The king expects her presence in two weeks, making the following days feel like there’s an invisible timer hanging over her head. What this king rules over or why he wants the saintess, she doesn’t know, and it makes her nervous.

She doesn’t know how to get these people to understand she isn’t Saintess Constance. Part of her doesn’t think they care as long as she remains on her knees in prayer.

Head bowed, eyes closed, and hands clasped together in prayer, she is the perfect picture of piety. The statue of Duhella looms over her, yet the only thing she can concentrate on is the hushed whispers admiring Saintess Constance’s devotion.

No one sees the cushion under her knees or her head lowering a touch too far because she’s falling asleep. Humming something that’s not a hymn is simply the song of the Goddess flowing through her.

These people don’t care that she is nothing like the Constance they remember. Why should they look too closely at her oddities or her mysterious resurrection from an equally mysterious death? The Goddess will deliver them from evil using her body whether she likes it or not.

The thought alone terrifies her far more than working for any demented bosses. Unlike her old job, there is no contract to protect her and no way to leave.

“The day of your departure is upon us,” her teacher, a stern old nun, tells her during lessons with a stick held firmly in hand. “It would behoove you to know how to properly greet the king. Curtsey for me.”

She grabs the sides of her dress and curtseys the same way she greets the guests at dinner. The stick comes down on her leg with a loud whack.

“Ow!” She cries and rubs her leg with tears in her eyes. Her skin is so fragile that she has no doubt there is already a bruise forming. “What was that for?”

“Everyone knows you must lower your head more for the king!” The mean old nun scolds her. “Do it again, and don’t let hubris stain your heart!”

Her heart is definitely not filled with hubris at the moment. With thoughts of murder, she curtseys again and lowers her head more. This time her other leg receives a hit. She clutches the fabric of her dress tight enough that her nails threaten to rip it.

“What are you, a dog of the empire?” The nun scorns her. “No saint of ours will grovel before the man who thinks himself king!”

Her confusion about this so-called king only grows from there.

“Saintess, you must not let the dogs of the empire soil your skin with anything other than these!” A novitiate proclaims while filling a large chest to the brim with beauty products.

A novitiate, a nun-in-training, seems to be the bottom rung of the ladder. Despite this, the girl runs around trying to pack up the entire room with a cheerful smile. Soaps and oils are carefully placed into ornate boxes and given a quick prayer of safety.

The girl keeps glancing at her with adoring eyes, and she tries not to grimace.

She doesn’t have the heart to tell the novitiate that there’s no need to work so hard or so carefully. The complicated dresses that require help will be the first of her things to disappear, and it’s up to the Goddess on whether or not her hair even gets combed.

“Thank you, Christine,” she tells the novitiate who squeals with happiness at having her name remembered.

Ever since coming back from the dead, it’s rare for Saintess Constance to call anyone by name. It’s not by choice; any time she asks someone who they are, they usually answer with their title or something generic like, “A true believer of the Goddess Duhella!”

The novitiate is the only one who actually answered the question.

A knock on the door is the only warning she gets before it bursts open. The cold eyes of the Mother Superior survey the room. When the old woman’s gaze lands on Christine, the novitiate pales and lowers her head obediently.

“The holy vestment for the Saintess of the Goddess has been chosen,” the Mother Superior announces, and two nuns file in behind her with heads lowered and arms full. One of the nuns steps forward, presenting a massive amount of white fabric.

The white fabric, she soon realizes, is a wedding dress. Not the big, bulky ones most women dream of, but a long-sleeved dress with a skirt that looks easy to move in.

Perhaps it is considered a normal dress. Who’s to say what wedding attire looks like in this kind of world?

“White for purity and a symbol of marriage,” the Mother Superior states, dashing her hopes immediately. “This dress is to show the world that you have promised yourself to it.”

She bites the inside of her cheek to stop from asking what the wedding night will look like.

“Sister Edna,” the Mother Superior says as if she knows who that is, “has embroidered the fabric with thread dyed from the flowers that were to be buried with you.” The old woman keeps an unnerving, cold stare on her. “Wear this holy vestment in honor of She who has cradled you in life and death.”

“I take it with humbleness and grace,” she says carefully, not wanting to be beaten with the stick the Mother Superior no doubt keeps shoved up her butt.

“Novitiate,” the old woman barks, and Christine jumps in fright, “prepare the bath for the saintess so she may clothe herself in the holy vestments.”

“Yes, Mother Superior!” Novitiate Christine cries, all but throwing herself out the door.

The old woman motions to the other nun that carries a stack of ornate boxes. The nun hurries to spread the boxes on the floor and unpack them.

“Each item is made of white diamonds to show your pledge to the Goddess,” the Mother Superior states. A pair of high-heeled shoes are gently laid onto the ornate box’s lid, and she goes on to say, “Shoes, blessed to carry you swiftly and safely over even the roughest terrain.”

The shiny high heels glisten in the sunlight filtering through the room. She winces, trying not to think of standing in them for long periods of time or how unyielding the fit will be.

The next item is unboxed, and the Mother Superior, having seen the face she made, narrows her eyes warningly. “A necklace blessed to keep your tongue full of the Goddess’ wisdom.”

Calling the diamond choker a necklace is certainly a word for it. It looks like armor for her throat. She can’t imagine wearing it for long periods of time either.

“A veil blessed to keep your mind pure.” The Mother Superior gestures to the lid of the last box where a sparkly headband rests atop a pile of sheer fabric. The old woman glances at the top of her head, and her lips curl back as if disgusted with what she sees there.

Honestly, she’s not wrong. Her mind is the furthest thing from pure.

“Do not forsake your duty,” the Mother Superior commands.

The words make her want to grab the old woman by her robes and shake her. What exactly is her duty? How do they expect her to save a land of whose name she doesn’t know? If the Goddess is so powerful, why doesn’t She come down here and save the world Herself?

Prior experience shows that the only answer she’ll receive is an hour-long lecture on being more devout. She is so very tired of no one answering her questions.

“I will fulfill my duty as the Saintess of Duhella,” she lies with a smile.

She’s running away the first chance she gets.