Chapter Text
Sposami.
That word again, the same one he blurted out in his sleep a while ago. The same one he forbade you from translating. It was the last thing you heard before you fell asleep, and the first thing on your mind when you awoke in the morning.
“Good morning, Lucia,” Papa said gently as he rubbed your shoulder to rouse you. The scent of fresh coffee greeted you and you opened your eyes. After scrubbing them with your fists to clear your vision, you saw him standing over you with a cappuccino in his hand.
“Here, drink. I’m making breakfast for you, it should be ready in a few minutes. And none of this ‘I’m too nervous to eat’ business,” he said, mimicking your higher-pitched voice and accent, “you are performing today. You need your strength.”
You didn’t even have time to thank him before he left the cup of coffee in your hands, kissed the top of your head, and disappeared back into the kitchen.
…
“You said it again, Papa,” you taunted him without giving him any details.
“Said what again?” he asked as he straightened the freshly-steamed layers of tulle on your recital dress, which was hanging on the back of his closet door.
“That Italian word I’m apparently not allowed to know, sposami.”
Papa huffed and shook his head.
“I talk in my sleep. This shouldn’t be a surprise,” he dismissed you. A smirk lit up your face while you sat at the table, eating the breakfast he prepared for you
“One of these days, I’m gonna find out what it means. With all the people around here who speak Italian? It’s only a matter of time.”
Papa stopped his work and gave you a glare.
“But you won’t. Because I told you not to,” he said plainly. You just rolled your eyes and took another bite of your egg sandwich. Now was not the time to get in a foolish argument.
“Do you dream in Italian?” you mused aloud.
“Yes,” Papa said, “I dream in Italian more than I dream in English. And I count in Italian too. Daydreams, quick thoughts, if I’m thinking about things and I’m alone? Italian. It tends to change depending on who I’m around.”
“So if you were around Papa Terzo, or Peepaw- uh, I mean, Papa Nihil-“
You were cut off by Papa’s sudden, deep laughter.
“What in the seven circles of hell does that mean?”
“It"s an American term for ‘grandpa’. Pamina said it’s common in the south. Some of the sisters started calling him that and it just kind of stuck. It’s not an insult, I swear, it’s a term of endearment!” you explained hastily, remembering how Sister Imperator didn’t seemed too pleased with the nickname.
“Peepaw,” he repeated. The word sounded foreign coming from him, clunky and unnatural in his accent.
“But yes, I do tend to default to Italian when I’m around them,” he explained. Now that your costume was properly fluffed and you were finished eating, you lazily took him by the hand and led him to your room, where he sat back on your little twin bed.
“Are you and the other Papas actually related?”
Papa shifted uncomfortably. You could tell this was something he hadn’t expected to talk about today.
“Yes. We are, how do you say- half-brothers? It’s a bit complicated to explain. That is a story for another day. Not the day where my Lucia becomes a full member of the church,” he said with a wink.
That was enough to distract you… for now.
Papa sat back on the bed and watched as you meticulously applied your skincare routine. This was a rarity for you, usually only done on special occasions. He reclined on the bed while you massaged your face and neck.
Then you stood up and went to the dresser. You decided it would be best to warm up first, then stay limber until it was time to perform. Initiation was only a few hours away. The more you could ready your muscles, the better. But that would require getting out of your dressing gown into a leotard and warm-up pants. With a smirk, you stood up and slowly inched your robe off of your shoulders.
If Papa was on the panel, which you knew he would be, would it really hurt to give him a little extra incentive?
You turned your back to him and let your silky robe fall from your shoulders, to your hips, to the floor. There you stood, stark naked as he gazed at you.
“You little tease,” he said, feigning disinterest. “Do you really miss stripping that badly?”
His words made you blush, and your core tighten.
“I’m just getting ready to warm up,” you replied innocently as you hinged at the waist to bend down. The dresser drawer where you kept your dance clothes was on the very bottom row of drawers. You took the opportunity to bend all the way down to the floor, folding yourself in half before him.
He took a heaving breath from his spot on the bed.
“If there’s one thing I know,” he said softly, “it’s that *before* a performance, you need more energy to think. Your brain needs the blood flow. But after?”
You could hear him slide off of the bed and come up behind you, his hand on your hip.
“After a big performance? There are few things that feel as good as someone getting you off.”
