The Templar Belles – Parts I – VII

The Templar Belles

by Bleeding Rainbow


Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and parody, to be read only by individuals aged 18 or above. The events depicted herewith are fantasy and do not reflect real world events or persons in any way..

Foreword: This story is a parody or fan fiction of a number of real-world celebrities. Rather than spam XNXX with a whole bunch of chapters at once, I elected to put them all into one single story instead. It is meant to be read as a whole, but the subject matter varies from chapter to chapter. The major, overarching themes include mind control, teens, romance and the supernatural. In addition to the codes already listed, the overall story codes are as follows:

M/F, M/f+, f/f, teen, mind control, plot, romance, incest, BDSM, non-sexual violence, supernatural

And the following is the content breakdown by chapter:

I. THE ARCHBISHOP (world building, no sex)
II. BELLA (world building, brief sexual accounts, incest)
III. CHLOE (M/Ff+)
IV. BELLA (M/f)
V. THE ARCHBISHOP (M/Ff, young, BDSM)
VI. ELLE (M/Ff+, femdom)
VII. THE PAINTER (world building, brief sexual accounts)





I: THE ARCHBISHOP


“…who work in silence…”

“…and naught but silence can express.”

With those words, so began the débutante ball.

The great white double doors at the top of the balcony swung open, revealing this year’s crop of initiates to those in the gallery below. Tradition demanded that each participant don a mask like those of a masquerade to keep their identities hidden from one another, but for the initiates and their accompanying chaperons, its importance in modern times had faded into a mere formality. For the figures below, however, there were stricter measures in place to ensure that none of them would know each other beyond the moniker they had chosen for themselves.

The effect of two dozen gazes falling simultaneously upon oneself was a daunting prospect even for the well-prepared initiate, and the diminutive young lady at the vanguard could be seen inhaling sharply as she felt the heads below turn toward her in open appraisal. Sensing her nervousness, the girl’s chaperon squeezed her hand reassuringly, prompting the initiate to take a step forward and begin her descent into the gallery.

Conversation was frowned upon during the solemn procession, but grunts of approval and sighs of appreciation began to ripple through the crowd as they recognized some of the initiates. While no walk of life was to be excluded from the pool of potential candidates, it behooved the organizers of the ball to choose only those with the most desirable physical attributes to be among their crop, as they were themselves the benefactors of their own reaping. As such, the ranks of the débutantes usually were filled with many actresses and singers, as well as the progeny of those who once had been in the public eye; their numbers were then bolstered by the daughters of modern royalty—heiresses of capitalist empires and figurehead monarchies.

The man who called himself the Archbishop smiled as he kept his eye on the first girl, meeting briefly with those of her chaperon—the girl’s mother, in truth—as they walked past. He had arranged personally for the fiery-haired actress to be in this year’s ball, having gone as far as planning her trip to the Emirates, lending her every assistance in her quest to retrieve an ancient artifact from yonder soil. That honor would be more than enough to earn him the deference of his peers to the right of First Claim, no matter the outcome of the lottery.

The Archbishop was old; too old, perhaps, for pursuits such as these if his compatriots knew his true identity. They went against the canon of his teachings as well, inviolable laws the preaching of which he oversaw. But the older he grew, the more enamored he became of the these arcane customs. The fact that this secret society existed in its current state was evidence enough that there was no longer a higher authority to judge him, alive or dead. He was at peace with knowing that he taught falsehood to his followers. There was no Hell in which he would burn for engaging in what amounted to the rape of minors, no great book of sins before a set of pearly gates in which the murders he had committed would be recorded. If there was any kind of authority on Earth, the Archbishop wielded it in his hands, and with them, he would take the reedy hips of his young prize and mount her from behind as he had done to many others of her ilk.

He had turned his attention to the other initiates when an unpleasant noise broke his revelry. The laughter rose behind him, but he did not have to look to identify its source.

Membership to the society was awarded not by committee but rather by sponsorship. Electing themselves to a council would contravene their paradigm of a decentralized structure, and therein lay the genius of the system in place; although only a single sponsor was needed to introduce new members, few existing members would have reason to add to their number and expand the lottery pool indiscriminately. Fresh blood, or “leeches” as the Fruit Peddler used to call them before his passing, seldom found themselves taught the proper signs required to enter the secret premises where the society’s meetings were held. When the débutante ball was last called, however, the society saw no less than two new members added to their ranks. The one who had chosen the guise of a dark-haired young man had called himself the Painter, and the other, a scruffy, barrel-chested man who was presumed to be his acquaintance was known as the Historian. They very nearly had made fools of themselves by carrying on with the air of upstarts, but fortunately they fared poorly in the lottery and were excluded from the choicest girls.

