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ebiemidnightlibrarian · 2 years

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Cornucopia | II — Castimonium III | Father Paul X Fem!Reader | English

SUMMARY | AO3 | MY MASTERLIST

Chapter Summary: Miriam goes to the Ash Wednesday Mass and the Crock Pot Luck, and feel that maybe her faith have some chance of redemption; She meets Hassan and tries to convince the good Sheriff to help her investigate the island. She drowns herself in a certain pair of brown eyes.

Chapter Title: Castimonium (/castīmōniae/; latin): abstinence; abstinence (sexual/from meat) for ritual; purity of morals; chastity.

Warnings: Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff, Mentions of Past Religious Trauma, Mentions of Xenophobia, Religious Imagery, Dialogues from the Show, Mentions of Blood, Minor Mentions of feeding your dog with inappropriate food, Minor Mentions of Animal Death, Minor Mentions of Alcoholism.

Word Count: 12.7K (Yeah, I know, this is HUGE)

Note: Skin, hair and body descriptions were purposely vague, everything has been handled as vague as possible so that everything can be read as a reader fic.

Again, English isn’t my mother language, so I’m sorry for any orthography or writing mistakes you might find.

A/N: I should have mentioned this in chapter 1, but anyway, let's see… Here's the thing, I was raised Catholic, but in name only, you know? Honestly, I've only been to church five times in twenty years, four seventh-day services and the opening of a family-founded chapel. That said, it's not like I've really suffered from religion, as I know some people have.

In general, Catholicism was only a thorn in my side during my teen years for a variety of reasons, so if the way the OFC deals with their faith seems vague, that's because I'm putting my point of view in theirs.

I have my share of childhood traumas linked to religion (just a few, mostly about my sexuality), but nothing that has made me completely abandon the feeling of faith has only made it numb. What I mean is that every part where I describe the OFC's reactions to Paul's sermon was my own, watching the series.

Having said that, I hope you enjoy this chapter. The next one might take a while to come out, but I'll do what I can to prevent that. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR PATIENCE AND KINDNESS!!

THE WOODEN FLOOR at the entrance to the Church of St. Patrick's creaked under her foot. The scent of incense, paraffin, and varnish filled Miriam's nostrils as soon as she entered the church aisle.

That was, in a way, familiar. So many people filled the varnished pews, sharing their faith as they waited hopefully for an answer to their prayers. Harper remembered walking into St. Agnes weekly, obediently sitting on the third bench from the left, praying for the day to come when she would get rid of that place.

Not the worst of memories, she rationalized.

Miriam walked calmly around the side of the church, she was slightly late, but it was clear that the mass had not yet started due to the incessant hustle. Scanning the people seated on the benches, the young woman looked for Erin Greene among the islanders. As soon as her eyes landed on the expectant mother, she felt an unwanted shiver run down her spine as she heard the voice of the last person she wanted to talk to.

“Well, I certainly did not expect to see you here, Miss. Harper.” Beverly Keane's squeaky, smugly sugary voice seemed to poke holes in the accountant's ears.

Slowly, Miriam turned to face the deaconess. With an equally sugary smile on her face, the young woman took a few steps closer. Her shrewd eyes returned to Bev, she was wearing some sort of white ceremonial clause, so long it almost swept the floor. The sunlight streaming through the church's glass windows cast a shadow against the deaconess. That strange detail unnerved another shiver down Miriam's back. Taking a deep breath, the young woman greeted the devotee.

“Good morning, Miss. Keane.” Greeted the accountant, her tone mimicking the sickeningly sweet tone the woman in white customarily used with her, the condescending timbre of someone confident in the certainty of being God's favourite. “In fact, it is not common for me to come to Mass, but I was so kindly invited by Father Paul. That I felt compelled to come and witness one of his much-lauded homilies.” Miriam gave a discreet emphasis when she mentioned the fact that she had been invited, an emphasis she knew the deaconess would not miss.

“I see.” The sugary smile Bev gave her faded and turned sour at the mention of the dark-haired priest. “I found it curious that someone who so openly despises Catholic dogmas should deign to set foot in a church of their own free will. Isn’t that just a guess?” The deaconess clasped her slender hands in front of her, a lopsided smile painting the freckles across her face.

“I assure you, Miss. Keane, that I didn't feel any burning on my heathen skin as I passed through the entrance arch,” the young accountant told her, a simple gaze brushing the orbs, as if innocently not noticing the sarcasm in the words.

Miriam normally harboured a demure tenacity in her responses to the deaconess, but this particular morning she felt especially astute. Beverly Keane grinned, not amused at the insult uttered, but still she didn't give up and very subtly tilted her neck, studying the robes the woman in front of her wore. A slight look of disapproval twisting her face.

Despite not wanting to, Miriam let her gaze stray to her own clothes. Her robes weren't flashy. She was slipping into a plain leaf green dress that stopped just past her knees, — knees that were covered in long, dark-coloured tights for the sole purpose of shielding her legs from the icy breeze. The cleavage she possessed mimicked the clothes that peasant women used to wear. It exposed her bust and shoulders, but she had remembered to cover them with a knitted shawl in the same colour, thick enough in case the weather changed. Or even in case she got some unwanted looks, such as the one the deaconess sent her.

She looked decent, nothing that could be considered vulgar, but obviously Bev had looked at her as if she were wearing a hooker's clothes. Arching an eyebrow, the young woman waited for the deaconess to utter the insult she so clearly wanted. Beverly pretended not to understand the questioning look sent her. The obvious trepidation pricked Miriam's patience.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, still using the condescending tone the deaconess used when addressing her. However, there was a hint of impatience in the words that escaped the young woman. The deaconess smiled.

With a deep inhalation, Miriam shoved her hands into the front pockets of her dress and glanced toward the organist as he began to play one of the hymns from the red hymnal. The murmurs and whispers that filled the church were suddenly silenced. That seemed enough to wake Bev from her silent judgment.

“None. Well, at least, coming to church, maybe, you don't rethink your faith. After all, Lent is a time of repentance.”, she said with a lopsided smile and a nod. The deaconess began to move toward her usual spot in front of the altar, each step firm, an irritating cockiness in the way she moved.

There was a clear contempt in the way she had pronounced the words 'repentance' and 'lent', but not a contempt per se, directed at the words, as if they represented something repugnant, but something more subjective, the disgust and decadent look were directed at the woman with whom she spoke. Miriam, at that moment, assumed that, definitively and utterly, she didn't like Beverly Keane. She also concluded that she was okay with the deaconess not liking her either. Mutual displeasure was indeed simpler to deal with than one-sided displeasure.

“Certainly Ms. Keane. Certainly…”, her exasperated whisper, was covered by the chorus of voices fervently intoning the anthem.

There weren't enough people to fill all the seats, but enough to allow Harper to feel a slightly agonizing feeling of claustrophobia. With steady strides, Miriam took her place beside Erin with a sigh. A knowing look was exchanged between them, the curly woman having spotted the small, disgusted interaction with the outrageous warrior of Christ. Handling her wrist, the pregnant woman turned the hymnal of a vibrant red between them so that both could sing the hymn.

Miriam felt an agony seize her breath, as if there wasn't enough air in that small nave, lit by the golden rays of morning. The melancholy lyrics weighed heavily on the woman's tongue. Taking a deep breath, she caught in her peripheral vision a purple figure beside her. A deep, smoky voice sounding beside her, the very words she chanted so dispassionately.

The priest had his chin resting on the tips of his long fingers, his forehead bowed to the central crucifix. Tiptoeing, the cleric climbed the short staircase that led to the altar, but not without first bowing to his Lord. The purple clause licked the floor as the priest bowed, and returned to hover low to the floor once he rose to his full height.

Miriam could smell the lemongrass and myrrh from the thurible in Warren's hands burning its way into her lungs. The entire devoted chorus of voices fell silent as the good priest took his place behind the pulpit, the organist having stopped playing just before each had taken their seats.

Affectionate warmth spread through Paul's chest as his eyes landed on the small female figure dressed in green. In a way, his awkward visit to the newcomer's abode had inspired him to improve his homily. The preacher in his mind hoped she would appreciate his words.

His dark eyes then darted from the accountant to the growing huddle of worshippers in front of him, honest joy pumping through his veins at the sight. Once again the word of God was becoming necessary and present in the peaceful lives of each one of those individuals of faith who prostrated themselves before him, and once again he would be the messenger of good news to the people of the Lord.

“It's great to see so many of you here today,” he began, his deep, rich voice reverberating through the church aisle effortlessly. “But I do have to ask, why not every Sunday?” The rhetorical question had a graceful air on his lips. His big brown eyes pierced the faces of the faithful in attendance, a little doubt in some of those who didn't usually show up on a weekly basis.

Harper listened to his words, curious to have proof of the validity of Erin's praise. Still, she was lost for a moment in the lighting coming from the window beside the pulpit, the faint gray light adorning the priest's thick black curls like a kind of halo. A silly smile curved her lips without her awareness.

“Christmas, Easter, I get that,” continued the man of God. “But there’s also always an uptick around the start of Lent.” His long fingers played briefly with the red ribbon that demarcated the pages of holy scripture. “Why’s that? What's so special today?” His hands forgot the marker and hovered in the air in front of him momentarily.

The young newcomer watched with unquestioning attention the subtle enthusiasm that hovered in every word uttered by the good priest. The way the man moved his hands, gesticulating as he spoke, and the expectant glint that gleamed in the dark pools of his eyes was almost youthful. Miriam saw a man passionate about his mission.

“Ash Wednesday, beginning of Lent. It's hardly a crowd pleaser.” His rich voice wore a chaste smile at the comment. Both hands rested on the pulpit, a deep inhalation followed, a pause. “The beginning of repentance, making amends for our sins.” Paul averted his eyes the slightest bit from everyone, his gaze wandering briefly to the Holy book in front of him.

There was a weight on his chest. Guilt.

“Sin,” looking up, the word slipped from the preacher's lips just as his orbs inconveniently fell on Miriam.

Harper caught the restrained look the good priest had sent her, the contrition of the word slipping into her mind like a fungus. Her serene expression was slightly disturbed by a confused little crease between her brows. She wondered if he did it intentionally, but the seed of insecurity shouldn't take root, not about this. She blinked a few times to clear her mind as she continued to listen to him.

“This darkness, this blackness that spilled into us.” His tone carries a strange shadow, as do his eyes, a glimpse of the demons guarded in his mind, his conscience heavy. “That darkness, we wear it on our forehead today.” A flick of his hand towards his forehead, a glance at the spot where dear Millie used to be.

The restless shadow that momentarily reflects in the priest's eyes does not escape Miriam's perception. A feeling of familiarity lodged in her chest. There was something about Paul that disturbed her, something she still couldn't name. The most beautiful flowers also have their thorns, the saying rips her mind. Maybe there was something in her soul that shared that thing in his brown eyes, but it was too early to tell.

“Just a smudge of it. Uh…” Paul trailed off for a moment, the scrape of a mournful voice in the back of his mind, derailing his thoughts.

His eyes seek focus on the small, reddened notebook he's jotted down his sermon in, the yellowed pages and the words written on them drowning out the angel's whispers.

“A smudge of death, of ash, of sin for repentance.”, another gesture of his pianist's hand, which soon returned to firm itself in the varnished wood of the pulpit. “Because of where this is all actually heading, which is Easter. Rebirth, resurrection, eternal life. Life that rises again.” There is a clarity in the way he pronounces the words, a timely sincerity that imparts serenity to those who listen. So many years on the job must have drained him, but since his miracle, his faith had been renewed, as had he.

The words are crystal clear, each one expressing a singular purpose, a chaste intention to reinvigorate the faith of those people who so often faced disgrace. Miriam allowed herself to look away from the messenger and pay attention to the way each believer absorbed the Word. The priest's booming voice continues his sermon.