His broad, calloused palm rubbed up and down your back.
“I’ll make sure to bend you over like that and work out all that tension.”
Your voice hitched as you lifted halfway up to prevent yourself from getting a head rush.
“The newly titled sorella will need a reward, no? Oh, I’ll have you in the palm of my hand.”
You swear you felt your soul leave your body when Papa moved his hand down to cup you, rubbing your clit with the tip of his middle finger. He chuckled behind you as he just held you in his hand for a moment, then pulled away.
“Showing me your ass won’t sway anyone’s decision,” he whispered in your ear before giving you a kiss on the neck. You grabbed him by the elbow to stop him from leaving.
“What if I got on my knees?” you teased.
“Get dressed, sorellina,” he said in a low, commanding voice and left you to change into your warmup clothes.
…
“Papa? I’m about to leave. Sister wants us all in the auditorium 30 minutes before initiation starts,” you called from the living room. Papa emerged from his room, shirt unbuttoned, in the midst of dressing in the layers that went under his papal robes. His eyes lit up when he saw you.
“You’re going to do fantastic, piccolina!” he said as he kissed both of your cheeks, then he took your hands.
“I believe in you, Lucia. You’ve grown so much, you worked hard, I know this-“
Papa paused suddenly when he ran his thumbs over your knuckles.
“You’re not wearing your ring,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. A hot, red blush spread over your cheeks.
“Well, I didn’t want the panel to think that I’m assuming I’ll pass because I’m with you, or that I’m bragging, or showing off-“
“Go put your ring on,” Papa said. He didn’t seem angry. No, he seemed… hurt? You nodded and hurried back in your room, where you slid your golden, sapphire ring onto your middle finger of your left hand. It caught the light and twinkled brilliantly against your skin.
When you walked back into the living room, Papa was looking at you with a gentle expression.
“Much better,” he said with a nod. You smiled sheepishly at him, and he held his arms open for you.
“Come here. Give your Papa a hug,” he said. Immediately, you obeyed, melting into his arms as much as you could without messing up your elaborate stage makeup.
“I love you,” you whispered as your hand came up to stroke the back of his hair. He grasped the tip of your chin and kissed you deeply.
“I love you too, cara mia Lucia,” he whispered back. The way he hugged you felt like a weight being lifted from your shoulders. Finally, when you pulled apart, he stepped over to the couch to hand you your recital dress, which was meticulously fluffed and waiting for you on a hanger.
“Knock ‘em dead, baby!” he cheered, which made you laugh as you walked out the door.
Backstage in the auditorium, your sisters all greeted you with a smile. Except for poor Aurora: she was not a fan of public speaking, and her brows were fixed in a worried line.
“Hey guys!” you greeted them as you hung your dress up.
“Whoa, Lucia with the full beat,” Pamina said, rather surprised to see your dramatic stage makeup paired with your habit.
“It looks better from afar, I promise. And my character in the ballet is supposed to be dead. It’s intentionally ghostly,” you said back. Some good-natured teasing made the mood lighten considerably.
“There you are! Are all my girls here?” Sister Imperator said as she appeared from around the corner.
“Yes, Sister,” you and your sisters said in unison.
“Okay, here’s how it’s going to go: Carmen volunteered to go first, then Aurora will follow. You two are doing standard presentations, so expect a longer question and answer segment,” Sister explained.
“Got it,” Carmen said with a nervous smile. She wore a slightly shorter veil today which gave a glimpse of her fiery red hair. Paired with her high heels, Carmen could pull off the effortless seduction in a way that left everyone around her under her spell.
Aurora just nodded and wrung her trembling hands.
“Lucia, you will present your research after Aurora, and I’ll have one of the ghouls clear the stage while you change into your dress. And last but not least, Pamina. You will present your research and demonstrate your ritual. I’d like you to go last because connecting with the Void can get, well, messy. Everyone understand?”
“Yes, Sister,” you all replied in unison once more.
“Now, a few ground rules. Absolutely no ghouls allowed in the auditorium, backstage, or anywhere else before the deliberation is over. You may observe each other’s presentations from the side seats of the first row, but I don’t want to hear a peep from any of you. Communication with anyone other than the panel during the presentations or question-and-answer segments is an automatic failure. Most importantly, I want you to show us what you’ve learned, why you chose this life. Any questions?”