It was the Painter whose laughter had been heard. “Hey, it’s her,” he pointed with a free hand while cradling a near-empty champagne glass with the other. The tall blonde actress who was his target looked at him and made a face before her chaperon subtly corrected the girl’s etiquette. “Ain’t she the one you’ve been after?”

The Historian stood next to him, draining his own glass and taking a fresh one from a cowled servant. “I’m hoping, man, I’m hoping. Your girl’s looking adorable as hell tonight, too.”

The Painter turned, and the Archbishop could see that he was looking at the fiery-haired girl—the prize that was meant to be his. He could not help but grin in satisfaction, knowing the irritating leech was going to be disappointed.

The Proctor, a randomly chosen member whose task was to conduct the proceedings but had no actual authority, rapped his ceremonial staff on the floor and intoned, “Brothers, please observe the customs and keep silent until all the initiates have been presented.” The two leeches nodded cordially and looked toward the Archbishop of their own accord; somehow, they had sensed that there would be competition for the hand of the young red-haired girl.

At last the presentation was over, and the débutantes were allowed to mingle with the guests. The Archbishop shouldered his way past his brothers and cast as wide a berth as possible around the girl he desired, warning away all others who came near. This phase of the ball was meant to give the men a chance to make their acquaintance with the girls, as most of the débutantes were known only by name. The Playmaker had once described it as a period for “wheeling and dealing,” where the men could negotiate trades with their fellows once the order of claimants had been determined, if they should find certain girls more desirable than the rest and wished to improve their chances of winning one of them. Strangely enough, the leeches made no overtures toward the fiery-haired girl, choosing to fraternize with as many of the initiates as they could instead.

Left alone with his soon-to-be prize, the Archbishop approached her with all the confidence of a man who controlled his own destiny. “Welcome, Bella,” he said, caressing the girl on the cheek. Edicts forbade him from doing more, but his brothers must know already that tonight would be his night, and that his claim over the girl was strong enough for him to do as he pleased. “I’ve been waiting for you. You know me by another name, outside, but in here you will address me as the Archbishop. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Archbishop, sir,” the girl replied. She was unusually nervous, especially for an actress not known to be discreet and whose older sisters had been débutantes. The Archbishop liked to think that his very countenance had reduced the normally outgoing girl to a quivering shell of herself. His pulse began to race as he thought of undressing her in his chambers. Her sapphire gown was cut modestly as befits the formal occasion, yet there was still plenty of shoulder and bosom on display, more than enough to suggest what she would look like once she was commanded to step out of it. She would have no need of the corset pushing up her small breasts once his hands took its place.

“Good. I can’t order you to not speak with my brothers, but I would ask that you try to keep to yourself if any of them should talk to you.” He looked at the girl’s chaperon and added, “Tamara, don’t let her talk too much about herself. It is your job to make them look elsewhere.”

The woman curtsied respectfully. She had often tasted of his patronage as well as his cock, and she belonged to him as much as her daughter soon would be.

Assured of his success, the Archbishop retreated into a corner and observed the interactions of the other débutantes. Many centuries ago, ownership of a girl was permanent, but as those in the brotherhood were wont to swap their charges in order to sample a wider variety of delights, the rules were changed so that a girl’s rights could be given to another. While it was rare for virgins to be traded, he knew that a number of girls in his stable were lusted after by some of his brethren; perhaps one of them could be enticed into parting with a maiden in exchange for a girl he no longer cared for.

He found at least one girl other than Bella whom he would like to deflower: Elle would make a perfect addition to a harem that included her sister. The Archbishop would have set his eyes on her had Bella not been a débutante this year, but it would behoove him to maneuver into a position to claim both tonight.

At the moment, however, the junior couturist appeared to be conversing with the detestable Painter. The man looked all too comfortable in his tailored Armani suit, even squatting on his haunches as he was, staring up at the reserved young blonde and bantering with her until she dissolved into a fit of giggles. Charisma was a weapon seldom used in these quarters when the men held absolute sway over the initiates, being that it was only good for relaxing the girls and making their deflowering a more pleasant experience. The Archbishop saw it as a sign of weakness; he would find a way to use this against the leeches.