“Even out of blackness, love rises again,” the resurrected messenger intones the words with conviction, a welcome musicality peppering an extra layer of vigor into his message. “Even out of sin. And this island, it will rise again.” A new wave of pure contentment is injected through his veins as he watches the emotional faces of those he has known so intimately for so many years.

Harper feels a brief excitement well up in her core, her long-forgotten faith moving ever so slightly, an affable hope ignited by the dark-haired priest's words.

“Even out of disaster, rebirth, restoration, eternal life.” As he utters those words once more, Paul almost breaks away from the uncertainty that he is right in his mission, the fire of his own faith rekindling mournfully. God chose him, gifted him, and the gift should be shared. “Jesus sees you.” His voice rises, his ebony orbs fondly studying each slightly refreshed face. “Sees you, best of all, and he sees you true.” He flicked his wrist again, gesturing to no one in particular.

Miriam looked closely at the faces of the islanders. Ed Flynn, who sat forward, was nodding with conviction, the scorching pride of his faith reflected in his drooping gaze. His wife, sweet Anne, had a bluish handkerchief pressed up to her nostrils, a fervent emotion pushing tears into her pale eyes. There was a passion contained in that sermon, realizing it spread a welcoming warmth in the newcomer's chest, the words moved something inside her. Looks like I still have some chance of redemption, don't I? She thought, her shrewd gaze straying to the crucified Jesus in front of the altar.

“Because, don’t forget, who did he seek out?” His tone had risen an octave, the lyrical excitement gradually taking hold of him. “Who did he turn to, to build his church? His apostles.”, the good cleric could no longer contain his own delight in recognizing the joy of belief in the teary eyes of those people. His people. “Jesus' first disciples, they were fishermen. One of his first miracles, right?” His hands, once restrained on the pulpit, now gesticulated expansively, like a conductor's ghost. The clause sleeves fluttering around him.

Harper's heart pounded with the passion of the words he spoke. She reflected on the weight that passionate homily had on the island's residents. It was certainly moving to watch these people nurture their belief so beautifully, even for her.

“The nets are empty, fishermen desperate. Jesus said, 'Put out into deep water and let down your nets for a catch’, and when they pulled up those nets, amounts of fish.”, the smile that painted his face and his voice singing was capable of lighting up an entire city. “He sees you.” In his voice was a relentless conviction, bringing tears to the eyes of the children he had seen grow up. “Oh yes, he sees you, brothers and sisters, and he will resurrect this island, and he will fill your nets.” Hope gleamed in the parishioners' eyes. Looking forward to having your prayers finally heard.

Paul felt nourished. Nourished by the love of God, and he now had his heart warmed by the love of his parish.

“It’s great you’re here today, but please keep coming back.”, the presbytery pleaded in its lilting voice, a polite plea for them not to lose faith. “Those doors, they’re always open, as the gates are always open. You just bring yourself. God will do the rest.”, the good priest wished his beloved parishioners to remain resolute. Blessings would come. “As Psalm 60 tells us, ‘God, You have rejected us, You have broken us down, You have been angry. Restore us again.'” His ebony orbs rose to the heavens, emphasizing his speech.

They'll need your faith intact for what's to come, a voice similar to his, — but not his —, whispered in his mind. God's chosen must show that faith is to be rewarded, another rather more sullen voice covered his own thoughts for not less than an instant. A chill ran down his spine and there was a heaviness in his chest.

Suddenly, there was a slightly overwhelming energy in the church. Miriam could feel the constricting of air in her lungs, the cosy warmth that had covered her chest evaporated into an awkward feeling, an uncomfortable heaviness, one that only she seemed to cherish. A shiver snaked through her back and she shifted uncomfortably against the old wooden bench. She averted her eyes to the red hymnal in front of her, one hand running involuntarily over the white coats of her rosary.

“Do you know what psalms are? They're songs.” Paul turned his gaze to the believers listening to him, their orbs reflecting a now dimmed glow. “The word psalm from the Greek psalmoi. It means ‘music’.”, the bows that his hand executed, slightly waved his clause, giving the impression of being the slender fan of a blue bird. “Songs of prayer. Songs of praise.” The musicianship had found its way back into his voice. “That's who we are. That's who we must be.” As a true and experienced preacher, Paul presided over the mass hypnotically, everyone's eyes fixed on him and his persuasive words.

Each small pearly dimension marked its spherical shape in the young woman's fingers. A deep breath of closed eyes, and she returned the orbs to the cloth man at the altar. Miriam no longer felt the strange sensation, as suddenly as it came, it was gone in the musicality of the priest's voice, leaving in its wake a strange feeling of disturbance, the kind you get just after hearing an abnormal noise in a house where only you reside.

“That’s what it means to have faith,” a deep breath, and then his eyes dropped to the figure in green once more. “That in the darkness, in the worst of it, in the absence of light and hope, we sing.”, An involuntary smile paints his face at the end of the sentence. “‘Restore us,’ we sing to the sky. And He will, my friends. He will.” Averting his gaze from the huddled female form in the background, he turned his gaze to the open Bible, the shimmering glow of the gold-edged pages soothing his mind, drowning out the voice and the weight of his gift. “That same hand that dealt you your hardship, that same hand will make you whole.” And with the same serenity with which it began, his homily ended.

There was a long silence after the sermon ended. Each parishioner absorbed the good priest's refreshing words in silence. And for what felt like the first time in months, Miriam's mind was completely and utterly silent. There was no paperwork, no cat corpses, no anxiety, no grief. Just a sepulchral silence in her awareness.

She remembered those moments of strange peace. As much as she harboured a contempt for the way she had spent her years in St. Agnes, Miriam had bittersweet memories of her times of solitude in the boarding school's small, dark chapel. However, this time, a feeling of familiarity blossomed. Her mind fast-forwarding to the Sundays her mother took her to church, her youthful self little interested in the old abbot's words. She recalled with a slight frown that on the way home, Lyanna had made a point of explaining to her every parable the abbot had quoted during his sermon.

The gloomy notes of the organ suddenly pulled her out of her mournful reverie, along with Erin's harmonious voice murmuring her name. Looking up, — having blinked a few plaintive tears away —, Miriam paid attention around her. A line of parishioners had quickly formed, up ahead, at the head of the line, was Father Paul. The purple clause demarcating his presence. He patiently blessed with a blackened cross the forehead of every link in that chain of faith.

“Are you okay?” Erin asked with her brows drawn together in her typical maternal concern. Harper smiled weakly, and nodded, stroking the expectant mother's hand that was touching her forearm.

“Yes, just,” the woman considered her words, it would not be appropriate to fill the expectant young woman of hopeful eyes with her melancholy. She shook her head once more, purging some unwanted thoughts. “… taking it all in. You were right to sing him praises.” A simple smile curves her full lips, and Erin gives her a look that says, “I told you so.”

Both women rose from their seats and positioned themselves in the row of sinners. On instinct, Miriam wraps herself more tightly in her shawl. The smoky voice of the black-haired priest creeps into her ears, reverberating through the damp-swollen woodwork of the church and back again, in a ghostly echo.

“Ben, remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

With each step closer to her blessing, a disconcerting tightness crept into her chest. Since the visit the good priest had paid her, Miriam had not seen him in the days that followed, the unspoken tension that had built up on the day in question never being undone. Besides, against her better judgment and self-control, her restless mind began to trouble her with at least profane images about the black-haired priest.

“Fiona, remember you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

Impure thoughts in the house of God? You will burn if he touches you. A cruel, childish voice scratched at her brain. Having the main agent of such thoughts so close to her could certainly provoke an unconscious reaction in her, something that would give her away. This particular line of reasoning sent an embarrassed shudder through her body. Calm down, it's just a blessing, it's not like you're going to combust. An irritating voice whispered in her mind, giving her some reason. Her tense shoulders cause a numb throb in her neck.

The next step was taken, Erin prostrated herself in front of the vicar, her delicate hands clasped under her chin in reverence. Taking a deep breath and straightening her posture, Miriam felt the priest's voice vibrate within her bones.

“Erin, remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return.”

Once the pregnant woman took a step to the side, crossing herself, and returned through the pews to her place among the parishioners. Miriam inhaled deeply, taking a step forward. The green-clad woman kept her eyes down on her black boots, the same mud-stained boots she'd acquired the first day she set foot on that island. The wooden floor looked worn and unkempt beneath her small heels. The distance is less than a step between her and the priest.

“Miriam, remember you are dust…”, his resonant voice trailed off. He had his fist raised to the height of her forehead, yet he stopped, his thumb dipped in dark ash flush with the skin of her forehead, but never touching. Paul wanted to look her in the eye when he blessed her.

A doubt scratched the surface of her mind. Why did he stop? An inconvenient blush crept up the newcomer's cheeks as she reluctantly lifted her shy gaze from the wood floor to the priest's warm ebony irises, she prayed her eyes wouldn't give her away.

Paul was staring at her tenderly, a stubborn lock of black hair hanging disobediently in front of those huge eyes of his. Harper inhaled deeply as she faced him, a dizzying sensation lapping at her skin. The woody scent of sandalwood, myrrh, and something minty like mint filled her lungs abundantly, the scent intensifying as the cloth man moved, tracing his thumb across her forehead, smearing her with the mark of sin.

“And to dust you shall return.”, a warmth covered the words that flowed from the priest's well-designed lips. He lowered his fist, his brown orbs about to engulf the woman in front of him. Paul studied her face, wanting to keep the sight of the lovely blush that covered her cheeks to himself. “Bless you, child.”, he uttered in a subtly knowing tone, after a moment of silence.

Their gazes held for a few moments longer than would be considered appropriate. Miriam lowered her eyes, a trembling hand crossing herself, her face so hot it felt like it was burning. Her heart in her chest resembled a caged sparrow, a heavy breath later, she found her voice.

“Amen.”

The mass did not take long to end after the blessing. In a way, there was a general anxiety on the part of all those present to be early to the end of the service so that they could enjoy the community event for a longer time.

Miriam felt her hands damp in her pockets. A few minutes had passed, her heartbeat had slowed, and as she got up to leave, she hoped Erin hadn't noticed how the measly touch on her forehead had disconcerted her. With a deep breath, she composed herself, eager to leave the oppressive environment she was in. Before she could even set foot outside the church, Harper felt the weight of a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, what a good thing to see you here, Miss. Harper!” Wade said with a smile on his face. Miriam turned, the tension in her shoulders causing a small, fleeting cramp in her neck.

There was an awkward moment when Miriam's eyes landed on the mayor. He looked slightly younger than she remembered, it looked like even some of the gray hairs that had sprouted at his temples and coloured his moustache were gone. The accountant blinked a few times. No, it's all in your head, maybe he just figured it out how to paint them naturally. Anyway, that wasn't the only reason she felt uncomfortable in the politician's presence.

Her investigation into Crockett Island's financial woes turned out not to be limited to just the 'Bev Keane Money Laundering Center' — as Joe had kindly dubbed it. In fact, according to her most recent information there were years of fiduciary fraud going on, on the Island, and not coincidentally, such fraud had started in the records of the year that dated Wade Scarborough's first election as mayor. It was ridiculous how often this sort of thing happened in small towns. After all, if there are no opponents you are always sure to be elected, then there is no reason to worry about having your illicit activities discovered.

Miriam's gaze shifted from the mayor to the two figures behind him: Dolly and Leeza. She wondered if the Mayoress knew her husband was corrupt. She felt sorry for Leeza, after all she would be the most harmed if Dolly knew, and they were both arrested.

“Good morning, Mayor Scarborough. Mrs. Scarborough, Leeza.” Miriam disguised her concern with her best friendly tone and greeted everyone. The young woman in the wheelchair had a bright smile on her face as she waved at the accountant.