You all shook your heads. Sister’s expression changed from stern and authoritarian to one of kindness and pride.
“Each one of you worked so hard to get to this point. I’m very proud of you,” she said gently. There was a flurry of hugs and well-wishes. You took a moment to go over your notes for your research presentation. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Aurora near tears. You tried to go up to her and comfort her, but Sister beat you to it. She spoke calmly to Aurora and took her hand. Whatever she said seemed to calm your friend down. It made you smile to yourself: when you first joined the church, you were scared of Sister. Her no-nonsense demeanor and dry wit read as cold and mean at first glance. Yet, you came to realize, like many of your other first impressions in the church, you were wrong. Sister Imperator was the closest thing to a mother you had in a very, very long time
…
When you stepped onto the stage for your presentation, you held your leather-bound notebook in your left hand. Your sapphire ring cast glittering flecks of light onto the floor as you approached the lectern. The panel consisted of Papa (obviously), Sister Imperator, a cardinal who none of you had ever seen before, and a high priest from the Romanian abbey.
“Good afternoon, my name is Lucia E-“ you paused and choked on your words. Great start, you almost introduced yourself incorrectly. “Lucia Emeritus” almost rolled off of your tongue without a second thought.
“A- and I will be discussing the role of dance in the decay of morality from the Classical era to modern times.”
You clicked through your slideshow on the projector and highlighted popular dance trends- the Viennese waltz, the Rite of Spring ballet, jazz and swing, rock and roll, to the wide variety of dance genres that were popular now.
“Most modern dance genres are infused with sensuality. It’s not just sex that sells, it’s a hallmark of insatiable carnal lust that can no longer be ignored or snuffed out by puritanical values.”
With one more click of the remote, your slideshow ended, and your sisters applauded. The panel, however, was frustratingly neutral. Even Papa.
“Lucia,” the cardinal said, “you use the term ‘morality’ several times in your research. What are you defining as morality? It varies from culture and time.”
You nodded and leaned toward the microphone.
“Morality, in my presentation, is limited to the scope of traditional western Abrahamic religions. You’re correct that other cultures have different views. For the sake of my research, I limited it to what is most relevant in the culture and dance genres with which I’m most acquainted.”
“So you made no effort to widen your perspective during your time as an initiate?” the cardinal added, rather snidely. You kept your composure, though. Some rat-faced little man wasn’t about to test your patience.
“That’s not correct. I arrived at the abbey after sending my entire life in radical evangelical Christianity. What you define as ‘widening of perspective’ is entirely dependent upon where someone begins learning. I can’t speak for what others might consider a wide enough perspective. I can only speak for myself, and I can say that being in the church forced me to unlearn a lot of beliefs that were nailed into my head since birth. Besides, it would be irresponsible to study too large of a subject and present inaccurate information.”
“And what beliefs are you referring to?” the cardinal said flippantly.
“Aside from religious doctrine, I assume? The belief that an honest mistake should result in disproportionately cruel punishment. That simply existing in a female body is inherently disgusting, shameful, and evil. That sex is not just a part of being human, but is vile and should be kept secret- especially to protect those who use it to harm others. That dancing is a vehicle to debauchery-“
“But didn’t you just spend 15 minutes arguing that very point?” The cardinal interrupted.
“Please don’t interrupt me when I’m answering a question you asked,” you responded firmly.
You glanced at Papa. He was smirking, and gave you a barely perceptible nod.
“If you recall what I said at the beginning of my presentation, cardinal, morality is simply a term to reflect what the majority of Abrahamic religions and their respective cultures find virtuous. I never claimed their definition of morality is correct or incorrect. I’m saying it is the status quo. A baseline by which we define ourselves as the Satanic church in the culture we live in.”
The cardinal was silent for a moment as he scribbled on a piece of paper.
“What about forms of dance that are considers scandalous even by today’s standards?” Sister asked. “Say, for example, stripping?”
Of course Sister would ask such a question. It almost embarrassed you to talk about, but you persisted.
“There is a fine line between certain styles of dance and sex work itself. Burlesque, cabaret, striptease, and other salacious forms of dance have existed in mainstream western culture- to some extent- since the 1800’s. I would argue the transactional nature of sex work is what separates it from dance. There is some overlap between the two. However, dance as a form of creative expression, even if it is highly sexual, does not necessarily fall under the umbrella of sex work.”
