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[She got caught by the women's council, near the end. They dragged her off when she claimed to have no family to be returned to, interred her in a tiny church with other troublesome, unmarried young ladies. Most of them had had a child out of wedlock. They did laundry together, work and penance, the heavy lye soap burning their hands hour by hour. Mira could have swaggered out bloody, but she didn't - something about the mumbled prayers and the delicate stained glass windows and the blunt, human directness of it, the brusque cruelty and judgement appealed to her. Their God was hypocritical and describable; the things he required of her were concrete and impersonal. It didn't matter that she was no one, in the cloister - all of them were no one, were discards, and they showed her how to do the work and took her unhesitatingly in. She enjoyed it, in her way, listened to the other women talk about their children, taught one how to break her boyfriend's wrist the next time he came home drunk. And she stayed until the barge caught her up again.
She's in the chapel now, dull and bare by comparison, not gaudy morbid stories or old ash marks on squat brick. She rolls a candle from one hand to the other. She has kept to herself, so far, has made no announcements or introductions, done nothing to draw undue attention since the nature of this place was explained to her. She was content with that state of affairs. But she is curious, now.]
How many of us are religious?
[Spam, forHarvey Two-Face]
[Several days after the fair, Mira shows up at his door, tense and eager. She's put it off - she's nervous, if she's honest, because she doesn't know how to do this, and she can't trust her own memory. She thinks he was crazy, thinks he responded the same way she did, but what if she's wrong? What if smashing his jaw with a billiard ball was too far?
At least she has an excuse to be here. She has presents.]
[She got caught by the women's council, near the end. They dragged her off when she claimed to have no family to be returned to, interred her in a tiny church with other troublesome, unmarried young ladies. Most of them had had a child out of wedlock. They did laundry together, work and penance, the heavy lye soap burning their hands hour by hour. Mira could have swaggered out bloody, but she didn't - something about the mumbled prayers and the delicate stained glass windows and the blunt, human directness of it, the brusque cruelty and judgement appealed to her. Their God was hypocritical and describable; the things he required of her were concrete and impersonal. It didn't matter that she was no one, in the cloister - all of them were no one, were discards, and they showed her how to do the work and took her unhesitatingly in. She enjoyed it, in her way, listened to the other women talk about their children, taught one how to break her boyfriend's wrist the next time he came home drunk. And she stayed until the barge caught her up again.
She's in the chapel now, dull and bare by comparison, not gaudy morbid stories or old ash marks on squat brick. She rolls a candle from one hand to the other. She has kept to herself, so far, has made no announcements or introductions, done nothing to draw undue attention since the nature of this place was explained to her. She was content with that state of affairs. But she is curious, now.]
How many of us are religious?
[Spam, for
[Several days after the fair, Mira shows up at his door, tense and eager. She's put it off - she's nervous, if she's honest, because she doesn't know how to do this, and she can't trust her own memory. She thinks he was crazy, thinks he responded the same way she did, but what if she's wrong? What if smashing his jaw with a billiard ball was too far?
At least she has an excuse to be here. She has presents.]
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Christ?
[Jessie Krist was one of her pseudonyms on a job, not long ago. They were chosen for her, to tap into fallow cultural memories, vague and subliminal, inspiring respect and trust. She looked them up, sometimes.]
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[Earth had lots of myths. She knows this. But there's no judgment in her tone; she's honestly curious. He was kind, she thinks, if she has her stories right. It would be nice for someone to have a kind god.]
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[Talking about it at all has felt like sort of a risk for him: he very, very rarely brings this stuff up with anyone, even in group, even when Mr. White brought it up for him. Like, what is there to say? He believes in good and evil, and for a long time, he was on the wrong damn side of it. He shuffles, looks down, shrugging uncomfortably.]
I guess.
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Sometimes, you learn things, and they...fit. Resonate. They make sense of things that were confusing before. They feel...right. In themselves.
Is it like that?
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I just... know it's right.
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[There's something in her eyes then, still too raw to be solemn, or even just sad. A little stricken, maybe.]
But at least it's. Real.
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