The youthful glint in Leeza's eyes returned to Dolly, to whom she whispered something indistinct and expectant. The bespectacled woman nodded, watching her daughter make her way happily towards the altar boys and young Ali. They all smiled in an excitement that only youth can provide.

Harper looked back at the mayor a moment later, her orbs having followed Leeza.

“It's a great thing to have you here,” Dolly said, taking a few steps closer, her slender fingers pushing the clear stem of her glasses back to where they slipped. Miriam kept a thin smile on her lips, not wanting to let her contempt for the mayor's actions show on her face.

“It was a beautiful homily indeed, I haven't heard anything this refreshing since Christmas.” Wade's voice sounded slightly choked, as if he'd cried at the priest's words not long before he addressed her.

“Yes…”, an almost imperceptible blush stained the young woman's skin at the unwelcome memory of the light touch left on her forehead. “Father Paul has a gift for words.” Her voice was serene, but there was an affection that reached only her eyes. She admired how eloquent the man was, of that there was no doubt.

“I'm glad to hear that.”, the priest's booming voice sounded, as if he had been evoked with the mere mention of the name, Paul appeared behind Dolly, Erin followed him and in her beautiful face she had a shrewd look at Miriam.

The expectant mother turned to her lodger with a smile, casting a suggestive look between her and the clergy. Erin said goodbye to the good priest, Dolly, and the mayor, walking with an even more suggestive smile away from the group. The couple did not take long to leave either, both holding hands in calm strides in the direction where their offspring had gone.

Harper's cheeks felt hot, but she didn't let the feeling of self-consciousness overwhelm her this time. Keeping her back straight, she took the remaining steps to exit the interior of the church. A fresh breath of air filling her lungs with the smell of sea air and burnt lemongrass. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the calm for a moment, the warmth of a body beside her bringing her back to the present.

“So you came.” There was a smile curving the priest's lips, a gentle warmth once more spread through his being at the sight of her.

Paul kept his hands clasped in front of his body and studied carefully the way the accountant's face had softened, her hair held on the sides by bobby pins releasing a few strands that caressed the young woman's face. He looked down momentarily for fear of being caught staring when she turned her eyes to him. He scolded himself for his childish behaviour and looked up at the fair that began ahead, around the city's founding monument.

“I said I would.”, she replies with a shy smile, taking a hand out of her pocket to adjust some unruly strands of her hair that had escaped her bobby pins. “I don't say this just to please you, since lying isn't really my thing, but…”, Miriam pondered her words and turned fully to the priest, an absolutely serious look in her eyes. “It was the best sermon I ever heard,” she declares seriously. The accountant smiles as she sees him smother a laugh, a rosy colour covering his cheeks.

“I'll be spoiled if this continues.”, Paul nods, laughing at the ridiculously serious tone she gave the sentence. For a moment, he really feared he'd let her down. His own smile widens when he sees her smiling at his foolishness.

“I'm serious,” a female hand rises dramatically towards her chest to emphasize her speech. “You almost converted me.”, she says with a smile, seeing him bite his lip and shake his head a little at the affirmation. “Almost. There was very little left.”, Her sweet voice has a humorous tone, and she symbolizes with her hands the little that was missing for her so-called ‘conversion’.

“It's a pity my plan to bring this sheep back to the fold has failed.” There is a subtlety in the pronunciation of the words, a delicate sarcasm coupled with the unconvincing way in which it was spoken.

“More luck next time, Father.”, she murmurs with a half smile. There's a biting timbre to her voice, a slight sarcasm. Taking a deep breath, she shoves her hands in her pockets again. An icy breeze makes her shiver.

He lowers his eyes for a moment with a slight smile, turning back to face her a little later. There was an unusual beauty about the young woman, a melancholy that crept into her features, as if there was a strange pain that kept her always at bay, her overworked mind taking her to a dark place, away from the present, away from him.

She looked a lot healthier since the last time he saw her. In the shinier, flowing locks of hair, her skin had a healthier tone, and her lips looked more flushed and smoother than ever. A heretical memory crept through the meanderings of his mind, and he cringed in the slightest. Lust is your new virtue? Will you shame God by breaking your vows, Father? Paul shudders at the dark whisper that pollutes his mind.

Miriam took a step down the steps of St. Patrick, and the glimpse of movement was enough for him to force himself to deviate from that train of thought.

His watchful eyes then capture the rather distant figure of Sheriff Hassan, he is approaching slowly, one hand smoothing the back of his brown neck as if to expunge the tension from his shoulders, the other tucked in his pocket. Harper seems to notice him too, as she takes another step closer to the lawman.

Spread the word… You still have a flock, Father, forget about the straying sheep, the voice of the messenger sent by the lord scratched in his mind. The good priest blinked once hard and watched as Hassan approached. The whispers getting angrier in his mind.

“Good morning, Father Paul,” greeted the policeman with a restrained wave, his black eyes turning in the accountant's direction. “Miriam.”

Harper waved back at him, a patient, suddenly tired smile curving her lips. With her hands still in her pockets, she turned to the priest, her gaze dropping before meeting him, an almost imperceptible blush staining her cheeks.

“Well, I-” Miriam is suddenly interrupted by the squeaky voice of a very prim Bev Keane from inside the church. She no longer wore her ceremonial robes and seemed energetic to introduce her pastor to the local customs.

“Oh! Father, finally.” Her freckled face flashes a cheek-splitting smile for Paul, but as soon as her green eyes fall on the newcomer and the sheriff, she stiffens.

“Well, is there a problem, Sheriff?” she asks, stepping in front of the priest, putting herself in the path between him and the muslim policeman as if she were a shield against the two heathens ahead.

“None, Bev. I'm here to see the event. I saw Ms. Harper, and I took the opportunity to speak with her. We have some things to talk about.” Hassan spoke in a calm tone, exchanging a knowing look with the accountant, hands on hips, at the sudden appearance of the deaconess.

“Exactly.” Miriam began, amending the good sheriff's line. “And I was talking to Father Paul, but I don't want to rob him of his duties. Well…”, she casts a glance in the direction of the purple-clad cleric. “See you later, Father. Ms. Keane.” A restrained nod to both of them and she walks towards the festival, seeing Hassan follow her with a glance over her shoulder. “Having fun?” she asked the lawman with a smile. He snorted briefly.

“The food doesn't look bad,” he begins, taking his hands off his hips and tucking them into the pockets of his blue jeans, shrugging. “The greengrocers don't have anything very different, you know, antiques, flowers, handmade candles… Ali made me buy something in each one of them. He even made me buy a bar of green tea acne soap.” He pulls a brown paper wrapper from a jacket pocket and displays it briefly before putting it back.

“Ali seems like a good boy. Give him a break, he's just wanting to participate.”, Miriam says with a smile curving her lips. She looks up from the unkempt lawn to look around, taking in her surroundings.

The sun is no longer shrouded by heavy rain clouds, its golden rays barely shining, glistening in the white tents of the small greengrocers arranged around the town monument. Flowers, soaps, handmade candles and antiques dot each one. The devout residents of that tiny island crowded among the tents, smiling, drinking and eating to the tune of a local folk band called 'Timmy & The Whack Shack'.

Miriam recognized the lead singer, he was at mass right behind her. A laugh escaped her nose. Hassan looked at her questioningly for a moment as they made their way to the liquor store. He followed her gaze and smiled weakly.

“No cars, or digital files, or any technology that didn't become obsolete in the nineties, but still… They have a folk band. A fucking folk band living right here in Crockett. This is amazing. I'm stuck in a David Pinner book!” Harper exclaimed, raising her eyebrows with an incredulous laugh, earning the looks of a few people who heard her outrage.

“Wonders never cease.” muttered the sheriff, exasperated.

Without delay, as they approached the small makeshift wooden counter, — where a large aluminium barrel rested —, blue drink tickets were handed to them, restrained greetings were extended to the sheriff. Politely, Hassan declined his notes and Miriam accepted hers, even though she had no intention of using them.

Her peripheral vision caught the squat, gangly figure of Joe Collie, hunched over one end of the counter, his scraggly beard and gray-blended moustache drowned in a beer glass. Hassan and Harper exchanged a worried look. As the sheriff walked away to have a few words with Joe, Miriam was more interested in the diligent animal playing with something in the grass.

When she got close enough, Miriam frowned as she saw Pike muzzle a piece of bread. The sausage had rolled away on the grass, and the dog was still lying down, trying to reach the pink chunk of meat. Lowering herself onto the grass, the accountant gained the animal's gleeful attention. She caressed his cheeks and the middle of his ears with one hand, while with the other she picked up the intact piece of bread and sausage. Before the dog could snatch her hand, she walked over to a dustbin next to a bench and threw the thing away.

Miriam had had a dog a few years ago. A huge tricolour fur Bernese named Bento. Harper loved him madly and loved stroking his long, shiny fur, but like anyone who had just had their first dog, she didn't have much of a sense of what he should or shouldn't eat. She would often give him some of her pasta during lunch, after all, Bento seemed to like it so much that it felt cruel not to share her food with her best friend. Over time, obviously, the animal's silky fur started to lose its shine and softness, and poor Bento started to have dandruff and hives due to his improper diet.

Shortly afterward, Lenz informed younger Miriam that she should never feed her dog with flour. The habit of avoiding this kind of food around dogs acted naturally on her, convincing Pike not to eat it.

Harper grimaced, wiping her hand of the dog's saliva from the back of the hem of her dress. Once she approached the dog, it wagged its tail, having risen from its comfortable spot on the fresh grass, only to nearly knock the woman over as it gleefully leapt on her.

“Hello, Pike.”, she smiled widely, balancing again on the small heels and stroking the animal's big head eagerly. “You shouldn't eat wheat, boy, it will make that beautiful fur of yours fall out.” Her voice held a sweet tone, as if Pike was actually a mischievous child and not a dog.

Bento was quite different from Pike, instead of being so gangly and playful, the Bernese was quiet and sleepy, but she decided to like Pike as much as she liked Bento.

She ran her fingers over the creature's thick, glossy fur, scratching with her nails, chin, and ears. When she stood up, Miriam took a few steps closer to Joe and Hassan, both of whom were watching the interaction without much interest.

“What did he have?” Joe asked, his voice still slightly choked, but this time from the alcohol. The dog happily approached its owner, sat proudly and diligently beside him, and received a caress on the chin.

“Someone must have dropped a hot dog. He was snooping around, but I managed to throw it away before he ate.” She gestured briefly towards the trash can.

Hassan stared at the animal gaily prostrate next to him, its big pink tongue hanging out, dripping saliva, almost in a smile.

“Don't let him eat anything that has wheat or sugar, it will make him sick.” Seeing Joe's brows knit, she decided to complete it. “My brother-in-law is a veterinarian, he told me the same thing when I had a dog.”, she pointed and reached into her pocket again.

“I'll remember that.” whispered the animal's owner. With this new information, the stocky old man turned his attention to his nearly empty beer glass with a wave.

Gesturing at the dark fur-covered creature, Miriam sat down on the nearby bench. Pike trotted interestedly toward her, ears pricked, attentive, as he sat on the accountant's feet, his long tongue darting out to lick his own muzzle as the woman began scratching her nails behind his ear.

Having finished his conversation with Joe Collie, Hassan walked over to the newcomer and sat down beside him.

“You don't have a brother-in-law,” he murmured to her in his deep, husky voice. “Actually you don’t even have a brother… or a sister.” She smiled, her discerning eyes very intent on the animal between her thighs.

“No, but I consider Abel my brother, which in turn makes his husband my brother-in-law,” she explained tersely, never taking her eyes off Pike. “It doesn't matter,” concluded the accountant, finally leaning back on the bench, shoulder to shoulder with the sheriff.

“Fair.” There was a pause, the soft air in the policeman's dark eyes fading. “What did Abel say about the files?” he asked, crossing his arms and leaning closer to Miriam. His black orbs watched people farther away, making sure no one but them was listening.

