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powerful Elders on the Church Council and their faces are interchangeably grim beneath their graying beards.
    “Where is the man of the house?” asks the first Council- man I privately call Elder Blather because his sermons are always too long on time and too short on substance. I knew better than to share this observation with my housesisters, though Ram thought it was both funny and true.
    “He’s not here,” I say. “He’s away on special missionary business in Goodside.”
    The Elders are visibly uncomfortable now. It’s considered improper for any man to have a conversation with another man’s wife in his absence. It’s not against the Orders exactly, but it’s definitely frowned upon because such fraternizing can court temptation. And I’m not just any wife, mind you, but easily the most infamous young woman who has ever dwelled in this settlement or any other. No girl has ever come back after going Wayward for as long as I did. No girl has ever encouraged as many conversions or donations to the Church either. In short, the Elders don’t know what to make of my mixed blessings. For such black-and-white thinkers, I am too much gray.
    “You received yet another call from an unapproved Othersider earlier this evening, did you not?”
    The Elders show up on my doorstep whenever Jondoe tries to reach me. So this question isn’t unexpected.
    “I did,” I say. “But I didn’t answer it.”
    I wanted to. Oh, how I wanted to. But I didn’t.
    “That is of no matter. Are you courting devilry, Harmony?”
    I expected this too. I pinch my mouth closed, shake my head no. Though I’m not sure whether I’m being honest or not.
    “Do you have God, Harmony?”
    I nod yes. This is true.
    “Your prayerclique fears for your soul.”
    I know this. Every day I’ve put in the effort to circle up with my prayerclique and call for those things that only bring glory to God. But oh my grace it’s difficult to keep my heart and mind open when I am repeatedly made the “anonymous” target of those prayers. I was a little more than a month into my return when I made what I thought was an innocent comment about the floor-length, full-sleeved dresses we’re required to wear in accordance with the Orders.
    “Wouldn’t it be a relief if we could wear sleeveless dresses in the summertime?”
    I was only in my first trimester then, and yet my skin felt hot and tight, like a sausage on a stick over the fire. (More than once that sweltering summer, I’d wonder if there was a connection between the heat I felt in my body and the hellfire in my soul.)
    The very next morning, Emily was quick to make an offer to open the prayershare.
    “Please pray for my friend who wants to wear provocative clothing instead of modest attire.” Then she made a point of glancing knowingly around the circle, pausing long enough at me for everyone to notice. She pursed her lips before adding, “Girls who are devoted to God make themselves attractive not by what they wear, but by the good things they do .”
    I should have put out of my mind right then that I could ever raise more serious questions about Church doctrine. But I kept hoping. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could find someone else here who sought a different relationship with God. I’ve only recently begun to accept that I’m the sole doubter among us.
    And by cutting off my braid, I’ve confirmed it.
    As if he’s read my thoughts, a Councilman taps Elder Blather on the shoulder and whispers something in his ear. Elder Blather startles, takes hold of me by the shoulders, and spins me half around so he can see the back of my head.
    “You cut your hair,” he says, stating the obvious.
    I touch the nape of my neck where my braid once was.
    “I have,” I say.
    This results in more murmuring.
    “You do understand that this too is in direct defiance of the Orders?”
    I nod, oddly unafraid. “I am.”
    “The Orders exist for you to best serve Him. And yet you insist on repeatedly