That night, she was taken to the dungeon.
The stable boy ran off alone. The Marquis found Justine in the hayloft, weeping. "You could have gone," he said, genuinely puzzled. "Why stay?"
"No," she said. "God sees. Virtue is its own shield."
The second night, he brought the stable boy's severed finger in a crystal box. "He tried to come back for you. Loyalty, you see, is a form of virtue." He asked the question. She said yes, but her voice shook.
"Then you are dead," Justine whispered. "And this is hell."
And when the village priest asked why she still believed in God after all she had endured, she smiled—a smile that held no bitterness, only the quiet certainty of a candle that refuses to go out.
The knife lay on the table between them. Justine looked at it. Then at her sister. Then at the mirrors reflecting her own face—young, bruised, but somehow still soft.
Justine read until dawn. Then she looked up at her tormentor. "Is Juliette alive?"
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That night, she was taken to the dungeon.
The stable boy ran off alone. The Marquis found Justine in the hayloft, weeping. "You could have gone," he said, genuinely puzzled. "Why stay?"
"No," she said. "God sees. Virtue is its own shield."
The second night, he brought the stable boy's severed finger in a crystal box. "He tried to come back for you. Loyalty, you see, is a form of virtue." He asked the question. She said yes, but her voice shook.
"Then you are dead," Justine whispered. "And this is hell."
And when the village priest asked why she still believed in God after all she had endured, she smiled—a smile that held no bitterness, only the quiet certainty of a candle that refuses to go out.
The knife lay on the table between them. Justine looked at it. Then at her sister. Then at the mirrors reflecting her own face—young, bruised, but somehow still soft.
Justine read until dawn. Then she looked up at her tormentor. "Is Juliette alive?"