Miriam took a deep breath, it was obvious that her peace would only last for a short time, after all, problems just don't solve themselves.

The day after the priest's unexpected visit, Miriam found part of the documentation that implied fiduciary fraud, the fraud that had arisen during the tenure of the current mayor of Crockett. This new information added an extra headache for the accountant, and she ended up emailing her cousin with the prints of the documentation. Abel, like the good lawyer he was, asked if there were any reliable law enforcement officers on the island that she could talk to. Thus, Hassan ended up being abruptly introduced into this situation.

It wasn't enough for Bev to persecute him and his faith, now he had confirmation that she had taken advantage of poor, deranged Pruitt's plight to steal money from the construction of the Recreation Center, overpricing the materials. Besides, less than a day ago, he'd discovered that not only Bev but the mayor had been looting the island's resources.

“It's enough to subpoena them, but I don't have the legal power to do that.”, Miriam says with a sigh, blinking slowly in Hassan's direction. She stared at him for a moment, hoping he would understand what she was asking of him.

“What exactly are you asking me for?” the good sheriff asked, a stern look on his face, dark brows drawn together tightly.

“I'm asking you to investigate. See if there's anything else we missed. There's a limit to what I can do, and I've already reached it.”, she looks him in the eyes heavily, there's a raw honesty in Miriam's voice. She doesn't seem happy to ask him to put himself in the line of fire, but she does anyway.

“Investigate, exactly what? Bev? The Recreation Center? City Hall and Mayor? My God, Miriam. Even St. Patrick?” Hassan shifts uncomfortably against the damp-swollen boards of the bench, his voice low, subdued, as he again traverses the surrounding area.

No intruders in sight.

He takes a deep breath, seeing the disgusted look traced on his companion's face.

“Did I ever tell you why I moved here?” he asks, turning a sideways glance at the blackened stain at the accountant's feet.

“No, I don't think so.” Miriam's voice trails off in response, tiredness digging into her words. She runs her fingers through her hair and pulls the shawl closer to her body, an uncomfortable feeling welling up in her chest.

“Didn’t tell anybody, now that I think about it.” A contemplative bitterness covers the sheriff's husky voice. He continues, his timbre taking on a dry tone. “It’s almost as if nobody asked.” He gestures with a strong hand briefly, then goes back to wrapping it around his biceps.

Suddenly, Miriam realizes that this will not be an easy conversation.

“You know, I was, um, 21 when the Towers went down.”, Hassan says, his voice getting lower and regretful. “Watched it on TV in my dorm room just weepin’” he continued, looking at the beaming faces of the children. “When I was a kid, I wasn’t religious at all, really. But I went to the mosque that day, because they had a blood drive, and the line went for blocks.” A flick of his strong wrist illustrated his speech.

Harper felt that initial embarrassment rise in her chest.

“I wanted to help. I wanted to protect this country.” Another wary look around and the sheriff continued, his disappointment reflected in the way his thick brows drew together. “So I moved to New York and enrolled in NYPD training. Now, some of my friends, they weren't happy.” A frown formed on his lips as Hassan shifted uncomfortably in the seat, glancing peripherally at the woman listening to him.

“‘The NYPD is against us,’ they’d say. But I’d tell them, 'No. You're wrong.'” A pause, a sigh, and the next breath of air brings with it the scent of lavender and cedar. “‘I’ll show them they don’t have to be afraid of us. I'll show them who we are.'’” Uncrossing his arms, Hassan sits more properly, now facing Miriam.

Harper couldn't look at him intently, so she stared at the small flaw he had in one eyebrow. She should have better considered what it would be like to ask for something of that scope from the good man who cooperated so much with her. She should have considered his position in that den of bigotry.

“So I worked my way up.” the sheriff gestured, his breathing steady but almost imperceptibly panting, exhausted. “You know, traffic, and translating and transcribing wiretaps, then Vice” He's gesturing with his brown hands, punctuating his words until he stops, looking away from her to his son.

“I get married. Ali is born, and I’m promoted again. Detective now.” Hassan turns his eyes heavy with weariness to the huddled figure beside him and sighs. “Top-Secret Security Clearance for the Joint Terrorism Task Force. I'm helping the FBI fight terrorists.” With another flick of his wrist he gestures, conviction in gesture and words.

“We’re taking collars. You know, petty stuff, pot, parking tickets and leaning on them hard if they’re Muslim.” There's disgust in his voice as he leans back in his seat. “‘You know, we’ll drop the charge, help you out. You go to the mosque and listen. ’” A sneer breaks out on his lips at the following words.

“I thought we were supposed to be fighting terrorists.” Another sigh, this time one of disappointment. “Not flipping some pothead student in Queens to spy on Americans.” Hassan clears his throat and takes a deep breath, his dark orbs flashing around again as a girl with blonde braids and flowers in her hands walks past them.

Miriam feels the need to say something, but bites her tongue, shifting uncomfortably in the seat, because she wouldn't know what to say. So she just takes a deep breath and wraps herself more tightly in her shawl, one hand snaking down to the damn beads. She looks away from watching a giggling Erin chatting with a withdrawn Riley to a depleted lawman beside her.

“So I complain. Gently…”, a male hand raises a single index finger, in a representative gesture, before the sheriff's deep voice completes. “One time.” Hassan has a palpable disappointment etched in his features. “Everything changed.” There was another pause, an indignant silence. “I was surveilled by other cops. I mean, they even had an official file on me.” Hassan took a deep breath, one hand running through his black hair that was starting to gray wearily.

“And not just me. See, like, after the Towers, Muslim officers were promoted fast. Especially if we knew the language, like, linguistic knowledge, cultural knowledge. We were very desirable for that.” The man's weary gaze focused on some uninteresting fixed point just at the accountant's feet. “But it started to occur to them, with so many of us on the force, elevated to positions of real authority, what if that had been our plan all along?” His normally serene expression twists into a frown.

“What if we were interlopers? What if we were infiltrators? What if we were double agents? And they fucking panicked.” The curse ran emphatically across the cop's bearded lips. “Internal Affairs was suddenly all over us. We were being followed. We’re being recorded. Civilians too. Surveilled at mosques, cafes.”

The entire situation described brought the bitterness of bile onto the accountant's tongue, and a shiver of discomfort unnerved her spine. Pike stood up, sitting up and leaning his big head against the woman's covered knee. Miriam ran her fingers over the animal's ears, staring straight ahead.

“And suddenly I’m out of plain clothes, and I’m back in uniform. Night shift, street beat.” There was an indignation that never left his words, the pain spiked in his tone. “And more and more, I realize that I've lost their trust.” Hassan shrugs wearily. “I roll with it. I keep my head high.” Harper watches the sheriff's bearded chin lift with pride.

“Dignity.” Hassan's voice is raw, bitter. Miriam looks up from the panting dog at her feet to look into the good sheriff's black eyes. There was something reflected in them, a pain, an agony, but also something she knew all too well, grief.

“Dignity is a word my wife uses.”, the good cop's gaze drops, for a moment he just stares at his own hands folded in his lap. “‘Show them dignity. ’” The pain of loss punctuates his words, and Harper feels something tighten in her chest. “And then she's diagnosed.” Hassan's voice drops, almost fails, and Miriam can't look him in the eye.

“And she's robbed of her dignity so fast.”, his words escape in the form of a pained whisper. “And then she’s gone. And I couldn't…”, his controlled tone breaks into something choked, packed with grief. “Ali and I get as far away as we can. And I find this gig. This little island.” Hassan takes a deep breath, lifting his dark eyes back to Miriam, and he realizes she's finally looking at him, a sad furrow marring her forehead.

“So sleepy, it could be dead. No elections, no staff. Just a tiny room at the back of a grocery store, and a bunch of fishermen without a notable incident of intentional violence in almost a century, and I beg for the post.” speech. “Dignity.” He punctuates the word in a firm voice. “Ali is bored to tears. But he's safe.” Looking around, he makes a small nod towards the smiling boy next to Ooker.

Harper straightens up and looks in the direction of young Ali Hassan. The boy was sweet and dedicated, he always carried a bright smile and an infinite desire to help and cooperate. He wanted to belong to that small community without realizing how bad it would do him, how much it would contaminate him. The accountant sighs, lowering her eyes and turning her melancholy orbs to the sheriff.

“And I still think I could maybe move the world that one millimeter. You know, maybe here’s where we make a difference. Not in the big city, but in this tiny village.”, the policeman gestures around, his tone low and controlled to avoid being heard over the music. “Win over the fucking PTA and call it a victory for Islam.”, impetuously he throws his hands up emphatically.

“So I don’t intimidate. I don't overshare or overstep or intrude in any way.” Hassan's tone is cautious, and Miriam knows there's nothing to argue about. So she resigns herself to scratching Pike's head and calming the anxiety. “Miriam, I don't even carry a gun.” He gestures vaguely to the empty holster on his belt, his expression softening for a slight second.

“And still…” he looks around, his tone even lower, before continuing. “Beverly Keane and a few others too look at me like I’m Osama bin-Fucking-Laden.” Miriam looks away once more and feels her cheeks burn with the disgrace of her request. “And you’d like me to investigate them?” it is a rhetorical question, she knows, and guiltily she drops her gaze to the floor, turning as he does, both of them, shoulder to shoulder.

Miriam bites the inside of her cheek and considers her friend's words.

“I'm sorry.”, she says in a low whisper, not meeting his eyes, her fingers playing with the black fur of the dog that was staring at her. “I will not insist that you do this. But I ask that you just consider nominating someone you trust to do this for you. Please.” She hears an exhausted sigh beside her and decides to add. “If it's still complicated, and I know it is, just keep your distance and if someone asks, say that I hired the person and that you didn't know anything, you know, blame the newly arrived and nosy accountant.” weak laugh that escapes the grieving policeman. “I guarantee everyone would believe it.”, Miriam shrugs, letting her eyes roam over the faces of the people around her.

Hassan turns to her from his seat on the bench, his pointed gaze fixed on the accountant's serious profile. When she realizes he's staring at her, she does the same to him, pure and absolute conviction in her features. The sheriff takes a deep breath in silent agreement.

“I think I might know someone, but I need to check if she's still available.” Hassan muttered, folding his hands in his lap. “Otherwise, there's nothing else I can do.”, the sheriff completes between one breath and the next, his dark eyes focusing on Joe's intoxicated figure.

“Thank you,” she murmured in a gentle tone, patting the officer's thigh reassuringly.

For a moment, most of the tension in Miriam's shoulders is gone, and both friends share a comfortable silence.

The sugary scent of candy floss, lavender, cedar, and sea air fills the young woman's nostrils, and she feels calm for a moment. She closes her eyes and absorbs the distant bass of the small band's music. A loud snore from Pike abruptly reminded her of where she was, and jointly awoke something else.

“And the cats? Any news?” Miriam asked suddenly, turning her head on the back of the seat and staring at Hassan's tired profile as he sighed.

“The vet mentioned something about an unusual thing at the autopsy.” He knits his brows together in an effort to remember exactly what it was. “According to him, it wasn't just the laceration that caused the death of all those cats, it looks like something drained the blood from the bodies, completely.”, the dark-bearded man makes a strange face as he says those words, almost as if it makes no sense put them together in a sentence.

A pair of glowing eyes flashes through Harper's mind. With a shake of her head, she pushes the dark memory to a corner of her mind. Taking a deep breath, she ignores a shiver that enervates up her spine and lays her head back on the back, her eyes turned to the mingled immensity of the celestial above.

“Well, at least that explains why there was no blood on the beach despite the biblical amount of bodies.”, she mutters with a frown, gesturing minimally around. The mere memory of the putrid stench of the bodies made her stomach churn.

“Speaking of the bible…” Hassan glances for a moment at the slender cleric approaching them. The sheriff is silently amused as he watches his company's posture stiffen in realization.

