Chapter-3 The Sin - 2

I pulled the bandages too tight in some places and too loose in others. It didn’t matter. It only needed to look covered. Hidden so that my sister or anyone else couldn’t see it. There’d be questions, there’d be accusations.

I dressed, fabric brushing too close, making me wince. By the time I finished, I was exhausted, hollowed out by pain and prayer alike.

I sat on the edge of the bed, hands folded in my lap, staring at the floor.

If this was punishment, then I would accept it.

If this was a test, then I would endure.

Because God rewarded those who stayed silent.

And I had learned long ago how to be very, very quiet.

But others wouldn’t.

I shuddered at the memory of his palm streaked with red, my blood smeared across his skin. Like a violent tremor rippling through me despite the cold. The realization settled heavy in my chest: he had seen it. Touched it. Known.

Please. Don’t let me see him.

Because if I did…I would have to speak to him. I would have to ask. To beg, perhaps. For his silence. To make him promise not to mention it. Not to Catherine. Not to anyone.

The thought alone made my stomach twist.

God watched. I knew that much. I had been taught He did. That His gaze was everywhere, weighing every breath, every misstep. That pain was not brutality, it was rectification. A reminder. A necessary cleansing for those who strayed.

Suffering meant I was being seen. And if my blood had spilled, if my skin had split open beneath another’s hand… then perhaps it was because I had deserved it.

The logic was familiar. Comforting, in a twisted way. It had always been easier to believe the fault was mine. Easier than imagining a God who would allow cruelty without reason.

I didn’t know yet that faith could be taught wrong.

That devotion could be shaped into a weapon.

That not all suffering was holy.

I only knew one thing.

If I ever see Pakhan Sokolov again, then whatever peace I’d prayed for would not be granted.

A knock sounded at the door, making me jolt.

“Ana?” Catherine’s voice followed. “Dinner is ready. Will you join us?”

My spine stiffened. My pulse skidded as I tried to steady my voice.

“Yes,” I answered after a beat. “I’ll be right there.”

I stood, smoothing my dress and I opened the door to find Catherine standing there with a small smile that instantly dropped at the sight of me.

“You look pale,” she said gently.

“I’m just tired.”

She frowned. “You always were. Even as a child. You never liked dinners. Do you still skip them at the Convent?”

I sinned and lied. “No.”

Catherine seemed to brought my lie, because she didn’t ask me much just turned and I politely followed her.

As we walked down the corridor together, her arm brushed mine, and suddenly I was twelve again. Catherine spoke of small things as we went. Of the house. Of the staff. Of how winter lingered longer here than anywhere else. How this house was colder than outside.

I could feel it as she talked.

It was freezing in here. As if it was snowing inside.

“You used to hate the cold,” she said with a soft laugh as we crossed what looked like a living area. “You’d cry if your hands got numb.”

My throat tightened.

I remembered cold hands.

Too cold.

Held too long. Buried in the snow. As my mother threw ice cold water at me. Screaming, yelling and suddenly I could hear my own wails and cried begging for her to stop cause it hurt.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Quiet girls are good girls.

Cold eyes.

Colder hands.

I shut my eyes mid-step, breath stuttering, then forced air into my lungs slowly. Deeply. Catherine’s presence steadied me, even as the past clawed at the edges of my mind. I hated how much she resembled our mother, and I hate myself more for feeling the hate.

I evened my thoughts and hummed as Catherine said something as we entered the kitchen.

A woman approached us immediately, wearing a crisp apron and baking gloves.

Catherine pointed to her. “This is Magda.”

“Good evening,” Magda said warmly. “I’m Magda, head of the kitchen staff.”

Catherine smiled. “This is my sister, Ana.”

Magda’s eyes softened. “Welcome to the Sokolov Mansion.”

I managed a smile.

More faces followed her as Catherine introduced me to them followed by polite smiles. I returned them all, my lips curving automatically, my body moving on memory rather than thought.

But I couldn’t focus on anything else but the cold and the pain in my back, not able to hold up for longer, I sat perching at the table without thinking.

“Ana,” Catherine called for me and I looked up to find her tensed, “we don’t sit on the table. Not before the men of this house.”

Heat flooded my face.

“I— I’m sorry,” I mumbled slowly standing up.

She waved it away with a small smile. “It’s not a big deal. Just tradition. This family still follows… very old rules.”

Her tone turned wry, as her jaw twitched. “Ancient ones, really.”

I nodded, forcing a smile of my own, but something about the way she said it unsettled me. I knew her since we were children.

Her jaw used to twitch when she were caught lying about stealing jellies.

“I didn’t know rules like that still existed,” I said quietly.

“They do,” Catherine replied, smoothing an invisible crease in her sleeve. “In houses like this, these kinda rules are always there.”

I glanced at her and her fingers worried the ring on her hand before she caught herself and stilled them. Catherine had always been graceful, but this was different. This was vigilance. Just like our mother.