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Page 26.
Chapter 20
 If they (whoever that was) were still feeding her drugs, then some of what happened made sense. So Tedda thought. Like, she'd wake in the middle of the day and find herself in a weird dream state, on her knees before Confessor Grün in that strange, narrow room or house without the front wall. The floor was concrete, but damp and mossy, and crawling with worms. She could smell the slime on the worms' bellies, and moisture trapped in the fur of a racing spider's tail half, or grass bending under the weight of water droplets nearby. She could smell the loam, a comforting smell, except for the moldy smell of mushroom breath coming from gopher holes in the ground. The reason she saw those was that her head was resting on Confessor Grün's hard, broad knees and his heavy, steely hand rested on her head. Her face lay sidewise, paralyzed, her senses stripped and alert, and that was how she came to observe the dance of insects in the wet lawn across the gravel path while Confessor Grün spoke with her in that powerful, throbbing, soothing voice. He would ask questions and she would answer, but she wasn't sure what he said or what she answered. He appeared to seek something, and she appeared not to be delivering whatever it was, and he appeared to be damming in a great deal of anxiety and frustration within the walls of his infinite cleverness and patience. This happened several times.
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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