Next he sought out the Historian. The man had chosen for himself a form taller than any of his peers, enough that he was easy to spot. The Archbishop guessed that he must be making up for some manner of inadequacy; few in the brotherhood were eager to draw attention to themselves, at least outside the confines of their private quarters. The diminutive creature to whom he was speaking was named Kiernan. Her eyes were fixed upon him as he gestured theatrically, sharing whatever pedestrian humor in his forte. The girl’s chaperon, herself an actress whose duty it was to ensure that the rules prior to the draw were followed, seemed to be caught up in the man’s antics as well. While members of the brotherhood were prohibited from fondling the initiates sexually, there were no such restrictions on their chaperons. It was rare for the men to pay them as much attention as to the initiates, but here the Historian was taking every opportunity to involve January in the conversation, even going as far as to grope her bottom overtly. In the Archbishop’s eyes, she was displaying a shameful lack of decorum, setting a horrible example for the débutantes. This was neither the time nor place for it, but he decided that the woman would have to be punished for her indiscretion.

Soon the Proctor’s staff rang against the floor once again. “Brothers,” he intoned, “the time of the Drawing is upon us.” Prompted by the declaration, the chaperons began to usher their young charges away from their admirers and arrange them in a straight line, shoulder to shoulder, across the breadth of the hall. The Archbishop always had wondered what it would be like if the girls had not been hypnotically conditioned over a long period of time. Without the proper behavioral attunement—a delicate balance between a complete brainwash and individual autonomy—the initiates would undoubtedly be gripped in a state of panic and shame. As it were, each girl’s personality was left largely untouched to preserve their “flavor,” but otherwise their loyalty to the brotherhood was entrenched firmly in their subconscious.

It was one of the reasons why the girls could not be initiated all at the same age; some children were more susceptible to the indoctrination process than others, and rare was the specimen that did not first achieve puberty before being considered suitable.

“We have been blessed with another fine bounty this year,” the Proctor recited once the initiates were in place. “Now we shall reap the rewards of our labor. As was ordained, this shall be the order in which the first phase of the draw is done.” The list established the order in which the men would pick a small sphere from a sealed box; inside the spheres were wooden balls with numbers etched upon them, from one to however many members were in attendance. The seal itself was an arcane thing, impossible to breach without destroying the box’s contents, and the penalty for attempting to tamper with it was harsher than the trouble was worth.

One by one the men were called forth and bade to draw their lots from the box. The Proctor of the previous débutante ball always went first, as those chosen for the role in the current year must always be the last to claim their sphere as per the rules. Naturally, if the last Proctor had won First Claim, he would be relegated to second last in this phase of the draw. Luck, therefore, played an important role in determining the final draw order, and while many in the brotherhood were skilled at manipulating chance in their favor, the seal on the box rendered all such efforts futile.

The remaining guests went in reverse of the order which they had claimed their débutante in the previous draw. When the Proctor himself had taken the last sphere in the box, he signaled the end of this phase and led his brothers in a brief chant. “May the fruit of my labors be wrought in what I seek,” they called in unison before breaking open their spheres.

Commotion during this portentous moment always was inevitable; the men who had drawn the poorest lots wallowed quietly in their misfortune, while those among the first dozen were wont to cheer their good luck. The Archbishop was slow to break his own sphere, knowing he could leverage the recovery of the artifact into the position of First Claim if necessary. Before he could read the number inscribed on the ball within, however, a loud cheer sprang up not five feet away from him, drawing the attention of all those present.

“Oh, fuck yeah!” the Historian’s voice boomed, spilling joy through his dour mask. “Number two, baby! Number fucking two.”

“Oh yeah?” the Painter chuckled next to him, raising his ball and waving it proudly before his friend’s eyes. “I got number one!” Bellowing excitedly, the Historian bumped fists with his friend and hugged him, jumping together in mad revelry.

Their behavior was farcically sophomoric, but the bewildered guests recovered quickly enough to approach the two and congratulate them. The Archbishop suppressed his mild irritation at this turn of events and examined the number on his ball: three. He would have to deal with the leeches after all, but armed with such a favorable lot, it should not be very difficult to persuade his brothers to advocate his desire for a trade once he presented the artifact.

First, however, he would gauge the Painter’s intent for himself. The leech had expressed an interest in Bella, to be sure, but there were other fine candidates in this year’s crop, and if he knew what was good for him, he would accept the Archbishop’s proposal and walk away with two girls instead of one.

