Wife Number Seven (The Compound, #1)(41)

“Thank you for this honor,” Lehi said, tipping his head slowly to the prophet in deference.

The prophet watched as Lehi finished the gesture. The way he stared at Lehi made me shift with discomfort; it was a look of entitlement, of expectation, and it made goose bumps rise beneath the fabric of my sleeves. Yes, I knew that our prophet was God placed on earth. I knew he owned our people, that he was our direct link to Heavenly Father and to heaven, but still something stirred in my belly that unsettled me.

The prophet took Lehi’s outstretched hand and silently studied his eyes. When the prophet shook a person’s hand, he could see their spirit. He knew if they’d sinned. He knew if there was light, or darkness, in their eyes. That was what my mother had always told me, anyway, and I’d believed.

I clasped my hands together in dread. Secretly, I hoped he wouldn’t touch my hand. If the prophet knew my sins—what I’d done, the thoughts I’d had about our faith, our community, our way of life—I’d most certainly become an apostate. My disobedience against the prophet and his teachings would give me the title worse than death. I’d be sent away, like Porter, never to return. I’d never see my mother or my sisters, Jessa and Winnie.

“Brinley, you look well.” The prophet’s eyes devoured me, starting at the top of my coifed hair and skimming across the subtle rise of my breasts beneath my dress, inspecting me all the way down to my sneaker-covered feet. The goosebumps on my skin remained raised at attention.

Keep sweet, keep sweet, keep sweet.

Knowing I needed to respond, I murmured, “Thank you.”

His hand reached for mine and my breath caught. I forced a smile for him and my hand went limp, squeezed between the fingers of the prophet. He paused, hesitating, his hand still gripping mine as he peered into my eyes, tilting his head to the side ever so slightly.

What does he see?

“As I’m sure you know,” he murmured as he dropped my hand, turning to walk down a long hallway filled with photos of himself, “my mother is ill. She’s having trouble knowing what is real and what is not. My father passed away years ago, and she’s remained faithful to his memory. But this means she is alone, and I cannot be here with her. The people need me.”

“Yes, of course,” Lehi replied. The prophet shot a glance at Lehi, then brought his attention back to me.

“I will need you to care for her each day, and make sure she doesn’t wander into the outside world. Last week she was discovered in town sitting beneath a tree, singing to herself. We’d searched the compound for hours, but were unable to find her. She gave me quite the fright.” Despite the emotion laden in his words, the prophet’s expression remained blank as he spoke of his mother going missing.

“She sleeps quite a bit, but will need reminders to eat and to use the bathroom. I’ll need you to cook her breakfast and dinner. She sleeps through lunchtime. I’ll provide groceries and necessities for her and will have them delivered every week.”

I nodded as he listed several other chores needed in the household, then he paused when we heard the creaking of the stairs. A tiny woman, no taller than five feet, appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes were heavy from sleep, her gray hair tousled but still styled in the expected braid. She walked slowly to the kitchen where we stood.

“Get out,” she snapped, glowering at me. I flinched, not expecting that reaction from her.

“Mother, enough.” The prophet’s voice raised slightly, but I assumed it was only to assist her in hearing him.

“I’m fully capable of taking care of myself, Clarence,” she snapped, and the prophet seemed to cringe at hearing his name.

I’d never known the prophet’s first name. To me, he’d only been known as “the prophet.”

“I raised nine boys, I don’t need a nursemaid.” She brushed past me and retrieved a glass from the cabinet. Her fingers barely reached the cabinet’s knob when she raised onto the tips of her toes to choose a glass. She filled it with water at the tap and stood, staring out the window above her sink. “Besides, the last one you brought here was deplorable. Absolutely deplorable. Head completely in the clouds. And she burned my eggs. What proper wife doesn’t know how to fry a simple egg?”

There had been others?

Quickly, I glanced at Lehi, wondering why that hadn’t been mentioned. I was under the impression that Jorjina Black’s need for a caregiver was a new one. I hadn’t realized this was a merry-go-round that she and her son were starting and stopping, each time opening a spot for a new rider. I envisioned the prophet welcoming the rider as Jorjina attempted to push them off the ride once it began. Could I withstand her push? Was I being tested?

When I heard my name leave the prophet’s lips, I snapped back to attention.

“She’ll be here with you each day. She’ll cook and clean and help you with anything you may need.”

“Yes, I know how this goes, son.” His mother didn’t bother to turn her body or her eyes to the prophet. She sipped her water and stared out the window.

The prophet looked to me, his eyebrows raised with expectation.

Nervously I cleared my throat, then said, “Mrs. Black, I’m happy to be here,” to which she merely grunted in response.

The brave part of me made the decision to join her at the sink. Without a word I helped myself to a glass, filled it with water, and stood next to the frail woman. She recoiled slightly when my arm brushed hers, and I took a small step away to give her the space she required.