Sister gave you a nod, then began writing on her own paper.
“Why did you choose this topic for your initiation? I have been a member of the clergy for many years, and I’ve never seen someone choose such a topic,” Papa said. A hot, red blush crept up your neck. In this moment, it became abundantly clear that Papa was the head of the church, not your lover.
“From a scholastic perspective, I felt the role of dance in the decay of morality, and subsequently leading people to our church, was not well studied. There is a misconception that dance has suddenly become overtly sexual in this day and age exclusively, and that’s simply not true. The reason mainstream culture considers something to be immoral has surely changed with time, but human nature has not.”
You paused for a second and looked him in the eye.
“From a personal standpoint? I believe I was born to dance. Growing up in an environment that told me every single detail about me and my interests were wrong and shameful- it only made me want to pursue them more. Now that I’ve been in this church, I’ve come to understand there is nothing fundamentally wrong with me. I have the freedom to indulge in pleasures of the flesh. Dance is my pleasure.”
Papa gave you a rare full-toothed smile and beamed at you.
“Ah, any questions from you, Ferdinand? We are running low on discussion time” Papa asked the Romanian high priest.
The man simply stared at you intently.
“You will be doing a… demonstration?” he asked in an accent so thick, it was nearly unintelligible. “Explain?”
You smiled and gave a brief explanation.
“I chose a scene from the ballet Giselle. It’s my interpretation of how I would have reacted in the main character’s role if she was a member of the Satanic church: instead of forgiving her lover for betraying her and causing her death, I believe she might have joined the sisterhood of the Willis and sought revenge. Instead of adhering to the strict moral rules of the age that pressured her to forgive this man who did not deserve such a kindness, she could have expressed often-suppressed feminine rage. Her vengeance would be a natural consequence for her lover’s indiscretion, an element of rebellion in such a highly structured art form.”
“That’s all the time we have for questions,” Sister Imperator said. “Thank you, Lucia. You may prepare for your demonstration.”
“Thank you,” you bid the panel goodbye and hurried off stage to change.
The time came for your performance.
18 months of study of the Satanic church, countless hours of research, weeks of rigorous dance rehearsal, a question-and answer segment with the panel that made you nearly sweat through your habit: and it all came down to a 5-minute performance.
Backstage, you carefully shed out of the layers of your habit and slid into your recital dress. The base of the dress was black lycra, with flowing black tulle that extended down to your lower calf. The blood red crystals and embroidered accents really brought the dark vision you had for your piece to life. It was a beautiful, if not slightly sinister looking costume. And it fit like a glove.
You tried your best to breathe and stay calm while you blended some translucent powder over the ghostly light pancake makeup you applied from your neck, to your chest, your upper back, and faded it down your arms. The look you wanted was ethereal and ghostly, not clown-like, and the line was easy to cross with stage makeup.
“Lucia?”
The soft voice that called to you almost made you jump out of your skin. It was Sister Imperator.
“Are you alright? Do you need help with anything?”
You turned to face her and saw her walking towards you, where you sat in front of a vanity to put the finishing touches on your makeup, adding another coat of gloss to your blood red lips.
“No, Sister, I think I’m fine. Are they almost done clearing the stage?” you asked.
“Just about,” she said softly. From the box of hairpins on the counter, Sister grabbed a couple in her fingertips.
“Tilt your head down,” she demanded gently. You obeyed, and you felt her tucking in a few stray hairs and pinning them down. Carmen gave you some kind of half bun-half crown, braided updo that you couldn’t even fathom recreating on yourself.
“I hope they aren’t too harsh on my fouettés. Even after drilling them for weeks, I still feel like I travel halfway to China after five or six of them,” you mumbled nervously, your chin tucked down toward your chest.
Sister just scoffed behind you.
“My dear, I have no idea what any of that means. I doubt the others would either.”
Then you felt her hands at the back of your dress, tugging at something, until you heard the snap of a hook fastening. It was one of those details you often left undone because in your previous years as a dancer, you didn’t always have someone to help you.
“There,” Sister said and patted your shoulder to make you tilt your head back up. Your eyes met hers in the mirror, and you gave her a nervous smile.
“You look scary, but beautiful,” she said. The comment made you laugh and you turned in your chair to stand up. Your pointe shoes tapped on the floor as you walked.
