stairs and down a featureless corridor to a set of swinging double doors. They entered a long room lit on one side by more of the high, slitted windows. Inscribed just beneath them, running in a continuous loop around all four walls, were the words P ENITENCE , A TONEMENT , T RUTH AND H UMILITY. Only now did Hannah get the acronym. They’re missing Obedience, but I guess PATHO Wouldn’t be as catchy.
“This is the Red dormitory,” Bridget said, enunciating each word crisply. The room was lined with sixteen neatly made twin beds, each flanked by a small nightstand and a white, hospital-style curtain suspended from a track in the ceiling. A towel and a long white nightgown hung on pegs beside every bed except one. She conducted Hannah to it. “You will sleep here. You will make your bed every morning. You will draw the curtain while changing your clothes. At all other times, you will leave it open.” Bridget pulled open the single drawer of the nightstand, revealing a comb, a box of hairpins, a nail file, a toothbrush and toothpaste. “You will store your personal items here.”
“How long have you been here?” Hannah asked.
Bridget glanced with evident distaste at Hannah’s fingernails, which were long and ragged from her imprisonment. “You will keep yourself neatly groomed.”
Embarrassed but determined not to show it—why did the woman have to be so rude?—Hannah studied her with equal frankness. Noting the wrinkles across her forehead and the furrows bracketing her mouth, Hannah upped her initial estimate of Bridget’s age by a decade. She was forty-five if she was a day.
With the ramrod carriage of a soldier, Bridget marched to the other end of the room and opened the doors to a large closet. Inside were communal supplies: stacks of white sheets and towels; long-sleeved white nightgowns and dresses in muted shades of brown, blue and gray, grouped by size; drawers containing white cotton underwear, brassieres and thick black tights; baskets of bonnets and sanitary napkins; and on the floor, a row of identical black flats, proceeding from small to large. “You will change your underthings daily and your dress every two days,” Bridget said. “You will change your nightgown, bonnet, towel and sheets every Saturday.”
Hannah followed her through a doorway into a large bathroom with multiple shower units, sinks and toilet stalls. A young woman was kneeling on the floor scrubbing the tile. She made a face when she saw Bridget and then quickly looked down to hide it. The scowl and the red skin notwithstanding, the girl was stunning, with Afrasian features: dark, almond-shaped eyes with uncreased lids, full lips, a flattened nose with rounded nostrils, a long, graceful neck. Hannah felt her beauty as a sweet pang in her heart, an inner Oh! of wonder. Beauty, whether of people or things, had always moved her in this way, and despite many stern lectures by her parents on the sinfulness of caring about temporal matters like a person’s looks, a stubborn part of her had always refused to believe it was wrong. Wasn’t beauty created by God, and so was her love of it not a love of Him?
“Good afternoon, Walker,” Bridget said, in a considerably more civil tone than she’d used with Hannah. She even gave the girl something resembling a smile.
“Good afternoon,” the girl replied, with a matching half-smile Hannah could tell was forced.
Bridget turned back to Hannah. “You will shower daily, before breakfast, for no more than three minutes. You will brush your teeth twice a day. You will wash your hands after using the toilet.”
“I usually do,” Hannah said tartly.
Bridget went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You will keep your hair pinned up and decently covered except when sleeping.”
Fed up with the condescending litany, Hannah said, “Or what?”
“One step off the path and you’ll be warned. Two and you’ll be cast out.” She strode from the room. Hannah heard a muttered humph and
“This is the Red dormitory,” Bridget said, enunciating each word crisply. The room was lined with sixteen neatly made twin beds, each flanked by a small nightstand and a white, hospital-style curtain suspended from a track in the ceiling. A towel and a long white nightgown hung on pegs beside every bed except one. She conducted Hannah to it. “You will sleep here. You will make your bed every morning. You will draw the curtain while changing your clothes. At all other times, you will leave it open.” Bridget pulled open the single drawer of the nightstand, revealing a comb, a box of hairpins, a nail file, a toothbrush and toothpaste. “You will store your personal items here.”
“How long have you been here?” Hannah asked.
Bridget glanced with evident distaste at Hannah’s fingernails, which were long and ragged from her imprisonment. “You will keep yourself neatly groomed.”
Embarrassed but determined not to show it—why did the woman have to be so rude?—Hannah studied her with equal frankness. Noting the wrinkles across her forehead and the furrows bracketing her mouth, Hannah upped her initial estimate of Bridget’s age by a decade. She was forty-five if she was a day.
With the ramrod carriage of a soldier, Bridget marched to the other end of the room and opened the doors to a large closet. Inside were communal supplies: stacks of white sheets and towels; long-sleeved white nightgowns and dresses in muted shades of brown, blue and gray, grouped by size; drawers containing white cotton underwear, brassieres and thick black tights; baskets of bonnets and sanitary napkins; and on the floor, a row of identical black flats, proceeding from small to large. “You will change your underthings daily and your dress every two days,” Bridget said. “You will change your nightgown, bonnet, towel and sheets every Saturday.”
Hannah followed her through a doorway into a large bathroom with multiple shower units, sinks and toilet stalls. A young woman was kneeling on the floor scrubbing the tile. She made a face when she saw Bridget and then quickly looked down to hide it. The scowl and the red skin notwithstanding, the girl was stunning, with Afrasian features: dark, almond-shaped eyes with uncreased lids, full lips, a flattened nose with rounded nostrils, a long, graceful neck. Hannah felt her beauty as a sweet pang in her heart, an inner Oh! of wonder. Beauty, whether of people or things, had always moved her in this way, and despite many stern lectures by her parents on the sinfulness of caring about temporal matters like a person’s looks, a stubborn part of her had always refused to believe it was wrong. Wasn’t beauty created by God, and so was her love of it not a love of Him?
“Good afternoon, Walker,” Bridget said, in a considerably more civil tone than she’d used with Hannah. She even gave the girl something resembling a smile.
“Good afternoon,” the girl replied, with a matching half-smile Hannah could tell was forced.
Bridget turned back to Hannah. “You will shower daily, before breakfast, for no more than three minutes. You will brush your teeth twice a day. You will wash your hands after using the toilet.”
“I usually do,” Hannah said tartly.
Bridget went on as if she hadn’t spoken. “You will keep your hair pinned up and decently covered except when sleeping.”
Fed up with the condescending litany, Hannah said, “Or what?”
“One step off the path and you’ll be warned. Two and you’ll be cast out.” She strode from the room. Hannah heard a muttered humph and
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