was distracted when the song changed, and when Ghost reached out and took her right hand, Ghisla did not pull away.
The clasping song was not much more than a drone, a collective amen sung with conjoined hands, but it had a way of centering the mind and calming the spirit. The keepers would break off into harmonies above and below the melody line, but the word sung never changed.
“Amen. Ah ah ah men. Ah ah ah men,” Ghisla sang, keeping her voice muted, and her eyes forward. If Ghost sang, Ghisla did not hear her, but she did not release Ghisla’s hand.
“I love him. I love him. And I wish that I didn’t,” Ghost said.
Ghisla looked up at her, confused, but Ghost was mouthing amen, as her eyes drifted over the keepers. Keeper Dagmar stood a full head taller than the old men around him, and her gaze stopped on his face.
It was forbidden to converse during worship, and Ghost was not one to break the rules . . . at least with the girls. Ghisla began singing once more, but she watched Ghost from the corner of her eye.
“Ah ah ah men. Ah ah ah men,” Ghisla sang.
“It hurts to love him.” Ghost’s voice bounced between Ghisla’s ears, but her mouth did not move. “Just as it hurts to love Alba. I loved her from the moment I felt her in my womb, and I will love her until I die. I fear it will be the same with Dagmar. That the pain will continue to grow, and he will never be mine. Just as Alba will never be mine. Some days, I cannot bear it.”
Ghisla jerked again, and Ghost frowned down at her, unaware that she’d just poured her private thoughts into Ghisla’s head.
“Ah, Liis. What a strange, sad girl. She reminds me of myself,” Ghost thought, and Ghisla gasped, dropping Ghost’s hand like it had burned her.
“Liis?” Ghost questioned. Her voice no longer had the hollow effect, and it was muffled by the droning all around them.
“I don’t want to sing anymore,” Liis murmured. Her legs wobbled and she sank down to the steps.
“Are you ill?” Ghost asked. The keepers had started to turn, their faces wreathed in frowns and disapproval.
“Are you unwell?” Ghost pressed, stooping down beside her. Her silvery eyes were concerned, and Ghisla saw herself reflected in the twin mirrors. Her short blond hair stuck up in tufts around her head, and her blue eyes were rimmed in dark circles. She hadn’t slept well for so long. She looked almost mad.
“Yes . . . I am unwell,” she whispered, afraid that she truly was.
She’d heard Ghost’s thoughts, and as alarming as that was, the content of her thoughts was just as disconcerting.
Ghost loved Dagmar, and Ghisla was not greatly surprised. They were careful around each other, but they were always aware, as though they danced without touching and watched without looking.
But the revelation about Alba was shocking.
It occurred to her that perhaps Ghost was using the word the way it was applied to all the girls—Daughters of Freya, daughters of the temple—and they were nothing more than a cast-off assortment of females. But Alba was rarely included in their number. She was the princess, not a daughter, and there was always a distinction.
Alba’s eyes were so different from Ghost’s. Her skin too. But when Ghisla studied Alba through new eyes, the resemblance between them was there to see if one only knew where to look. Moonlight hair and bow-shaped mouths and smiles that dimpled their cheeks. Ghost so rarely smiled . . . but she smiled when Alba was near.
Ghisla did not want to know Ghost’s secrets. She was horrified by the knowledge, and for several days she wouldn’t touch anyone, bristling when someone sat beside her or settled a hand on her sleeve. She refused to hold hands at worship and sang so softly no one could hear. They all thought she was being selfish and silly and whispered about her among themselves. She didn’t need Hod’s superior hearing to know she was being discussed. The whispers made her angry. She was trying to protect them, and they complained about her. That evening at worship she sang a little louder and extended her hand to whomever would take it. If she heard their secrets while she sang, why should she care?
But Elayne’s voice was one of only concern.
“Liis is troubled. We all are troubled. I wish she would sing. I think if she