He faced the Painter and extended his hand. “Congratulations,” he offered. “Only your second débutante ball, and already you get to feel what it’s like to have First Claim.” The Painter stared momentarily at the proffered hand before accepting it. The grin on his face grew wider as he shook the hand enthusiastically.

“Thanks, man, I appreciate it.” His grin wilted as quickly as it had grown, vanishing from his masked face as he gazed into the Archbishop’s eyes. “But if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, then the answer is no.”

The rebuff was as cavalier as any the Archbishop had ever been given. If he were any less of a man, he would have flinched and let his anger show. Instead, he allowed the handshake to break of its own accord and showed his lot to the Painter, making sure that the number on it was visible. “I am offering you a chance to take any one girl from my stable and claim another girl today,” he stated calmly. “Not only would you come away a winner, but you would also earn my appreciation. Surely you can see the wisdom in that.”

The Historian was not privy to the conversation as he had been approached by others seeking to trade for his lot; the Painter, keeping pace with his friend, rolled his eyes at the Archbishop’s counsel and said, “Listen. There’s no way in Hell I’m giving her up, so save your breath and pick whomever you want with your number three ball.”

The Archbishop felt a murderous intent rise within him. His face betrayed nothing but disappointment, but a cold rage had begun to simmer in his gut. Turning aside, he began to plot his next move while pretending to listen to other offers.

After the negotiations were over and the trades were settled, the time came for the second and final phase of the Drawing. Although the Painter had announced his own victory earlier, no one except the Archbishop knew if he would trade his lot with someone else, and the mystery would linger until the winner was called forth by the Proctor.

“Let the most blessed among us come forward,” he cried, punctuating the moment with his staff. The Painter strode forward proudly and presented his ball. The Proctor examined it briefly, nodding his satisfaction at the object’s authenticity. “The Painter has won First Claim,” he announced. “Brother, which of these initiates do you choose to take into your charge?”

“A moment,” said a voice within the crowd. A slight figure emerged and proved himself the speaker by adding, “My apologies for interrupting, but I would make aware of a piece of joyous news which, perhaps, we all should hear before our brother the Painter graces us with his selection.” The Archbishop smiled. The man who had spoken, named the Aperturist, was an ally in his camp. For appearances’ sake, the Archbishop had bided his time waiting patiently for someone else to speak up for him. Events appeared to be unfolding according to plan.

The Aperturist continued, “Our brother the Archbishop, too humble to claim this honor, has delivered unto us an artifact which we have sought for many years. Brother, would you deign to give us a glimpse of it?”

The Archbishop waited until all eyes were upon him before he spoke. “I was going to present it after the ceremonies were over, but since our brother is so eager to see it, I have no choice but to oblige.” He gestured for the servants to bring the item forward. Two cowled individuals bearing an object covered in cloth came forth and placed the item on the table next to the box. The Archbishop himself unveiled the artifact to a litany of gasps.

“Behold! The Gift of Utnapishtim,” the Archbishop declaimed, waving a hand over the small stone tablet that was revealed.

“What the fuck is that supposed to be?” the Painter asked aloud to the apparent amusement of the crowd.

“The Epic of Gilgamesh, man,” the Historian explained. “I’m guessing he thinks that the secret to immortality is written on that piece of rock.”

“It is,” the Archbishop countered stoically. “Using the coded formula inscribed on this tablet, we will be able to derive an elixir which will sustain our life force for all eternity.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” the Painter said, unfazed by the derision leveled at him by his peers. “Anyway, what does this have to do with picking our girls?”

The Aperturist once again spoke on behalf of his ally. “Brother Archbishop has done much for us in the past, and he has surpassed even his own deeds this time. For retrieving the Gift of Utnapishtim, I would propose that he be given First Claim.”

Other voices—ones that the Archbishop knew would support him—added to the motion. “I think he deserves it,” said the man known as the Sandworm. “Give it to him,” said another, and another.

“Bullshit!” the Painter exclaimed in response. “I don’t care if he raises fucking R’lyeh right under our feet. Nothing in our doctrine says that I have to give up First Claim.”

“True,” the Aperturist conceded before launching into his retort, “but it has long been our custom to honor those who have sacrificed much for the advancement of the order as well as the Great Work. You would disgrace yourself in our eyes should you refuse to yield.”