“Thank you,” you said, moving closer to face her. There was a certain gravity to your words. It was more than just a thank you for pinning your hair and hooking your costume. Sister reached out her arms to hug you, a rare act in itself, and you found yourself wanting to accept- but you stepped back and flinched away out of instinct.
“This stuff gets everywhere,” you said awkwardly and gestured to the makeup coating your exposed skin. “I forgot to order the setting spray.”
Sister just gave you a wry smile and made you step closer, but not close enough to get makeup all over her nice suit. Her hands came up to gently grasp yours, and gave them a squeeze. That was enough to stop your heart from hammering out of your chest from nerves. After a moment, Sister stepped away to peek out at the stage. The lectern and the cords were cleared away, ready for you to dance.
“Looks like they’re done. I’ll see you on the other side,” Sister said, scanning over the stage once more. You did a few changements and a pas de bouree variation to see if you needed more rosin on your shoes- you didn’t. Then you practiced your swan arms to make sure your shoulders didn’t creak and crack on stage.
As Sister walked toward to you head back into the auditorium, you stayed on the pointes of your shoes and took tiny little pique steps to follow her. Her eyebrows raised.
“Wrong way,” she said in a mock-scolding tone, gesturing with her finger for you to turn around. “Testing my patience to the bitter end. I should expect nothing less from you.”
You snickered and turned around, still on the pointes of your shoes, and took tiny little steps toward the wings of the stage.
“Whenever you’re ready, Lucia,” Papa’s voice sounded over the microphone. You took a deep breath to get in character. The character? Not quite Giselle herself, but not fully you either. Perhaps it was someone you imagined when you were younger, someone you imagined you would become.
Without wasting another second, you steeled your nerves, fixed your expression into a rather serious gaze, and elegantly sauntered out onto the stage.
The auditorium was practically empty- save for the panel and your sisters- but you could hear a few surprised gasps and ‘wow’s. You curtsied to the panel and took your position: back left corner of the stage, fourth postion, one hand over your heart with the other extended slightly downward.
When the music began, the deep, mournful timbre of the cello echoed in your chest. You began to move gracefully to the center of the stage, where you stood in fifth position to look longingly up at the ceiling before closing your eyes and letting your arms fall to your sides. The rest of the orchestra joined the cello and you effortlessly floated up onto a clean releve.
One of your best skills in ballet was how you moved your arms. It came easy to you. The motion looked like you were floating through water, controlled from the shoulder all the way to the tips of your fingers. Thats what the first couple minutes of your performance were, pure control. Not a wobble on your near-perfect split arabesque. Not a tremble from your knee when you turned on your heel. You hoped that the panel would see that through all of this meticulous, superhuman control, you wore a fixed expression of anguish.
Then the music changed after you fluttered from one side of the stage to the other in an effort to mimic Giselle seeking the Willis at each side of the stage. This was the pinpoint where Giselle’s partner would appear and the dance would become the pas de deux you were familiar with.
Not this time.
Your expression changed from anguish to a wicked one of anger, with just a hint of a smile. The precise controlled movement gave way to flowing leaps and turns. Your very being radiated vengeful, calculated rage and sensuality. Giselle would spend half of this dance being moved and carried by a partner, but you carried yourself with sharp grace.
The final notes of the strings and woodwinds brought your performance to a close. After a series of dizzying pirouettes and one last sequence of leaps that made you look as if you were floating in the air, you gave one last turn. Slow and controlled. Then you slid down onto one knee with your other leg extended softly. The motion carried through your chest, to your shoulders, down your arms, and finally your fingers: they extended elegantly in the ‘as above, so below’ gesture as the music faded into nothing.
There was a moment of sheer, unbroken silence in the auditorium.
But the thunderous applause from the very few people in the room made your heart light up with joy. You tilted your head up to see every one of your sisters on their feet, cheering and clapping. The panel was also giving you a standing ovation. Even that rat-faced cardinal who was so rude during your presentation had a look of awe on his face. Sister was beaming at you with pride.
Then there was Papa.
You looked right at him and saw that he held his sleeve up to his green eye- he was tearing up.
“Brava!” he yelled. “Brava, Lucia!”
His voice almost cracked a bit at the mention of your name.