Harper takes a deep breath and watches the man of the cassock approach in the distance, he no longer wears the purple clause, but his typical set of boots, jeans, black button-down shirt and cardigan. The mere glimpse of his lush curly mane unnerved a flurry of butterflies beneath her skin.

“Are you staying here?” she asks the dark-haired sheriff in a low voice, her posture straight, her eyes never leaving the tall figure that stood out among the islanders. She blinked after a moment and saw him nod toward old Joe Collie and his glass that never seemed to be empty.

“Just a little longer. I want to make sure he doesn't see any giant-albatross chasing him again.”, he muttered, crossing his arms in a tighter posture with the cleric's proximity.

Miriam reacted to his comment with a noise close to a laugh and nodded in agreement as she stood up. A knowing look was all that ran between the two of them before the pastor's melodic voice filtered into their ears. Tucking her hands into her pockets, she watched the two men.

“Morning again, Sheriff.”, the priest waved one hand briefly at both of them while the other dangled hidden behind his back. His ebony eyes flicker briefly to the woman with a slightly embarrassed smile.

Miriam absorbed the awkward silence between the three of them, biting the inside of her cheek to contain her embarrassment. The good priest seemed to sense the uncomfortable silence he had unintentionally caused, and offered to correct it.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, I-” he started, taking a half step back. His rich tone was abruptly interrupted by Miriam's serene speech.

“Oh no. It's not interrupting, we're done.” She turned to Hassan and nodded. “Give me news about your friend.”, Miriam used her most worried tone, just in case she needed to elude some questions from the parish priest.

The black-haired sheriff nodded and ran a strong hand between Pike's furry ears, briefly losing interest in the interaction between the priest and the accountant.

“Want to go for a walk?” Paul asked, turning to the young woman, a hopeful glint in the dark pools of his eyes. She shrugged and whispered a 'sure', contained, a wave of heat rising up her neck.

Taking a few steps closer to the stocky man who was intently focusing on his drink, Harper asked:

“Joe, do you mind if I take Pike for a walk? He looks bored.”, she added with a smile, casting a gentle look at the animal, who promptly glanced at her upon hearing his name. Joe looked her up and down for less than a moment and nodded.

“Make yourself comfortable, he already got used to you.”, Joe shrugged, watching his canine friend trot towards the woman with childlike glee once she called out to him.

“Come on, Pike.”, she called to the big dog, who happily trotted towards her. Rising from her crouched position, Miriam casts a glance at those left behind and nods to the priest who was watching her with his hands behind his back.

Soon they began to walk shoulder to shoulder. Pike wagged his tail and made his diligent patrol a few steps ahead.

Paul looks at his companion's features for a long moment before taking a shallow breath and extending the hand he'd hidden behind his back toward her, unpretentiously, it took a minute for her to register the gesture. Between the preacher's long fingers is a flower. But not just any flower, it was a gardenia. Miriam wondered if he knew what each white petal of those meant. Secret love, how appropriate. She bit her lip to hold back her laughter.

She runs her fingers over the white petals and picks it up as if it were made of glass, a bubbling blush rushing to her cheeks as her fingers brush the bare tips of his.

“Why the flower?”, she asks, glancing at him before she can hold her tongue. Paul has both hands shoved in the pockets of those damn tight jeans as he shrugs and looks around, a serene look on his features. There's a tenderness in his dark eyes that blows tender heat into her throbbing chest as he looks at her.

“I don't know…” he says, a simple smile curving his well-designed cupid's bow. “A thanks. Maybe I just want you to feel comfortable with me,” he says casually, as if the gesture itself isn't short of priestly manners.

Miriam smiles slightly at the answer, but she can't help but tease him about it.

“Oh, and why is that, Father?” she asks, twirling the short, hairy stem of the flower between her fingers. Paul could feel the smile in her words, the slight teasing in her use of his title. The elder takes a moment to find his words.

“It's just… you usually seem so nervous, so overwhelmed…”, near me. He catches the words on his tongue before they leave his mouth, stubborn heat covering his face. Paul simply gestures with one hand for nothing in particular and goes back to hiding his hands in his pockets. “I just want to fix this.” He looks at her briefly, an expectant look well hidden in his eyes.

A nasal understanding noise escapes the woman, and she lets her eyes roam around her surroundings before responding in a restrained way.

“You’re very kind. Thank you.”, her tone is sweet and soft, like the hum of a bird, and it nurtures an unquestionable affability.

A simple smile curves the corners of Paul's lips as they stare at each other for a short moment, studying each other. Then immediately turn their eyes to the path in front of them.

The crackling of the still icy grass beneath their feet is continually drowned out by the laughter and excited voices all around. Miriam sinks into the sweet scent of the flower bud in her hands, a scent almost as intoxicating as his own. Thinking about it carries her to the disturbing moment when their bodies were pressed together in her kitchen. The way she could feel the heat of his skin even under his clothes. The way he tightly wrapped his arm around her waist to keep her from collapsing, how it felt a little too tight to be unintentional or meaningless. Harper felt herself almost shiver as she remembered how his thick black lashes had so seductively darkened those kind, half-closed eyes.

Her mind was pulled from its blasphemous spiral by the priest's rich tone as he waved to Melinda in her flower shop. Paul turned his attention back to her.

“…so, how are you feeling on your first crock pot luck?” he asks, a chaste smile painting his lips, a dark brow arched in curiosity. The good priest watches her huff a faint laugh as he lifts his head and looks up around.

“Well, it's your first one, too. I believe we both have to answer that. However, I suppose your response will be much more enthusiastic than mine.” This time there was a vague exhaustion bubbling under each word, but still she shot him a weak smile.

“Oh… having a bad day?” he asks in a compassionate tone, his features empathetic to the heralded difficulty. When Miriam glances at him for a second, he has his brows drawn together and his eyes squint at the sun, her mind crawling with images again, and she almost gasps.

“Not exactly, but I've received news that won't make my week any easier.”, the young woman blurts out in a weary murmur. She feels an uneasy bubble piercing her brain as her gaze rests on Bev's rigid, impertinent figure a few steps away.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” Paul murmurs, his hand lightly stroking Miriam's back in a comforting way. The cleric feels his companionship shudder under his fingertips.

“Laws of the trade, I suppose,” she whispers, correcting her shallow breathing with a sigh. Her shrewd eyes fell on Beverly Keane's judgmental gaze, who glared repulsively at the diligent animal trotting between Paul and Harper. “Tell me, Father Paul, have you noticed something wrong with your books?” The question runs through the woman's lips once the deaconess is out of reach.

Paul stares at her confused for a moment, and runs a hand through his curls as he crumples to the floor. Miriam notices and stops her steps soon after, facing him.

“What do you mean?” the cloth man asks, tilting his head slightly and watching the accountant approach a few steps, so she doesn't need to speak above a whisper.

“Sorry, I should have been more specific.”, she stops staring at him for a moment. Miriam lets her free hand run along the back of her neck, the tips of her nails scratching her skin weakly as she scolds herself for not being clearer. “I mean, have you noticed anything wrong or weird with the church bills since you arrived?” the young woman rephrases her question, looking around slightly just in case Bev is lurking.

“To be honest, I don’t know, Bev always does the maths…”, the priest is dumbfounded at the perception of the frivolous suggestion of the question. Paul wonders what antics Bev was up to as he drowned in the dark. Certainly nothing good.

“If I may, Father, I believe you should look for yourself, just as a matter of conscience. If you find something wrong, I'd be very grateful if you let me know.” Harper watches in her peripheral vision as Pike circles some plant near the cemetery and relieves himself on it. She turns to look at him. “I'm facing some problems as an accountant. So many things wrong on such a small island…” she rambles, turning the gardenia in her fingers as if it were a hypnotic circle.

“I'll be more attentive, I promise.”, the black haired man forms, briefly touching the woman's forearm with his fingertips, triggering a shaky sigh from her. Forcing himself not to get caught up in that detail, Paul stares at the grass floor for a moment or two. “But why not ask Ms. Keane?” the good priest asks, his gaze still squinted against the blinding glare of the sun.

“Ah…”, she laughs, stepping to the side, making her way towards Pike. An almost bitter laugh escapes her as she tucked a strand of her flowing hair behind her ear. “I'm sure you've heard her opinion of me in her confessions.”, she comments when he places himself side by side with her again. Now it was his turn to laugh.

“I can't say, priest-confessor secrecy.” There is an air of laughter that covers his words as he responds, a sardonic smile on his lips. Paul watches Miriam nod grimly with dramatic seriousness, and it only makes him smile more.

“Um…sure…”, the young woman murmurs, enjoying the simple, comfortable intimacy between them.

Like it or not, the newspaper clipping she'd seen in the rectory from time to time crept into her mind, whether she was in the presence of the good clergyman or alone. Obviously, she'd already heard that ridiculous rumour that every person has at least seven doppelgangers around the world, but good God! She had never seen such a stark resemblance before. Every little mark or crease in his features reminded her of old Monsignor. The more Harper studied him, the more she had an almost dizzying certainty that the two men were somehow connected, almost like an intuition.

“You still have the weird habit of staring at people, don't you?”, Paul had caught her staring at him with his peripheral vision. Once again, she had that clinical, analysing look at him. She knows, get rid of her. The messenger's voice whispered in his mind, but he muffled the noise by focusing only on her.

“You really look like him,” the woman whispers, her intent eyes studying the priest's features. He felt a chill at the puzzled tone she used.

“Who?”, the priest pretended not to know who she was referring to, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end at the mere possibility of her wondering who he really was. However, he always guarded himself so that fear didn't show on his features.

“Pruitt.”, she says as if it's absolutely obvious. There is a break. “If I hadn't been told he's about 100 years old, I'd say you're twins.”, Miriam shakes her head as she reads without much interest the writing at the entrance to the cemetery.

“He’s not that old, he’s more like he's eighty-year-old.”, he argues with a soft smile, a tiny pinch of offence in his voice.

“Sometimes I suppose he could be your father.”, she laughs at her bullshit, shaking her head, and he feels a shiver run down his spine. “You look ridiculously alike.” Harper looks at the good priest for a long moment after that. Paul is suddenly interested in a tombstone epigraph.

“Same person at different stages of life, maybe.” He blurts out his own mind a little too far away as he reads the name 'Alice Mary Pruitt' almost erased on the lichen-covered concrete. Miriam looks at him confused as he runs his long fingers over the headstone. Strange thing to say.

Suddenly, Paul seems to wake up from a dream. Back straight, he shoves his big hands in his pockets and starts walking out of the morbid, melancholy graveyard he knew so well. Once Miriam was close enough, he asked, trying to sound uninterested.

“I see you're close with Joe Collie.” There's a subtle suggestion beneath the words that he knows she won't miss. The good priest glances at her when he sees her sigh.

“I wouldn't say that, but I believe we're friends, somehow.”, she suggests with a shrug. The accountant's sly gaze looked him over from head to toe in an attempt to dig up his intentions.

“I think you should know that Flynn's oldest son, Riley, had a problem with alcohol,” the priest begins, his steps calculated to keep her close, as if he's telling a secret.

“Yes, I heard about something like that.”, the woman says. Of course, she knew about Riley's alcoholic issues, by God, she shared a house with Erin, it would be impossible for her not to know about what happened to poor, withdrawn Riley Flynn. However, she wouldn't make it so clear that she knew, not without first knowing the priest's agenda.

“Well, so he doesn't have to waste a whole day on a trip to the mainland. I volunteered to lead an AA here in Crockett,” the dark haired priest's rich voice begins. Even before all the words escape his lips, Harper already knows what he's going to ask for. She sighs. “I know I might be being invasive by asking you this, but you know it would do him good to go. I'm not asking you to tie him up and throw him in there with me. Just suggest it to him.”

