Hold Fast - Olivia Rigal Page 0,1

shabby chapel where an angry old man rants daily about the New Revelation given to him directly from The Lord’s lips.

A life where a man like Daniel could be free to openly express his love for Joshua. Where they could get married and live out the happily ever after from whatever fairy tale they build for themselves, if that’s what they wanted.

This is the only life he’s ever known, and I think he’s afraid to leave it, unsure he could survive in the unfamiliar. I can’t comprehend that fear of the outside, can’t understand why he wouldn’t want that life. I’d have run years ago if I were him. But then again, I’m happy that he didn’t. If Daniel hadn’t asked his older brother for me, God alone knows who Father Emmanuel would have married me off to.

I did run. Years ago, and more than once. But here I still am, so maybe he has a point.

Sitting up for the first time in the cool morning air is always painful, and the first few steps of each day are pure misery. Twenty-three years old, and I walk like I was sixty-three.

“It’s bad this morning, isn’t it?” my husband asks. We may not be intimate in the way of husbands and wives, but we do care very much for each other. Daniel’s eyes lose some of his joy as he takes in my limp, but he can’t see the grinding in my hip with every movement, or feel the throbbing ache.

“It could be worse,” I tell him with a game smile. “At least I can tell it’s not going to rain today.” I stare out the scratched and yellowed window at the dawn and yawn.

“You’re thinking about it again,” he says. “About running.”

“Thinking? Yes. Dreaming, even.” I sigh. “Always.”

“Courtney, you know it can’t happen,” Daniel says, taking my hands in his. “Next time? The lesson won’t be so easy.”

“Oh, I know it can’t happen. I can’t run, Daniel, because I can’t run. They taught me that lesson so very, very well. Really drove it home, you might say.” I smile bitterly, and my husband winces and looks away. Yes. Lessons. Friendly little learning aids to help even the slowest student understand things. Like why she shouldn’t run.

Yes. Oh, very much yes. I’m still thinking about running. When it comes to learning how to give up, I’m a damned slow learner.

Perhaps the lesson wasn’t meant only for me, or even mostly for me. Maybe it was meant for everyone else. And maybe Daniel’s not afraid that he can’t survive in freedom. It might be survival just to reach freedom that he thinks is impossible.

Daniel turns his back to me and we both hurry to remove the long flannel nightshirts necessary even in summer with such flimsy shelter. My husband helps with the buttons on the back of my market day dress. It’s the least faded and patched thing in my limited wardrobe, but it’s still probably at least as old as I am, and I adjust a bleached-white apron to cover some still-unpatched holes in the front of the skirt.

It’s our standard morning routine. We wake up, we dress. We go to prayer holding hands, we eat our meals together. In public, we officially despair every month when we don’t have happy news to share with the community of a new blessing visited upon us.

Right, because unless the archangel Gabriel comes down in person for a late-night visit, that is just not going to happen. And even if it did, how could I bring any new life into this place? What kind of person would do that to a child?

It’s not the life I dreamed about, but then… does anyone ever get their perfect dream life?

With breakfast and prayers finished, it’s time to be about the business of the day. My husband sends me on my way with a kiss on the cheek, and I head for the barn. My mother greets me with a baleful glare—she’s already brought the truck around, and I’m late. She and Nathan have been waiting for me.

Loading the truck is backbreaking work for two women and a boy, but we manage. Bushel baskets and wooden crates loaded with fresh fruits and vegetables fill the stake-bed truck almost to overflowing. The bench seat of the truck is nearly as crowded with my mother and Nathan.

“Be careful, Courtney!” My mother gets skittish every single time we drive over the narrow wooden bridge.

“Mom!” I growl back. “I’ve managed to