One wall of the sanctuary was full of writing, and I lingered in front of it as my fellow detainees filed in. Here, on painted white bricks, was a record of all those who had come before me, written in their own hand. Some were short and to the point: Forgive me, I have sinned. Others were full-out paragraphs, detailing perceived crimes and how their authors longed for redemption. Some were signed, some were anonymous.
“We call this the Wall of Truth,” said Sheridan, walking up beside me with a clipboard. “Sometimes people feel better after confessing their sins upon it. Perhaps you’d like to?”
“Maybe later,” I said.
I followed her to a circle of chairs, set up away from the pews. Everyone settled down, and she made no comments when my nearest neighbors scooted their chairs a few inches away. Communion time, it seemed, was a type of group therapy, and Sheridan engaged the circle in what everyone had accomplished today. Emma was the first to speak up.
“I learned that although I have made progress in restoring my soul, I have a long way to go before I attain perfection. The greatest sin is to give up, and I’ll keep going forward until I’m completely immersed in light.”
Duncan, sitting beside her, said, “I made progress in art. When we started class today, I didn’t think anything good would come of it. But I was wrong.”
Whatever temptation that might’ve given me to smile was cut short when the girl beside him said, “I learned today how glad I am to not be as bad as someone like Sydney. Questioning my orders was wrong, but at least I never let one of them lay their profane hands on me.”
I flinched and expected Sheridan to laud the speaker for her virtue, but instead, Sheridan fixed cold eyes on the girl. “You think that’s true, Hope? You think you have the right to declare who’s better or worse among you? You’re all here because you’ve committed grave crimes, make no mistake about it. Your insubordination may not have resulted in the same vile outcome as Sydney’s, but it stemmed from a place just as dark. Failure to obey, failure to heed those who know best . . . that is the sin at hand, and you’re just as guilty of it as her.”
Hope had gone so white, it was a wonder someone didn’t accuse her of being a Strigoi. “I—I didn’t mean—that is—I—”
“It’s clear you didn’t learn as much as you thought you did today,” said Sheridan. “I think you need to do some further learning.” And through another unseen command, her henchmen showed up and hauled off a protesting Hope. I felt sick inside, and it had nothing to do with my earlier purging. I wondered if she’d face the same fate, though her fault here seemed to be pride, not defense of Moroi.
Sheridan turned to me now. “What about you, Sydney? What did you learn today?”
All those eyes turned on me. “I learned that I have a lot to learn.”
“Indeed you do,” she replied gravely. “Admitting that is a big step toward redemption. Would you like to share your history with the others? You may find it liberating.”
I hesitated under the weight of those stares, unsure what answer would get me in the most trouble. “I . . . I’d like to,” I began slowly. “But I don’t think I’m ready. I’m just still so overwhelmed by everything.”
“That’s understandable,” she said, causing me to sag in relief. “But once you see how much everyone’s grown here, I think you’ll want to share. You can’t overcome your sins if you keep them locked up inside.”
There was a warning note in her voice that was impossible to miss, and I responded with a solemn nod. Mercifully, after that, she moved on to someone else, and I was spared. I spent the rest of the hour listening to them blather on about the amazing progress they’d all made in casting off the darkness in their souls. I wondered how many of them meant what they said and how many were just trying to get out of here like me. I also wondered: If they had made that much progress, then why were they still here?
After communion time, we were dismissed for dinner. Waiting in line, I heard the others chatting about how chicken parmesan had been replaced at the last minute by fettuccine alfredo. I also heard someone say fettuccine alfredo was Hope’s favorite. When she joined the end of the line, pale and shaken—and shunned by the others—I realized what had happened. Chicken parmesan was a childhood favorite of mine—which the authorities here probably knew from my family—and had originally been on the menu to punish me and my purging-weakened stomach. Hope’s act of insubordination had trumped mine, however, resulting in a last-minute dinner switch. The Alchemists really were serious about making a point.
Hope’s miserable face confirmed as much when she sat alone at one of the empty tables and stared at her food without touching a thing. Although the sauce was too rich for me, I at least was at a point where I could stomach some of the milder sides and milk. Watching her then, ostracized like me, struck me deeply. Just earlier that day, I’d seen her in the thick of social life with the others. Now she was shunned, just like that. Seeing an opportunity, I started to stand up, intending to join her. Across the room, Duncan, who was sitting and chatting pleasantly with a group of others, caught my eye and gave a sharp headshake. I wavered a few moments and then sat down again, feeling ashamed and cowardly for not taking a stand with another pariah.
“She wouldn’t have thanked you for it,” he murmured to me after dinner. We were in the facility’s small library, allowed to choose a book to take back for bedtime reading. All the books were nonfiction, reinforcing Alchemist principles. “This stuff happens, and she’ll be back with the others tomorrow. You going to her would’ve drawn attention and maybe delayed that. Worse, if she did welcome you, the powers-that-be would’ve noticed and thought the troublemakers were ganging up.”
He selected a book seemingly at random and walked away before I could respond. I wanted to ask him at what point I’d be accepted by the others—or if I’d ever be accepted. Surely everyone had gone through what I had at some point. And surely they’d eventually worked themselves into the detainees’ social world.
Back in my room, Emma made it clear no breakthroughs were going to occur with her. “I’m making good progress,” she told me primly. “I don’t need you ruining it with your perversions. The only thing we do in this room is sleep. Don’t talk to me. Don’t interact with me. Don’t even look at me if you can help it.”