According to the story, Veronica ducked under his steady gaze. “It’s not really me,” she answered. “It’s something bigger, something inside of me that knows. I can’t explain it.”
But it was explanation enough for Emmanuel. Back then, Mount Blessing was just starting to form, with nine Believers—all of whom had left their homes and come to live with Emmanuel in his little house next to the college. Soon after her conversation with Emmanuel, Veronica became the tenth Believer. Two weeks later, after leaving Iowa and moving to Connecticut where he would begin Mount Blessing, Emmanuel introduced Veronica in a formal ceremony to the other members. She was dressed in the very first blue Believer robe, and her hair, which smelled of lemons and rosewater, shone in the light. The red rash on her hands was completely gone. “Look carefully,” Emmanuel said to the tiny congregation. “She is the closest any of you will ever come to being in the presence of the Blessed Virgin.”
Every female at Mount Blessing—except Honey—strives to be like Veronica, beginning with how she wears her hair, swept off her face and knotted at the nape of her neck, to the way she holds her arms out straight during an entire prayer service, just like Jesus on the cross. I’ve spent prayer services—two, three hours at a time—just watching the way she moves her lips or the fervent way she closes her eyes when she utters certain phrases. She is the epitome of perfection, the example of what we are all striving to become. And she is brilliant. Sometimes even Emmanuel will defer to her while he is preaching and let her explain things in her own words. That is why I don’t want to hear Honey’s reason—if there is one—about Veronica’s participation in this. It just wouldn’t make any sense.
“What’s a harlot?” I find myself whispering instead.
“It’s a whore,” Honey says. Her voice is matter-of-fact, but when she starts talking again, it trembles around the edges. “Veronica said that’s what I am, running around trying to kiss boys like I do. Like I make a habit of it or something. It was one time, for God’s sake. Once!” The silence between us is deafening, interrupted only by a soft neigh from one of the horses in the barn. I take her hand in mine and stroke it tenderly, my fingertips caressing the rough patches along her knuckles.
“You’re not a harlot, Honey.”
“Yeah,” she says, pushing her hair off her face. “I know.” Her gaze is fixed on something I can’t see in the blue canopy above us. She points with her index finger. “Hey, look! It’s a Spangled Fritillary!”
I squint at a small orange butterfly swooping down toward some Queen Anne’s Lace. Only a butterfly could distract Honey from the conversation at hand.
She stands up slowly, watching as the small insect floats from one flower to the next. “Look how gorgeous. And so many markings on the wings.” She turns to look at me. “Did I tell you Winky and I started aerating the garden this morning?” I nod. “Winky found some wild fennel and turtlehead in the field, too. We’re going to transplant them tonight after dinner. The garden’s going to be so beautiful this year. I bet we’ll have over a thousand butterflies.” The butterfly soars past us suddenly and, after grazing the tip of more Queen Anne’s Lace, disappears from sight. Honey watches, shading her eyes with her hand.
A small, sudden shout interrupts the moment. “Agnes! Are you up here?”
Instinctively, Honey drops back down in the grass. “Who’s that?”
The voice floats over us, louder this time. “Honey! Agnes! Where are you?”
“That sounds like Benny,” I say, peering in the direction of the voice. Standing up straight, I wave my arm through the air. “Benny! Over here! We’re over here!”
“How’d he know where to find us?” Honey asks.
I lean up on my tiptoes. “Probably from when he followed us the last time. Remember?” My little brother is so small that I can see only the top of his white-blond hair as he turns and then swerves through the tall grass like a marshmallow on a stick. He’s a nervous little kid to begin with, but he gets even more nervous when he doesn’t know where I am. At all times. I love him to pieces, but sometimes it feels like he is suffocating me.
“Nana Pete’s here!” Benny says, bursting out all at once from inside the field. His blue robe flaps around him like a tent and his enormous black glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. A constellation of freckles stand out like tiny ants across his face.
“Nana Pete?” I say. “What are you talking about? Are you sure?”
Benny is holding his knees with his hands, breathing hard. He lifts his head at my barrage of questions. “I’m telling you, she’s here! Mom just came down and got me out of prayers so I could go get you! She’s waiting for us in the Great House!”
Honey looks at me accusingly. “You didn’t tell me Nana Pete was coming.”