Paul is subtle in his request. There is a chaste, compassionate tone to his words, one that would warm Miriam's cheeks if she weren't pondering the meaning of his words.

“You could do that yourself…”, the accountant counters, looking at the man in front of her with a tired look. She really wouldn't mind, but under the current circumstances, she's too exhausted to have this conversation with Joe.

“He doesn't know me, and besides, Joe Collie harbours a sharp contempt for much of the congregation. But not for you. Please, just try,” he argues, those damn puppy eyes pleading so gently. She releases a defeated sigh.

“Alright…”, there is a long pause in which they both look at each other, the cleric looks at her expectantly. “I can do that.”, the accountant confirms, running her slender fingers through her hair slightly messy from the wind and starts walking towards the fair. Before she takes another step, he wraps a warm hand around her wrist.

“There's one more thing I'd like to ask.” This time Miriam shows no reluctance, her rational brain too paralysed by the touch of him in her wrist to argue, she nods. “I wonder if you wouldn't like to show up at the rectory once in a while. Just to talk.”

Of all the things Paul Hill could say to her right now, this was certainly not what she expected. With a confused look and brows drawn together in uncertainty, she takes a step closer to the priest. His pianist's fingers tickling almost imperceptibly against the skin of her wrist almost made her gasp. With what's left of her self-control, Miriam stabilizes her shallow breathing.

“I feel like there's something bothering you,” he began in his rich, booming voice, making her shiver in her bones as he took a step closer to her. “I just want you to know that you can count on me if you need to talk. I really appreciate our conversations, and I think it would be good for you to unload what bothers you so much. Don't think I'm offering Catholic redemption, I'm not asking you to come to confession, that's not it.”, the man is silent for a moment, his mind working to give him the right words.

He still hasn't let go of her wrist. Paul can feel the heart beating of the woman's pulse against his fingertips, realizing it spreads an inconvenient heat at the base of his spine. Miriam felt the blood boil under her cheeks, she could almost feel every breather of his breath against her eyelashes.

“I just think you’re overworked. And I want you to know that you can count on a friend to vent to whenever things feel too… oppressive.” There is a long pause. The good priest runs his fingers from the woman's racing pulse to the palm of her trembling hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “What I'm offering is just a cup of tea and someone to talk to…” for the first time she really looks him deeply in the eyes, getting lost in those puddles of chocolate.

He has such kind eyes, she remembers thinking when she'd first seen him at church, nearly a week ago. It was still true, but now, after some time together, she could see beyond kindness. There was a darkness in those eyes, pain, guilt, grief, and so many other things she still couldn't name. Miriam wanted to touch him, touch his face, feel the warm skin under her fingers and hold him, until she drowned in those eyes and discovered every little secret hidden in them.

“Father Paul!”

Before she could even think of answering him, a voice called out to him in the distance, and he smiled at her one last time, hopefully. Slowly releasing her hand. The marks around his eyes turned that affable smile into something that made her knees tremble.

“No need to answer now. Just keep it in mind. See you soon, Miriam.” Father Paul said goodbye, and the way her name sounded melodic in his voice crumbled every little resilient nerve in her body, if it were humanly possible she would have turned into a puddle, right there in front of his feet.

Harper was silent for a long moment and felt her cheeks burn.

Pike's tearful bark brought her gaze back.

“Come on, boy, let's take you back to your dad.” Gently, she snapped her fingers a few times and considered making her way to the drinks stall, where a probably drunk Joe Collie was waiting.

However, she didn't move, scrutiny fixed on the cleric's slender figure while her mind could only ask her: Who is this man?

Taglist:

@stardustandgunpowder, @liesandghosts, @pruitts-tight-fucking-jeans, @un-kiss-the-breakfast, @girlwiththenegantattoo, @dreams-madeof-strawberrylemonade, @sterwild, @thegardenarcher, @snapessecretdiary, @judarspeach, @hungrhay, @midnight-mess, @ledzeppelindeanmon, @vivi-venus, @novywhere

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ebiemidnightlibrarian · 3 years

Text

Cornucopia | I — Tenebrae | Father Paul x Fem!Reader | English

SUMMARY | AO3 | MY MASTERLIST

Chapter Summary: Miriam arrives at Crockett Island and gets caught in a Storm. She looks for sanctuary in the church and meets an unusually handsome priest, by whom she immediately feels attracted. He takes her to Erin's house, but what they find in the way there is at least but shocking.

Chapter Title: Tenebrae (/ˈtɛnəbreɪ/; latin): darkness, obscurity; dark place; prison.

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of Blood, Body Horror (Slight), Mention of Animal Death, Mentions of Past Religious Trauma, Mentions of Past Child Aggression, Slow Burn.

Word Count: 9.1K

Note: Skin, hair and body descriptions has been handled as vague as possible so that everything can be read as a reader fic.

Again, English isn’t my mother language, so I’m sorry for any orthography or writing mistakes you might find.

A/N: I know I've promised to post this by afternoon, but some problems just dropped in my lap, and here it is.

So, it took a bit longer than I predicted to finish this, and, also this chapter is actually much longer that I've planned, I mean, I've written this about a whole month ago. I'm sorry for that. I don't know when the chapter two is coming out, it's already half-written, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to finish it this month yet. Oh! Reader, dear, this is a slow burn, I mean, FOR REAL, be aware that will take a bit long to things get… spicy.

Please, enjoy! My asks are always open to you all, make yourself comfortable to send me anything!

THE MOON rose sullenly through the dark clouds of the cold dawn. Miriam felt the icy, salty breeze against her face, the salt air forced tears into the waterline of her eyes.

She had no relatives on Crockett Island. In fact, until a month ago, she didn't even know of the existence of such a place. However, despite the isolation, the island needed someone to handle the finances, especially after the City Council met to deal with the huge consequences of an oil spill that had occurred just a few years ago. That small fishing community had suffered a lot, mainly due to the bad administration of Beverly Keane, the woman — not easy, they told her — who would be her joint.

There was a lot of discussion, after all, Ms. Keane was almost absolutely against anyone outside the island, especially when it came to an intruder who would come to do her job. After some deliberation the City Council, which for the most part, agreed that she required help after that disaster. So, Mayor Scarborough decided to go to the mainland to find someone apt, patient and trustworthy, but above all, someone who could handle the woman's strong genius.

Miriam was the obvious choice. A serene, moderate and experienced young woman. The man didn't have to fight to convince her, in fact, she ended up considering the proposal almost like a paid holiday. After all, what could be so complex on such a small island 50 km from the mainland? It would be easy!

She was never so, so, wrong.

The rumbling of the waves clouded by dawn was comforting, and the chill of the sea breeze enveloped her in an oddly pleasant embrace. The wet healthiness clung to her skin like a thin layer of glue. It didn't take long to dock at the island's harbour, and she could already see a few lights gleaming in that expanse of pure pitch bathed in the hazy moonlight.

A man's slurred voice calling her last name made her turn from where she was leaning on the railing.

“Yes?”, asked the woman with a half smile, her hair blowing against her face.

The man who had called her had a thick, shaggy beard, a large red nose in the middle of his face, and flushed cheeks. A good, stocky sailor, just like in the stories, she thought. He held a lantern at the height of his head, the sudden beam of light bothering the woman's eyes. The man, — Sturge, as she recalled —, was much taller than her. It wasn't that she looked like a goblin next to him, no, but it was a notable difference, at least a head or two.

“Will not take any longer to we dock, miss. I think you better gather your things. The boat leaves very early tomorrow, it's good to make sure nothing's missing.”, Sturge gave a gentle smile, and she nodded, pressing her lips into a thin line.

“Okay, thanks.”, Patiently, she stared at the battered torch he handed her. Turning it on, the flash of light darted forward like a spotlight, Miriam wandered across the deck boards toward the covered corner where she'd left her suitcases.

The young woman didn't have much. She had just moved from New England when she received the offer to work on Crockett Island. Her mother had passed away months ago, and the invitation of one of her dearest cousins had been tempting enough to drag her from Burlington, Vermont to Boston without a second thought. He had relocated her well, helped her find a semi-stable job as an archivist. They got along very well, and it was a slightly sad farewell when he learned that his dear cousin would be spending some time on that forgotten island. He made her promise to call whenever possible.

She found her suitcase where she had left it, and now, with the help of the torch, she noticed, as she moved her things, a large rectangular mark staining the floor in dark scarlet, there was also earth, a thick, lumpy sand. The drawing was completely symmetrical, almost as if someone had drawn a perfect rectangle on the floorboards with red crayons. However, despite the strangeness, she remembered that the boat also carried a load of fresh fish to the mainland. The mark could have been just some fish blood that had leaked from a storage chest. As for the dark sand, for it, the woman could not find an explanation.

Dragging her large suitcase with her and slinging the strap of her shoulder bag over her shoulder, she changed her hand torch and headed back to the deck after checking that everything was in its proper place.

This time, when she looked out into the night, she could clearly see the flickering lights of the harbour posts. The sailor was no longer there, but the woman could still feel his eyes on her from somewhere on the boat.

Without delay and with a slight jolt, the boat came to a stop, the low noise of the engine being replaced by the low puff of cicadas on the island and the crashing of waves on the shore. Docking and placing a catwalk, so they could dock, Sturge helped her alight by lighting her way with his torch.

“You know,”, he began in his husky voice, “it's great to see new faces around here, it means there are those who remember this place.”, The man's booming, but contained voice, echoed in the silence. “Welcome to Crockett Island, miss. I think you'll like it here a lot, it's very peaceful.”, he said, making a wide gesture to the island while tying the rope to anchor Belle.

“I hope so, Mr. Sturge. I hope so,” she muttered back to the man, her voice patient and whispery.

Taking a deep breath of the night air, Miriam infiltrated a hand into the pocket of her plum coat and reached for her cell phone, checking to see if there were any messages from either her cousin or her employer. The signal was considerable, for an island at least. A Loud thunder startled her enough for her to look away at the unusually overcast sky which, less than an hour ago, had been consistently cloudy.

“Jesus!”, said Sturge, approaching her after making sure the boat was securely on the dock. “This storm will be ugly.”, the mention of such a storm made the woman's eyes turn wide from the sky towards the man.

“S-storm?”, she stammered. Miriam had seen storms before, on the mainland, but a storm on an island? Surrounded by an angry sea? This was definitely not her idea of a 'holiday'.

“Yes. They hit the island from time to time at this time of year, in fact, it's quite common. Didn't the mayor tell you about them?”, Sturge asked, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slightly hunched to protect himself from the ever-increasing onslaught of the wind.

Nodding, the woman grabbed her things and looked around, wondering how long it would take her to get to where she was supposed to be.

“My God, he must have forgotten. Do not worry. We are used to them around here. Come on, we have to take shelter before the rain starts to fall.”, he gestured to accompany him with his hands still in his pockets.

Wrapping herself tightly in the thick olive wool coat and jumper she wore, Miriam nodded. Quickening their pace, they wandered away from the wharf, across the dirt and gravel road that was beginning to muddy with the light drizzle that began.

Mayor Scarborough had said a lot, more than enough, she dare say. The man loved to talk. However, at no point in his long monologues had he mentioned a storm. Strangely, that didn't surprise her. She had met him on three separate occasions, two of them, at the same café she had come to frequent after her move.

On all three occasions, Wade, — as he insisted on being called each time even though she continued to say she didn't feel intimate for it —, had forgotten something. His coat on the first time, the second it had been his half cup of coffee. Ironically, the third time around, he forgot where they would be, due to an information conflict. Enter, although this has been fixed.

The man had the uncanny ability to talk so much and say absolutely nothing. His monologues boiled down to detours around information that would only really be revealed correctly if she chose her words well.