“Ti amo,” you mouthed to him. It was one of the few Italian phrases you picked up from your time with him.
“Ti amo,” you saw him say back to you. Though you couldn’t hear him, he said the words just under his breath. “Ti amo, Lucia.”
You gave the panel and the audience one final curtsy, and left the stage just as gracefully as you came.
The adrenaline high you got from performing like that was something you would chase forever. It was exhilarating, the fulfillment of some deep longing in your soul. As you walked into the wings, you were smiling ear to ear.
But then you looked around. You were alone.
After a performance, there would be other dancers, production staff, directors- plenty of other people to share the moment with you. It was just part of the culture. The silence backstage made the smile fall right off your face. It was a stark reminder that this was not a true performance: it was a test. The only sound you could hear was the tapping of your pointe shoes against the floor as you walked to the vanity to sit down.
You were about to untie the ribbons on your shoes and unwrap them from your ankles when the sound of a door opening and shutting made you stop.
“Lucia!”
That familiar voice made you jump to your feet.
“Papa?” you said and rushed toward the stage door.
“Lucia! There’s my girl!” he said as he hurried toward you and picked you up by the waist, spinning you in circles. Somehow, he managed to take off his papal robes in between the panel seat and the stage, so he was just in his dress pants and black shirt.
“No! You’ll get makeup all over you-“
“The robes will cover it,” he hushed you, then sat you down on your feet to gather you in a hug.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to do this?”
“Well, I am Papa. What will they do, tell ME no? Besides, we’re technically not breaking any rules. I’m part of the panel, aren’t I?”
You just laughed and pressed a few kisses to his neck, leaving glossy lip prints behind. The sudden emotion of the whole experience caught up to you and you just clung to him as tight as you could.
“I am so proud of you, Lucia, SO proud” he whispered and grasped the tip of your chin, then gave you a tender kiss on the lips. He had to be careful not to fully mess up his paints. The initiation panel wasn’t over yet.
When you pulled apart, your eyes were shining with unshed tears.
“There’s no way I could have done all this, made it this far, without you,” you whispered. Papa’s gloved hand cradled the back of your head gently.
“Didn’t I promise you a while ago? I will take care of you, Lucia. I’m with you, always.”
You remembered that phrase from the song he sang to you last night. And you wholeheartedly believed it. Your left hand grabbed his free hand and squeezed it, and his thumb brushed over the sapphire ring on your middle finger.
“And one day, I will-“ he paused and shook his head. “I can’t tell you that yet. Initiation isn’t over.”
You gasped at his cheekiness and that little smirk on his face.
“You’re awful! And infuriating!” you protested and pretended to stamp one of your feet, still in your pointe shoes.
“Don’t get an attitude with me, piccolina. Take those shoes off and come join your sisters in the auditorium,” he demanded gently, using his unmistakable Papa voice. You grumbled and nodded.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Good girl.”
As you turned around, he lightly brushed his hand over the small of your back on his way to the door. He paused to speak to you before he left.
“Oh, by the way, Lucia Emeritus would have been a perfectly fine way to introduce yourself. You shouldn’t have stopped short,” he said to you with a wink. Before you could even protest, he was gone.
“Damn him. Damn that man,” you mumbled to yourself, cheeks flushed red, while you untied your ribbons to slide off your pointe shoes.
…
You stayed in your costume, wrapped in the black cardigan of your habit after you wiped off the body makeup covering your arms and chest, to make sure Pamina got to present on time. When you sat down, your sisters greeted you with quiet congratulations. There would surely be more celebration to follow.
As someone who virtually failed occult magic and similar classes, watching Pamina connect to the Void and commune with entities there while a swirling chasm opened in the center of the pentagram she drew on the floor, had you in awe the entire time. Carmen had to put her finger on the bottom of your chin and tap you to remind you to close your mouth because your jaw dropped from what you were seeing. Pamina had a gift for the mystical, that much you knew. She must have been born with it because you knew there was no way a person could be taught that level of connection to the spiritual realm.
Finally, the initiation panel was over. As soon as Pamina took her seat next to you, you and your sisters immediately held each other’s hands. Sister Imperator stepped up on the stage.
“This concludes the initiation trials for the winter season. Results will be posted in a few hours. You four may leave,” she announced.
You and your sisters didn’t let go of each other, even as you walked out of the auditorium.