“You’re wrong, brother,” argued the Dragon Rider, a new voice and one of the few to have remained neutral. “The Drawing is a sacred rite, and no one should be motivated to work against the will of the draw regardless of prestige.”

The gallery was on the verge of chaos when the Proctor slammed his staff into the ground. “Enough!” he proclaimed. “As Brother Dragon Rider pointed out, there is no cause for which Brother Painter must yield his claim to another. Whether he exchanges his lot for that of Brother Archbishop’s is his choice alone. What do you say, Brother Painter?”

The Painter ignored his peers and placed his ball back in the box, affirming his claim. The gallery went silent as he showed his defiance. “I’m keeping First Claim,” he shouted, meeting their eyes and settling on the Archbishop’s furious glare. He raised his arm and pointed at the fiery-haired girl. “And I am picking Bella Thorne.”




II: BELLA


Bella’s heart caught in her throat as the Painter pointed at her. She’d been shaking since the men started bickering, growing more nervous by the minute, but it was the culmination of her life’s purpose that made it almost too much to bear.

She couldn’t remember a time when her destiny was unclear, if there had been one at all. There was a long stretch during which her dyslexia made life difficult, but Mom and Dad had always promised that the pain would go away once her true masters welcomed her into their fold. It all started with those weird bedtime stories, which evolved into fairy tales about how the world was really run by a group of people in secret. When she became a teenager, she believed in it wholeheartedly. Dad died when she was still a kid, but Mom never lost faith in Bella. With her help, she became a television star and managed to catch the eye of the brotherhood. Fame is fleeting, Mom always said, but initiation is forever.

The toughest part of the process had been to keep her true aspirations a secret. In addition to being hidden to outsiders, the order’s doctrine also prohibited potential candidates from identifying themselves to one another. As such, although her siblings were mercifully in the know—Dani and Kaili both made it to the initiation stage but neither were claimed by a master—there was no one else in whom she could confide. It sucked that her best friends had to be kept in the dark, but since her indoctrination rarely interfered with her professional and social life, the stress of living with her secret was manageable. And while she really did like the boys she dated, in the back of her head she knew that her knight in shining armor wouldn’t be among them.

She wasn’t surprised to see a lot of girls in the business in the convocation room where they were summoned prior to the presentation. They were all dolled up like herself, dressed head to toe in designs from Alexander McQueen to Zac Posen, stuff she’d love to keep after this was over like the Jean Schlumberger clip in her freshly highlighted hair. She recognized a few through their meager disguises right away—Chloe Moretz looked like she wanted to hug her, for one—but as they were forbidden from interacting with each other, she couldn’t go up and talk to them. Worse, she discovered that none of her besties were among the initiates; she hated keeping this part of herself from them, and it would’ve been so much fun belonging to the same secret society with her BFFs. Still, she saw no reason why she couldn’t make friends with them once they returned to the outside world and were allowed to hang out as initiates.

When she first saw the men in the gallery, a sense of relief coursed through her; finally one of them would take her under his wing and reveal to her the deepest mysteries of the order. She had been taught that all men were equal among the brotherhood and that it was a privilege to be chosen, as not every initiate to the débutante ball were so fortunate. Neither Dani nor Kaili knew the comfort of belonging, even though they were often summoned to the brotherhood’s meetings to serve. Yet Bella could see that the men were distinct individuals, and she could feel their differences in her gut on top of their varying appearances and poise.

The choice wasn’t hers to make, but as she led her fellow débutantes down the stairs, she began to entertain the idea of being claimed by someone she liked. The two guys who spoke up caught her interest instantly, particularly the one who supposedly thought of her as “his girl.” She wondered if he might be someone her mother knew, maybe even the same person who had initiated her sisters, but Mom showed no sign of recognizing him. In fact, when Mom realized that she’d been staring at him, she squeezed her daughter’s hand and made her look down.

It was already too late; the man’s fierce green eyes were burned into Bella’s head. Not knowing his name, she decided to call him Cat Eyes. She imagined what it would be like to kiss the hard lines of his jaw beneath the half mask, to nuzzle at the short, thick hair atop his head. She thought he smelled really nice, too, when she walked past him. He wasn’t the tallest guy in the room, but the way he carried himself in that tailored suit made it irrelevant. He might have been twenty five or thirty five—old enough to make it creepy to outsiders, even if everyone else in the gallery probably was older—but the teenage boy she called her boyfriend in the outside world just didn’t compare.