He had told her about the Spill, about the starlings that fell all at once onto Crockett Beach in 2002, about Bev, about his daughter and Joe Collie's accident, about the new Sheriff and Monsignor Pruitt — the old man lord responsible for the parish and for the island. He had also told about his faith and how everyone on Crockett Island loved St. Patrick's little church. Spoke of how proud they were of the centre they built and what a close-knit community they were.

Miriam listened carefully. Every word spoken, every name mentioned, and she didn't remember the good mayor ever mentioning a damn bloody storm!

The black linen pants she was wearing were gradually being soaked through as she protected the laptop in her shoulder bag with her coat and body. The wind was strong, and sometimes the woman believed that she could be lifted off the ground by force. The fine rain thickened into a torrent of heavy drops.

“We're close to the church, we can go there and wait until the rain settles down again, or would you rather try your luck and continue on to Ms. Greene?”, Sturge asked, pulling the brim of his cap to shield his eyes from the icy drops that fell on them both.

Erin Greene. Mayor Scarborough had told her about the young lady, and that she lived in a comfortable house with two bedrooms, one where Miriam could stay for as long as she spent on the island. Provided, of course, that she paid a small rental fee, just to help with the extra energy expenses. She didn't mind, it was cheap and Erin seemed like a good person from what she was told.

“How much farther to Erin's house?”, the woman yelled over a rumble of thunder. She could already feel slightly afflicted by that scream.

The look Sturge gave her said it wasn't as close as she thought. The raindrops beat icy against her warm body. Her hair was drenched in the icy torrent and running down her neck like she was in a shower. Miriam had her hair plastered to her face, framing her face.

She was already starting to regret it. Why think that for once in her life she would be just a bit lucky?

“Let's go to church, so it doesn't seem wise to continue if it's that far away. My coat won't be enough to protect my gear for much longer.”, Her voice boomed out, cutting through the deafening gale. There was no longer the luminosity of moonlight, what illuminated their paths were the constant lightning and the dim torch of the fisherman.

Sturge nodded and began to run toward the whitish building a few feet from where they were. Her dark booted feet sank into the mud and for a second she lost her balance as she ran after the man with the suitcase in one hand and the laptop bag in the other. By a miracle, she didn't fall to the muddy ground. With as much speed as she could, — after all, the suitcase was huge, heavy, and definitely not drag-able on this ground —, Miriam ran.

She stumbled to the side of Sturge, who was waiting for her, holding the church door open to allow her entrance. Panting, she climbed the stairs to the tall doors, the floorboards complaining at the sudden change in weight, her body nearly collapsing to her knees in the effort to cover the short distance.

“Thank you… Mr. Stur-…ge.”, calming her laboured breathing, she thanked him.

With a nod of his head, the man closed the door and stepped into the pitch-black of St. Patrick's shrine and, turning on his torch to brighten the surroundings, he began to wander down the nave of the church.

“Bloody hell! I wasn't ready for that.”, she says with an air of laughter, despite finding it absurd that she hadn't been informed of the island's weather conditions at least in advance. That's why you shouldn't make impulsive decisions, not with your damn luck, imbecile!

Miriam sat down on one of the benches with a sigh and checked the state of her laptop and other things in her bag. Everything looked in order. Looking up, she watched the man scan the church with his torch, looking for something. The fat drops of water hit the window panes like in a war scenario, she took a deep breath.

“You didn't answer me”, Miriam said, turning her gaze to other less dark spots in the church, her eyes getting used to the dim light.

“Hmm?”, mused the man as he approached a spot on the wall behind the altar.

“When I asked how far it was to Erin Greene's house. You didn't answer me”, she elaborated, hearing a low crackle that rang twice amidst the noise of the rain. “Well, not with words.”, trying to get the excess water out of herself, she waited for an answer, staring into the dark in silence.

“There was still about 20 minutes to walk there, I'm sorry to say.”, A sound of disappointment escaped the man. “We're out of power, but I'll take a look at the station when the rain stops.”, He spoke almost as if to himself.

She snorted at the new information. God help me. I need to give this job a chance, haven’t I? It can't get any worse, can it?

Miriam got to her feet, scanning the world falling to the water outside. Her eyes tried to get used to the chaos of the storm; lightning, thunder, flashing and heavy downpour. Through the window, she saw a tall, slender figure on the porch of the parsonage. It wore a hat and a long coat. Strange for such an old man to stand on the porch in the middle of such a storm.

Opening her mouth to question the stocky fisherman at the church altar, her heart leapt as a pair of glowing white eyes looked at her and in the next instant, with a flash of lightning, it was gone. The woman almost screamed, almost. A dark shiver gathered at the base of her spine, and she could feel every hair on the back of her neck rise in alert. Rubbing her eyes, she looked out the window once more.

There was nothing but the empty porch.

Maybe she was seeing things, hours of sleep lost buried in paperwork and files. Asserting the view through the fogged glass and the darkness outside, she saw nothing else. Just the white wood of the house being machine-gunned by the heavy rain, no sign that anyone or anything had ever been there.

Realizing she would be there for a while, — and to calm the unbalanced pounding in her chest —, Miriam sat back down on one of the benches. Wet clothes, heavy and cold against her body.

Feeling the bench, she fumbled for her laptop bag. Drying her hands as much of the remaining moisture as she could on her driest robes, she opened her bag and carefully withdrew the old equipment. If she was going to spend even a few hours waiting for the storm to calm down, the woman had decided that she would use that time to work. The screen's low glare caught Sturge's attention from across the church. He turned to face her, the torch's aggressive beam blinding her for a moment, raising a hand to shield her eyes, she noticed him lower the torch.

“I'll work a little if you don't mind.”, the woman says, her voice cracking slightly and being accompanied by a dry, weak cough.

“No problem. It should take a while, it's good to have something to occupy yourself.”, the man agreed.

There was some peaceful silence for a few minutes, just the sound of rain and her nimble fingers dancing over the plastic keyboard, — bright eyes flashing in her mind —, before the man's voice carried through the building once more.

“You know”, he began, coming back from the place behind the altar he was standing on and taking a seat on one of the pews to her right. “You should come to one of the masses. Not wanting to be disrespectful to Monsignor Pruitt, but it's been a while since we've had a Mass as refreshing as the new priest.”, the woman averted her tired eyes from the luminescent screen where she typed in some notes about the island and its workings, she looked at the man curiously.

“New priest?”, she asked, stopping typing to pay attention to what she was being told. The mayor is actually more airy than I thought.

“Yes, Monsignor Pruitt is very ill, and the diocese has sent Father Paul to replace him while he is recovering on the mainland. Monsignor was not doing so well before travelling, we knew of the possibility of him getting worse, but the effort of Ms. Keane to take him to the Holy Land had already worked. I think maybe the pilgrimage to Jerusalem was too much for him”, Sturge explained, anxiously rubbing his chubby hands on the knees of his pants.

Now that they were in a confined space, Miriam could smell the musky scent of a worker's sweat and the ochre odour of fish. That bothered her nose, but she went on.

The two talked for what seemed to be at least an hour or two, the woman finding out things about the island that Mayor Scarborough hadn't told her, specific things that it would be helpful to know about; the boat schedules, the punctual moments when there would be a power outage, what were the procedures for stormy moments, and among countless others.

After this time pass, Sturge began to yawn a few times during his monologues, and Miriam felt her eyes grow heavy. Politely, the woman asked the man if he minded if she finished what she was doing and then got some sleep. He said no and shut up, she worked some more. Not long after, Miriam began to hear his hoarse, loud snoring. He had ended up sleeping in a sitting position, hands clasped over his chest as if in prayer. Shaking her head at the slightly comical scene, she zipped the laptop back into her bag and lay back against the cool wood of the bench, taking a deep breath, eyes fixed on the pitch ahead, getting used to the darkness.

What the hell was that?, Miriam found herself thinking. The glowing orbs stared at her in the dark of night with an air almost mischievous, like those of a predator about to feast on its prey. A shiver ran down the woman's spine. She forced herself to push the thought to the back of her mind, thinking about it wouldn't help her calm down, and she was already stressed enough. Her eyelids grew heavy. At some point that she didn't realize, Miriam fell asleep, her consciousness sinking into a dreamless sleep.

A rumble of thunder in the distance nearly knocked her off the bench where she was curled up. The world outside was quieter, slightly lighter. How long did I sleep?, she pondered.

“Good morning”, a deep, smoky voice uttered from somewhere in the church, the timbre echoing through the nave.

Rising to sit upright, it took Miriam a few seconds to adjust her eyes to the new lighting. Then, gradually, she caught sight of the owner of such a melodious voice. He was a tall man, his skin white but coppery, as if it had been soaked in bronze. The hairs that grew all the way to the back of his neck curled into waves as dark as charcoal. His eyes were big, brown, and kind. The clerical collar denounced who was he.

Another beautiful specimen lost to the cassock, Miriam concluded after a few seconds of an almost uncomfortable silence. The man patiently waited for her to come to her senses. He was wearing the typical black button-down blouse with the collar, a black cardigan that hugged his slightly stooped form, and dark jeans — a little tight, she couldn't help noticing.

“What are you doing here at this hour?”, he asked, only now did she notice that he was carrying a small candlestick in one hand, the flickering light of the half-used candle was lost in the conflicting lighting coming from outside.

“We, hum, we got caught in the storm…”, the woman looks around with tired eyes. Her voice comes out a hoarse scratch, her nose is stuffed up and her back complains about the hours lying on the hard wood. Miriam covers her eyes with her hands, rubbing them against sleep. Sighing, she digs her fingers through her damp hair, combing it back, removing the strands that have stuck to her face.

“There's no one here but you, dear”, he informs, taking a few steps towards her. “Dear”, she absorbed the nickname for a second, unusual for a priest. Once again, the woman ran her eyes over him, studying. He kept his head bowed and held the candlestick at a height of at least a hand over his shoulder. Miriam followed his gaze, only then paying attention to the benches to the right.

Empty. She got confused.

“What? N-No, there was, um, a man with me… Stark? Sturge!”, both pronounce the name in unison. He's smiling in understanding, it's almost sweet.

“I understand. See, I believe he must have left for the power station up by the hill, just when the rain stopped. It must have been some time ago, because when I walked in, there was only you”, he informed her, looking away from her for the first time in a while and gesturing to what the woman thought was the direction of the power station. His voice was soothing, comforting even. Miriam concluded to be a particular skill of his. He turned the dark pools of his eyes back to her patiently. The woman felt slightly small under his attentions.

“I-I was supposed to be at Erin Greene's house, but I obviously failed to get there before the storm caught me. I'm sorry for breaking into the church, Father”, she expresses in a low, whispered voice, almost like an embarrassed schoolgirl, he laughs very subtly.

“I assume the collar gave me away”, he begins, looking at his robes for a second. “Don't be sorry, the doors of a church must always be open, just as the gates of heaven always are.”, the priest says with a perceptive tone. Miriam feels her face warm as she nods, content. “I just arrived at Crockett Island, so I may be wrong, but I didn't see you at Mass yesterday morning…in fact, now that I see the baggage…”, he said gesturing to the suitcase and purse that rested beside the female form in the bank. “… allow me to assume that you’re not a local.”, the priest deduces in his perfect diction, approaching a few more steps, towering over her.

He was really tall.

“No, I wasn't aware of this little island until recently.”, She declares, finally getting up from her seat with a rather abrupt movement. Some of her vertebrae protest the action. “But where are my manners, I didn't even ask your name, Father.”, Her voice trembled with anxiety, even though she knew his name, the woman couldn't help but ask him. Extending her hand in greeting, she hopes he doesn't notice the anxious tremor. He blows out the candlestick and places it on the bench beside it. The smell of paraffin invades the woman's nostrils.

“Father Paul Hill”, he says with a kind smile. Miriam's breath hitched slightly as the heat radiated from his hand, larger than her own, he covered hers with both of his heartily. “Good God!”, the priest exclaims, patting the female hands in his. “You're so cold, are you alright?”, he asks tilting his head slightly, he still smiles.

