properly, so you’re on your own. You’ll do fine, won’t you?”

  A year ago I would have been sobbing, but today I don’t waver in my cold stare as I say, “I’ll be fine.”

  With a smirk, Matron Nowak drops the cloth back over the doorway and departs.

  I drag a deep breath into my lungs, hold it, then slowly exhale. It’s a trick Rennon uses to calm himself when frustrated. I’m relieved when I feel it working. I repeat the exercise until the tightness in my chest lessens.

  I’m furious and afraid, but I can’t let these emotions paralyze me. It’s very clear my life is in danger. Some people consider me guilty of necromancy – maybe even murder – and want me punished. Sabotaging my wedding dress angers me more than anything else. It’s my last gift from my aunt and it hurts to see it sullied. It’s such a petty thing to do to me, which somehow makes it worse.

  Listening to the happy yet nervous laughter of the other girls, I sigh. I used to dream about this day. Now I have to endure it so I can find safety with Quade. I hope we can leave Atonement without anyone stopping us.

  Even if I don’t believe in this ritual anymore, I have to play my role. It’s time for me to get ready even if my heart isn’t invested in it. I open the drawers of the vanity, expecting to find them empty, but someone was decent enough to pack them with items I need to get ready. I rummage through the curlers, hair clasps, hair pins, combs, brushes, and finally, find a sewing kit. The scissors inside are small, but adequate. I move my dress to a different hook, away from the water, and begin to snip away the ruined hem. I trim away the wet material, tears in my eyes. My aunt worked so hard to make the lace, and now it’s destroyed. I do manage to preserve one line of ruffles as a makeshift hem. At least the train and bustle were spared because they were pinned to the shoulders of the dress.

  The dress is now too short and revealing my ankles will be scandalous. I finally settle on pinning my veil around my waist to make a lacy petticoat over my slip. When I put on the dress, it doesn’t look too shoddy with the lace ruffles peeking out. Since I don’t have a veil now, I pin my hair on top of my head, forming large curls, and tuck the headband for the veil into place. When I regard myself in the warped and dingy mirror hanging on the wall, I am satisfied with my appearance. It’ll irk my enemies to see I recovered from their sabotage. I sit at the vanity watching the water gradually spreading along the crack in the floor toward the toes of my white slippers.

  Bells ring, summoning us to our bridal displays. I wait a few minutes before stepping out from my cubicle. Most of the girls have hurried out of the dressing area, but a few linger to finish preening. I watch one girl pinch her cheeks until they’re rosy while another rubs her finger vigorously over her lips. Beth exits her cubicle in a lovely white organza gown. The bottom of the dress has so many ruffles it looks like white foamy water. She tugs on the bow at her waist with irritation. When she sees me observing her, she scowls.

  “My mother made it a little small thinking I would lose weight,” she tells me. “Now it’s digging into me.”

  “It’s very pretty. You look nice,” I answer with an encouraging smile.

  She scrutinizes my dress before staring at the bottom of it. “Yours is different. That’s a weird hem.”

  “It got wet, so I had to cut off the ruined part,” I reply.

  Beth’s face flushes a deep red. “They did that on purpose. If only you were a necromancer,” she mutters.

  The volunteer bridesmaids urge us to hurry with abrupt gestures in our direction. Beth moves reluctantly after them, dragging her feet. I walk at her side, staying far from the tail end of the young women filing through the doorway. The air is perfumed with the scent of vanilla and lavender, probably from the little sachets tucked into the dresses. White lace, satin, silk, and cotton dresses float along the threadbare floor and long filmy veils float from upswept hairdos. It’s a pretty sight, all the smiling happy girls in their beautiful gowns laughing and chatting excitedly. Only a few of the Potential Brides look glum or frightened. Beth and I walk at the rear, our long skirts and trains clutched in our hands.

  “I hate all of this,” Beth whispers to me. “It’s so unfair. We don’t get a choice.”

  A sharp look from one of the bridesmaids escorting us discourages me from answering. It’s wiser to stay silent.

  We enter a huge room with a high, domed ceiling. A chandelier floats over the room. It glitters from the gas lamps lining the walls, but its broken bulbs are dim. It’s a remnant of the world before. Partitions cut the center of the room into many sections, one for each bride. They’re draped in white, as are the tables set at the mouth of each booth. On each table is a pot of stew on a portable gas stove, a container of pastries, a man’s shirt in a woven basket, and a sewing hoop with a sample of embroidery stored in a muslin bag. The Matrons of Honor brought the items the girls prepared from their homes. Each is sealed with thick strips of tape to prevent tampering.

