whip.
Physical pain is the best form of purification, he’d said.
Her father had delivered the blows but the disappointment on his face had stung more than the lash. She’d cried all day.
As the confessional door snapped shut behind her a sweet, musty damp filled her lungs. Why would the Ripers wish to punish them already? Modesty is a sin, Charlonge had said.
Retra trembled, confused.
The grille slid back suddenly and she gasped.
The Riper from the barge sat there, his head disembodied by the small viewing window, his eyes as cold and seeking as before. ‘What would be your pleasure, baby bat?’
‘What do you ask me that? What should I confess?’ she blurted.
‘Your desires,’ he hissed and tilted the window’s ledge towards her. It unfolded into an elaborately worked drawer of many slots, each one containing a coloured shell, capsule, pod or bead. ‘Pick your pleasure.’
‘Are they medicines?’
His smile felt like a slimy, moist creature clambering over her body. ‘Yes. If you like.’
Retra forced her fingers to the shelf. Fit in. Give them no reason to think you different … She chose a pale rose pod, a less exotic colour than the others.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You must chew Rapture.’
Retra stood to leave but when she pushed the door it wouldn’t open. She used her full strength on it before turning to the Riper.
‘Chew it now!’ His smile had gone, leaving only the chill stare.
Retra thought of resisting but claustrophobia sent a wave of panic clawing at her belly. He could keep her trapped here. He could …
She placed the pod between her lips. It tasted as bitter as unripe lemon, and it crumbled in her mouth like cold, stale cake. She nibbled a little from the end.
‘All of it,’ he demanded. ‘And hurry, baby bat, others are waiting. Or are you afraid of pleasure?’
‘No. Of c-course not.’ She forced the remainder of the pod into her mouth and chewed, swallowing it in rough lumps.
Suddenly, it seemed hard to breathe in the small cubicle. She longed for space and light, for the cool air of Grave with a tinge of rain. Her body felt overheated, the velvet clinging to her, prickling her skin.
‘Don’t stray from the lit paths, baby bat,’ said the Riper.
Retra stood and pushed the door. It fell open easily this time and she stumbled out.
‘Wait for me,’ said Suki as she waltzed in.
But Retra had lost place and time. The cruciform of Vank began to shimmer around her, pulsing like an erratic and laboured heartbeat: closer then further. The candlelight streamed, bleeding upward to the arched wooden ribs and downward through the marbled floor.
With great care not to touch them, Retra moved between the rivers of lights towards the jewel-lit altar. The music drew her as if it were the cool spring rain she craved.
Markes already had an audience, a circle of admirers gathered at his feet. Cal sat there, closest to him.
Retra stepped into the centre of the circle of listeners, ignoring their calls for her to sit down.
Markes lifted his head from his guitar at the sight of her. What? He mouthed the question.
In reply, she arched her back and lifted her hands to her hips.
His sharp intake of breath told her that he saw what she was about to do. His eyes fixed on her as she yielded to a building desire. She wanted to touch Markes, feel his hair, touch her fingers to his lips. Her body ached to be close to him.
She took a step forward. Another one. Picking her way through the circle until she stood before him and his guitar. She couldn’t see anyone else now. The rest of the world had become a dark, narrow place with Markes the point of light. ‘You,’ she said. ‘Me.’
But the words seemed to make the darkness swirl and toss her around. Markes shrank in her vision, becoming smaller, less wondrous, less …
Someone shook her: angry and sharp, as if to rattle her to pieces.
‘Stop it!’ shouted Cal. ‘Go away. Leave him alone.’ She forced Retra back from the altar like an overzealous guard.
Markes climbed down, his guitar hanging at his side and his brow wrinkled with concern. ‘Retra, are you sick?’
She couldn’t answer him. Nor could she feel her feet or her knees or the flesh in between. Strange shapes formed, collecting either side of Markes: wings and claws and long, slavering tongues. She put her hands up to bat them away.
‘What is it?’ cried Markes. ‘What can you see?’
‘More like what did you take,’ said