The Girl of Fire and Thorns by Rae Carson Page B

Monastery-at-Brisadulce, we sat on our rough bench surrounded by the merest handful of strangers. Each week the crowd grew, and today, every seat on every bench is taken, and the air is hot with bodies.
    I suspect I am the cause of their renewed devotion. Everyone wishes a glimpse of this reclusive princess of puzzling status, this large, foreign-clad girl who frequents the sacred library and prays with such piety. I’m glad for the throng. So many people will make it easier to slip my note to Father Nicandro, right under Ximena’s guardian gaze.
    I bow my head as the priests, led by Father Nicandro, guide us through the “Glorifica.” Translated into the Lengua Plebeya, it lacks the lyrical beauty of the original language. Still, the words burn my heart with their richness, and the Godstone responds to our chanting with joyous warmth.
    My soul glorifies God; let it rejoice in my Savior
    For he has been mindful of his humble servant
    Blessed am I among generations
    For he lifted me from the dying world
    Yea, with his righteous right hand he lifted me
    He has redeemed his people, given them new life abundant
    My soul glorifies God; let it rejoice in my Savior.
    The altar blazes with a spread of prayer candles. Behind it, Father Nicandro lifts a single rose toward the ceiling. It’s the holy variety—I can see the thorns even at this distance—chosen and consecrated because of its bloodred sheen and sharp spikes. He intones about this perfect symbol of the beauty and pain of faith, and we echo our response.
    After a hymn of deliverance, Father Nicandro asks those who wish to be blessed to make their way forward with quiet decorum. It was for this reason I chose a seat on the edge of the bench. The ruffles of my skirt trail into the aisle, and I tug them closer to clear the way.
    A scattered handful of people rise and begin edging center and front, toward the altar. My head is bowed, but my eyes are open, and I sense someone approach from behind in the aisle. My timing must be perfect. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals a tall, middle-aged woman in a gray maid’s frock. I wait until she is nearly to the edge of my bench.
    I launch to my feet and step out in front of her. I hear a gasp as her knees impact, just slightly, the backs of my thighs. I turn my head and smile apologetically; her return grin is shy but genuine.
    Ximena rises to follow, but it is too late. At least one person will stand between us, and my nurse will not be able to see what transpires as I ask my blessing.
    One by one, each petitioner whispers to Father Nicandro. He prays, then pricks a fingertip with a rose’s thorn. Together, they hold the bleeding finger above the altar until the stone receives a single drop of sacrifice. Father Nicandro makes the cupping sign of the righteous right hand beneath the supplicant’s chin, then passes him or her off to another priest, who awaits with a cleansing cloth and water with witch hazel.
    When the young boy in line before me begins whispering to the priest, I reach, so slowly, beneath the waistband of my skirt for the message I prepared. The success of my plan depends on the priest, on his willingness to receive my message during a holy sacrament, on his ability to seem unfazed.
    Perhaps I’ve made a mistake. Father Nicandro will be angry with me. What if he interrupts the ceremony? What if Ximena sees? His life could be forfeit after all.
    I change my mind. My hand reaches for my waistband again, to shove the message away, but I am not quick enough. The boy has stepped aside to cleanse his finger and Father Nicandro’s gaze has lowered, briefly, to the tiny roll of parchment pinched between my thumb and forefinger.
    I step forward to take the boy’s place, holding the roll tight against my breast. Father Nicandro’s left hand cups the back of my neck and pulls my head downward until we are forehead to forehead.
    “Your Highness,” he whispers. “What do you seek from God today?” With his