*COMING JUNE 1ST *
Greta is gone.
War has broken out.
The Goddess wants Judith to bring order to chaos- but all she wants is to bring Greta back home.
*This is the sequel to Unholy
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I didn't want to see her, but I did agree to it. I couldn't say that Sister Augustine didn't warn me. She did. I made the choice. Like so many other painful things in my life, I chose this.
"Judith—"
I couldn't bring myself to look her in the eyes. At the pain that welled up in my chest and the trembling that started in my hand, I found myself once again longing for Greta. I needed her here. I could almost feel her reach over and take her hand in mine, squeezing it gently, letting me know that she was here for me.
Instead, I clenched my own fist tight—so tight that the tips of my fingers dug into my palm. It stung, but the shaking stopped.
"Hello Mother." I said.
She was bruised, and I could see darkness staining the dress she wore- blood long since dried to a crust. It was strange to see her like this— to see her as someone smaller, less powerful than myself. All of my life, she had been an authority figure over me. It was she who had given me discipline when I misbehaved and she had comforted me when I woke scared in the cold night.
Never once had I seen her look terrified of me.
"Oh, Judith—"
I guess this happened to all mothers, eventually. They became the ones who were vulnerable. They became the ones who were at the mercy of what they had raised.
"How are you, Mother Agnes?" I said.
It almost made me want to laugh how I couldn't bring any of the cruel words in my heart to my lips in her presence. If she were a soldier, a giant—a monster even— I think I would have been able to hold my own, to cut her down with the cruelest of indifference. But here— here in the presence of this frail, groveling old woman, I could do nothing but falter.
I needed Greta. She would have been able to say the cruelest things ever to her own mother, I thought.
Mother Agnes rose from the bundle of filthy blankets on shaky, uneasy feet. The desire to tell her not to bother herself, that I would come to her, bubbled up and sat on my tongue, but I did not let it escape my mouth. I could at least do that. I could keep my apologies and my politeness for myself.
After a few unstable steps, she fell at my feet in reverence.
"Judith, forgive me—"
I won't. I can't. How could I? Would You?
All I ever wanted was for you to believe me. Not to let me live. Not to forgive my transgressions. Just for you to believe me.
And you didn't.
All of these things, I couldn't bring myself to say them. Nor to her. Not to Mother Agnes. My mother.
I straightened myself and tried to stand as tall as I could.