  Our names are printed on signs that are fastened to the poles holding up the silky fabric backdrops. The cluster of potential brides splits apart as the girls eagerly search for their names, which appear to be in alphabetical order.

  Beth and I continue together in some sort of unspoken agreement. She grunts, pulling on the waist of her dress. She looks miserable and furious. I don’t blame her a bit. If I hadn’t made a plan with Quade, I’d be completely stricken over the Bridal Auction. Instead, I feel mildly nauseous at the thought of being on display while waiting for this day to be over so I can escape to Quade’s house.

  I spot my name over a booth. The sight only heightens my anxiousness. Matron Nowak lingers near the table with my talent displays, a very suspicious act knowing how much she dislikes me.

  “Bet she spit in the stew or something,” Beth says to me before striding away to find her own booth.

  As I near the table, Matron Nowak pivots toward me. “Oh, there you are!” Her gaze drops to the bottom of my dress and I’m pleased to see her disappointment. Lifting her eyes to my headpiece, she says, “Such a pity you don’t have a purity veil. People may think the wrong thing. That all those rumors are true.”

  I don’t answer but slip past her into the booth. A plain white wood pillar that comes to my elbow is set up in the center of the display. I ignore it to check on my talent displays.

  “I already laid them out for you,” Matron Nowak says, a gleam in her eye.

  Sure enough. The tape is gone and the stew is already warming on the gas stove. The Potential Bride is supposed to be the one who removes the tape from her handiwork and sets it out to prevent any sabotage. One look and I know exactly what Matron Nowak has done. My embroidery has been snagged, the shirt is missing a button, and my pastries are smashed. I lift the lid on the stew and instantly smell pepper. I’m annoyed by this flagrant attempt to prevent me from finding a husband. Since I’m not invested in this ritual anymore, I don’t care to make a fuss about what she’s done. I ignore her while refolding the shirt to hide the missing button, shift some pastries from the bottom of the pile to the top, smooth the embroidery with my finger, and straighten the small paper cups and spoons next to the stew. My final act is to move the jar with the bid tokens to the center of the table. I’ve been assigned the number twenty-eight.

  Not satisfied with my reaction, Matron Nowak leans closer to me. “You’re not fooling me. I know what you are.”

  I finally turn my head to look at her fuming, accusing face. “If you’re right about me, shouldn’t you be afraid to anger me?”

  In my attempt to keep my voice steady, I sound terrifyingly cold and threatening. It was not my intention, but I’
m satisfied when the blood drains out of her face. I step around her and take my place near the pillar. Though I’m not really inclined to draw any man’s attention to me, I straighten my skirt and fluff up my bustle before resting my hands on top of the pillar. We’re supposed to remain standing throughout observation period to display good posture and feminine physiques. I’m so furious at the circumstances in my life, it takes all my willpower not to shove the pillar over and scream instead.

  Matron Nowak is supposed to stay in my booth as my chaperone but, with one last furious glower, she walks away in a huff.

  Bells chime, announcing the arrival of the Potential Grooms. Every eligible man will be observing us. If they don’t find a suitable match, they can opt to wait for the next Bridal Auction. It chaffs at me that they get a choice, but we do not.

  My booth is near the center of the room, so it takes some time for anyone to appear. I hear laughter, a few girls singing on demand, and the buzz of conversation. When the first man appears outside my booth, he glances at my name and keeps walking without even looking at me. Despite my desire not to be selected, I do feel strangely hurt by his dismissal.

  More men appear, alone and in small groups. Since I was taught to never directly look at men, I didn’t realize how varied they truly are in appearance. There are some as white as paper, others as dark as ink, and every hue in between. Some are clearly farmers or ranchers with windblown hair and rugged faces. Others appear to be from more refined professions with nicely-tailored outfits and callus-free hands.

  One older man with gray hair, a handlebar mustache, and deeply tanned skin from the sun stares up at my name for a long moment, then finally at me.

  “Too skinny,” he sniffs and walks on.

  None of the younger men even look in my direction as they playfully jostle each other, clearly excited to be able to ogle the young women of the town without repercussion. My status as a pariah is confirmed.

  After an hour, Crofter Beckett appears dressed in his best clothes. His blond hair is slicked back from his very sun-burned face and his broad shoulders keep twitching as though his jacket is confining. He nods to me somberly, then scrutinizes my display. He looks nice enough, but I know his interest in me is born out my father’s business proposition.