Into the Light (The Light, #1)(72)

“Sara, let me take off my coat. It’ll be all right. I don’t know what happened, but I promise, it’ll be all right.”

She gripped me tighter. “N-no, my hair . . . it’ll never be all right.”

I kissed the top of her head. I’d only partially seen what had happened, but now, in the brightness of the room, I clearly saw the tattered tips of her once-long hair. Caressing her back, I waited until she took a deep breath and her grip lessened. Easing my arms out of my coat, I let it fall to the sofa. Once again I pulled her close, and asked, “Tell me what happened. You didn’t do this, did you?”

Her head moved from side to side against my chest.

“Who?” I asked again.

She didn’t answer as hiccups sabotaged her quest for air. I lifted her chin. “Sara, tell me.” My voice was harsher than I’d intended. “Tell me who did this to you.”

“They said it was my fault, my reminder of what I did.” With each word she tried unsuccessfully to lower her chin. Stubbornly, with the return of my fury, I refused to loosen my hold.

They?

I knew. I knew whom she meant, but I needed to hear it from her.

“They? Who they? And what did you do?”

Like liquid, her body freed itself from my grasp, flowing from my lap and pooling on the floor. As she clung to my legs, her sobs returned. At first her murmurings were unintelligible, but soon I understood.

“. . . said I lied, o-or you lied. They wouldn’t let me wait for you. I-I tried.” Her head dropped lower. “I told them I couldn’t discuss it . . . y-you hadn’t given me permission. I’m sorry, I know what you’re going to do. I-I know I was wrong. I didn’t . . . I don’t . . . understand why they did this . . . I questioned . . .” She shook her head with her forehead near the floor. “You never said I could . . . I tried . . . he said I presumed . . . I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . . but she said I needed more correction . . .” Her volume fluctuated, as did the speed of her words, some coming fast and low while others came slow and loud. With each of her phrases the muscles of my neck tightened. “I’m so sorry . . .”

When I reached again for her shoulders, she wordlessly resisted, her body going limp in her effort to remain prone.

“Sara, stop apologizing.” My heart broke, shattering at her desperation. “Please, let me hold you. You don’t belong on the floor.”

Her face snapped up toward mine. Blotches of red covered her cheeks, neck, and chest. “I do,” she declared with conviction. “I don’t deserve you. You deserve a wife who isn’t a disgrace. I’m an embarrass—”

“Stop now.” I waited as her words floated away, replaced with more tears. Again I demanded, “Sara, stand up.” Her body obeyed. “I’ve asked you before. No more apologies. I want names. Don’t make me remind you that I should be answered the first time.”

With her arms wrapped around her midsection, her entire body shuddered. Even her long skirt fluttered with movement. Finally she replied, “Brother Timothy and Sister Lilith.”

I gripped the arm of the sofa. Every cell in my body desired to drive to the community and confront the cowards who’d done this in my absence. I didn’t understand their problem with me, but whatever it was, it was with me, not Sara. Yet I couldn’t drive to the community, not now, not with my shattered wife standing before me, holding herself and shivering as if the she were outside in the Alaska cold instead of inside in a warmed building. Taking a deep breath, I willed my anger away. Sara needed something different.

As I stood, Sara took a step back. Her trepidation of me twisted the proverbial knife in my heart.

“Sara, do you think you can get away from me?”

Her breathing hitched as she shook her head. The severed ends of her hair swung about her face. “No.”

“Do you want to?”

Her lip disappeared between her teeth before she whispered, “No, but I’m afraid.”

Watching her stand in front of me, I wondered about Brother Timothy and Sister Lilith’s intent. Was it to break her, to break us, to assure my failure? If that was their intention, they’d never win. Despite it all, Sara had the strength to answer me honestly.

“You’re afraid of me, your husband?”

She shook her head. “No, not of you, of what you’re going to do.”

I ran my hands up and down her arms, barely touching, yet warming my palms on the sleeves of her sweater. “What is it that I’m going to do?”

Releasing her lip, she replied, “I know I was wrong. I deserve your correction.”

My hands reached for hers. “Let me hear your transgressions, and then I’ll make that decision.”

“But Sister Lilith told me you would, that I deserved and needed . . .”

The temperature of the room rose a degree with each mention of their names. Nevertheless I couldn’t let Sara sense that anger. If correction was coming, it wasn’t to be done out of anger, but out of responsibility. “Your correction isn’t up to Sister Lilith or Brother Timothy; it’s at my discretion. Do you want me to ask again for your transgressions?”

“No,” she answered quickly. “I spoke to them without your permission, and after . . . my hair . . . I questioned . . . them both. Brother Timothy said I presumed discernment.” She shook her head. “I didn’t mean to, but he’s a Commissioner, so I must have.”