Bella had always wondered what it would be like to have sex with an older man. She had practiced abstinence her entire life, knowing there was no chance in Hell that she would be chosen if she let someone else other than her future master take her virginity. But she was far from ignorant; her family was very supportive and made sure she learned as much as she could without allowing penetration. Dad’s passing made training a little more complicated, but once her brother Remy was old enough she was practicing on him every chance she got.

They trained whenever and wherever, but a lot of times they would make it a family thing whether it was at home or at the hotel by Six Flags. Dani had the most experience with the men of the order, followed by Kaili and then Mom. Even though they had not been claimed, members of the brotherhood often invited Dani and Kaili to personal excursions or group ceremonies—orgies, pretty much. Her sisters would come back and talk about how they sucked this guy off together, or was put on fluff and rim duty while he fucked this big Oscar winner who had been an initiate in her red carpet dress, or how they ate out this country singer’s cream pie at the behest of her master even though the girl wasn’t that comfortable with lesbian stuff. It sounded like a lot of fun.

Remy was the luckiest one, of course, being a guy and all. If he distinguished himself, he might become a servant of the order some day, but already he was reaping many of the benefits of being the only male in a family of initiates. His cock was the first one that Bella sucked, although it was Mom who swallowed his first load, just after his twelfth birthday. The girls loved to tease their brother. They took turns invading his shower every morning, sometimes all three together. They pulled him aside sometimes while he went on dates and blew him behind the girl’s back, except Bella when he was dating Pia Mia because she felt bad about making her brother cheat on her bestie. They thought it was hilarious when he started dating a girl also named Bella, because it was obvious that he had a big crush on his little sister. She thought it made perfect sense, considering they’d been playing with each other since they were kids, and he’d always wanted to put his cock inside her even though she wouldn’t let him. Still, he performed his duty as man of the house by keeping Mom satisfied. He was an awesome brother to have.

She was still lost in her memories when one of the other men approached her. She heard his introduction and realized that he’d been the one her mother had told her about, the man in the brotherhood who had sent her to the Emirates to retrieve the stone tablet from one of his agents. The Archbishop looked strong and dignified, but there was an off-putting vibe about him; Bella compared the experience to Katniss from the Hunger Games meeting President Snow for the first time. She tried to picture herself kissing him, but Cat Eyes’ face would always reassert itself. From the way he spoke it was clear that he intended to claim her, and she grew nervous when she thought he might be able to see what she was thinking.

With Mom busy fending off most of the claimants looking her way, Bella had plenty of time to stare at Cat Eyes. He and his tall friend were clearly different from the other men, charming their way through the initiates while the rest of the brotherhood checked them out like jewelry or slabs of meat, knowing the girls had no say in the matter. She began to feel jealous of the other girls he approached, especially when he started to flirt with Elle Fanning and made her laugh. Bella was only a television star, after all, and Elle was a movie star, taller, and blonde; it stood to reason that Cat Eyes would like the slender young actress more. She wanted to scream when the Proctor announced the next phase of the draw suddenly. He hadn’t so much as looked in her direction!

She only felt worse when Cat Eyes shouted that he’d won First Claim. She loved the way he and his friend celebrated when they won the first two claims, because they showed genuine emotion instead of being dopes like their brothers. Yet with so many beautiful girls available for his choosing, her chances of winning his favor appeared astronomically remote. Despite the insinuation earlier that he wanted her, she had ended up being one of the girls he ignored. The insults she had heard all her life, the awful names she’d been called, never cut her deeper than they did now; to everyone in the room, she was just a stupid, uncoordinated, talentless slut.

When the Archbishop disputed his right to First Claim, Bella was caught between her obedience to the order and her yearning for the Painter—thanks to the Proctor’s pronouncement, she knew how to address him properly at last. One of the strongest edicts impressed upon unclaimed initiates was loyalty to the brothers of the order, and to look upon each man as though he were already her master. Thou shalt not be disloyal to the brotherhood—Mom had made her recite those commandments every day since she learned to talk. And they weren’t meaningless prayers; there was real power in them that made it hurt to even think about violating them. Siding with the Painter amounted to insubordination because it implied disloyalty to the Archbishop, and the more she wanted to cheer for him, the more nauseous she began to feel.

Fighting the knot in her gut, she tried to shut their voices out and closed her eyes, consoling herself with the knowledge that once the Drawing was over, the Archbishop’s claim, or anyone else’s for that matter, would compel her to forget the Painter ever existed.

Then she heard him speak her name.