Miriam nods, pulling at his hand, almost as if it burns. She thanked God or Odin or whoever was listening to her that it was still quite dark, so he couldn't notice the red in her cheeks. Clearing her throat and nodding at him, the woman puts her hands in her damp coat pockets and looks away at the floor for a moment.

“W-would you mind pointing out to me the direction of Ms. Greene’s house?”, The question escapes the woman's lips too quickly, so she has time to consider what she asked. Father Paul looks at her with slight confusion, almost as if he's facing a frightened animal.

“I can take you there. If I remember the way-”, he is interrupted by a loud sneeze coming from her.

A beat of silence passes, his piercing ebony eyes stare at her, when the woman is about to speak again he continues.

“I'll take you. It's some hiking time in that direction”, he pointed with a genuinely interested look at the woman in front of him, dark brows joined to the dark puddles piercing her soul.

“Oh, uh, right.”, She nodded, looking down at her own boots covered with a brush of dry earth, arms crossed for warmth. An icy breeze blew through the church, shaking the woman's body in a noticeable shiver. The tremble did not escape the priest's shrewd eyes, and a simple suggestion came to his mind.

“Look, why don't you go down to the parsonage and change these wet clothes. You know, it's windy, it won't do you any good to walk from here to there with your clothes soaked like that, y-you could get sick. It's a bit far.”, The comforting tone suggested, stammering the words slightly as he himself crossed his arms against his own body.

Miriam stared at him for a moment, considering the gentle awkwardness of the request. After all, he didn't even know her and found himself worried about her well-being, well, apparently worried. It seemed like the kind of attitude, suspiciously gentle, the kind that could have a malicious layer underneath, Miriam hadn't had good experiences with strangers being gratuitously kind to her. The world hadn't been kind to her up to that point, it had taught her that kindness came at a price.

However, she remembered what Sturge had said about the good father; since he was loved and respected by old Monsignor Pruitt and was growing up in the hearts of the islanders, Sturge had emphasized that. Seeming to sense the strangeness of his request due to the long consideration and the confusion painted on the woman's face, the priest stammered for a moment.

“Th-that, of course, if you want, if not, fine…”, he shrugged slightly. Averting his dark eyes to a corner of the church that had suddenly become interesting.

She stopped him with a sloppy movement of her hand, she realized how much she made him uncomfortable with the silence she made. Miriam shook her head hesitantly. Her tense shoulders bouncing slightly.

“No, ah, it is alright. Y-you're right. The storm wasn't very polite to me last night, and I think I'm already feeling the effects of a bad night's sleep in the cold, church pews aren't exactly my ideal idea of a bed.”, A weak laugh escaped both their lips, the previous embarrassment losing intensity. Miriam wiggled her neck as she smoothed the back of her neck, actually sleeping on that bench wasn't such a great idea.

Watching him as he pressed his lips together in a thin line, almost embarrassed, she watched him walk down the aisle between the benches with long, measured strides. With a deep sigh of weariness, she picked up her suitcase and shoulder bag, following the man through the back exit of the church toward the rectory, a distance of at least three feet between them.

Paul began to consider what he had said, — and how he had said it —, even if it was innocent, — and more of an attempt to help than anything else —, he realized how suspicious and strange it sounded. Feeling his own face heat at the malicious notion behind his words, he quickened his stride. He knew he had unintentionally given her the wrong idea.

The wind blew cold against the trembling female body, chilling her to the bone. Walking the short distance from the church to the small cabin, they were both silent, only the scrape of their shoes against the damp gravel to fill. The priest climbed the porch steps first, a soft creak from the wooden planks as he paused momentarily to pull the bunch of keys out of his jeans pocket. He opened the door of the house to the woman shrunken from the cold and let her in, he didn't enter.

“I, hm, I'll wait out here, I don't want to make you any more uncomfortable than I already have…”, he uttered without meeting her eyes, just gesturing minimally into the cabin. The man stared at the wooden floor, almost as if he expected the thing to answer him back.

“You didn't let me uncomf-”, she tried, feeling bad for letting him see her temporary discomfort. The deep voice chided her almost sweetly.

“Not need to lie. I can see it in your eyes.”, And by the way he stared at her, so deeply, she had no doubt that at that moment he could see right through her. Miriam just nodded and he closed the wooden door.

It wasn't dark in the cabin. Everything was lit by the flickering light of several half-consumed candles. The woman looked around curiously, but not wasting much time studying the cabin's furniture. She placed her suitcase on the bluish sofa and grabbed a black turtleneck jumper and khaki tartan pants from the inside of the luggage. Taking off her plum coloured coat, which was already half-dry, and placing it on the arm of the sofa, Miriam felt the crochet jumper she was wearing, it was soaked, and consequently so had her bra. With an irritated huff, she removed them with trembling hands. Quickly swapping the wet garments for the dry ones, the woman mentally thanked her for the warmth provided by the clothes to her chilled skin.

Carefully, she tucked the damp clothes into a compartment in her suitcase and zipped it shut, pulling her coat over her tense shoulders once more. In her peripheral vision, Miriam caught a framed newspaper clipping hanging on the wall to her right.

It appeared to be an article about rebuilding St. Patrick's, which both Mayor Scarborough and Sturge had mentioned. Miriam fixed her eyes on the face of what appeared to be Father Paul. He didn't look much younger than he did now. Odd, the article dated back decades. The woman's curious eyes dropped to the caption on the photo.

Father John Pruitt in front of St. Patrick's Catholic Church.

“John Pruitt…”, she whispered so low she almost didn't hear her own voice. A muted knock against the wood of the door distracted her attention from the old framed article.

“Are you decent?”, the priest's muffled voice asked from the other side of the door. The woman chuckled at his peculiar choice of words. 'Decent'. How old-fashioned!, taking one last look at the photo, Miriam replied.

“Yes, Father Paul. You can come in, after all it's your house…”, the woman's jovial and husky tone sounded a little bold for what was common to her. Clearing her throat, she shoved her hands in her pockets once more. Keep your tongue to yourself, that's what mummy said…

He entered hesitantly, brown eyes on the worn wooden floor. He raised his watchful orbs to her slowly. A brief, contained smile grew at the curve of his lips as he realized that she was indeed composed. A tense silence followed. Now in the candlelight he could see the pink colour that covered the woman's cheeks.

“I-I wouldn't like to rush you, but I must begin preparations for morning mass soon and-”, His calm, restrained tone was cut off by a quickened and slightly anxious response from the smaller figure standing in the middle of his room.

“Of course! I don't want to take up too much of your time.”, He nodded at the abrupt interruption and walked back outside, the door open this time. Miriam gathered her luggage and, glancing at the framed article once more, she contained her curiosity by biting the inside of her cheek, then leaving the cabin.

Paul can feel his heart skip a nervous beat as he sees her looking at the article on the wall and then at him, so quickly it wouldn't be noticeable if he wasn't paying attention. With a smile, he gives her room to pass, her stride long as if she's in a hurry. He wondered if she would notice the resemblance. Of course, she'll notice, she's not blind, a voice of insecurity rummaged in the back of his mind. With a shake of his head, he pushed the thought away.

The good father closed the door with a dull thud and faced the woman with a jovial smile on his features, his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers.

“Come, it's this way”, the priest gestured with one hand, walking ahead of her along the gravel path that led past the church.

The height difference between them became clear when they both started walking side by side. He was little more than a head taller than Miriam, she would dare say he was even taller than Sturge, but he looked less so due to his slightly hunched-shouldered stride.

The first few minutes of their walk were filled with a comfortable silence. The feeling of awkwardness having disappeared as they walked. Just the chaste sound of the wind and the crackle of damp sand mixed with the gravel underfoot. The light from the sun was rising ever so slightly in the skies, lighting the way and decorating the sky with a golden hue, the dots of stars gradually fading as the sun shone through. The woman's gaze wandered over the scenery, the wooden houses all so alike, decorated with fishing gear on their porches, all without exception. Miriam didn't see any cars. Noticing that made a strange feeling cover her chest, as if there was something hidden in this place.

That thought led her back to the framed newspaper article on the parsonage wall. Miriam wondered if Monsignor Pruitt and Father Paul were somehow related, it seemed her only logical explanation for the ridiculous resemblance. Perhaps the Monsignor wasn't much given to celibacy, she mused, the thought painting a slight smile on her face. She focused her eyes on the priest's profile for some time. The resemblance was genuinely absurd, they could be twins. He had the serene, patient features of a true man of God.

Paul could barely breathe with the pair of curious eyes on him.

“You stare a lot, should I be worried?”, he turned to face her, his smile didn't reach his eyes, she didn’t notice. His tone was amusing, as if the woman's apparent curiosity entertained him.

Her curiosity terrified him.

“No, it's just that… Actually, never mind.”, she turned to look straight ahead, her eyes fixed on the dirt path. Another moment of silence followed until the priest's deep voice reached the woman's ears once more.

“So, what brings you to the little Crockpot?”, he asks with a simple look, his hands still in his pockets just like hers. Miriam has her eyes downcast to the golden horizon, she laughs.

“Lovely nickname”, she notes, his warm tone relaxing her tense shoulders for a moment, the priest smiles waiting for her to continue. “Mayor Scarborough has hired me to help run the island, you know, finances”, Miriam watches him nod, dark eyes glaring, watching every move intently. She decides she can't look him in the eye without feeling exposed, stared. She walks forward with her eyes fixed. Clearing her throat, she continues. “My job basically is to make sure the locals have everything they need, I'm almost like a regulatory organ, anything that involves spending for the island must go through me first. I'll work with Miss Keane…”, Miriam widens her eyes at the laugh that sounds at her side, the woman looks away at him. “What?”, she asks, humour decorating her own voice, relaxed for the first time.

“I'm sorry, I-”, He clears his throat to contain a second laugh that catches in his throat. “It's nothing, really, just…good luck, Bev can be…a bit hard to deal with”, he suggests, the corner of his dark eyes landing on the woman's profile.

“Yes, um, I was informed of her, how can I say? Strong genius.”, A hint of the woman's typical acidity sprinkles into her words. They both fall into comfortable silence, the shadow of a smile on their faces.

The priest studies her intently once more. There were dark circles under her orbs, and despite her flushed cheeks she looked tired, exhausted actually. The purplish-red colour of her coat brought out her hair. A gleaming glow at the height of the collarbone made him notice the white rosary with the silver cross that rested on the woman's breasts.

“Are you Catholic?”, he asked, removing one hand from his pants pocket and subtly pointing to the rosary around her neck.

“Oh.”, Instinctively, she runs her fingers through the pale threads of the rosary. “No, I keep it with me out of mere emotional attachment, it was my grandmother's…”, she explains hugging her body with a sudden cold breeze. “I hope you don't take offence, Father, but it's not, exactly for me, all this dogma.”, laughing nervously, she lets go of the rosary. “But if there's one thing she taught me it's that God doesn't stop loving you even if you don't believe in Him, He loves everyone equally, even drunks, murderers, and prostitutes…”, she finishes, her voice muted. The face burning. She goes back to stuffing her hands in her coat pockets.

“It's a really lovely thought”, he says after a few seconds of silence. She nodded, taking a deep breath and kicking a boulder that had got in her way.

“You must think I'm a hypocrite, talking about how God loves us and all and in the end following none of his teachings, you know, none of the rituals.”, A nervous laugh leaves Miriam's lips. Her shoulder slapped lightly against his arm, the closeness burning.

“Not at all.”, the priest takes a deep breath, his hands still hidden in his pants pockets. Another silence sets in before he asks. “Are you… going to morning mass? It would be nice to have a new face there…”, he says almost without thinking about how it would sound, after all, in theory, he had just arrived in Crockett, so everyone was new. Luckily, she didn't seem to notice.

“I think it's been years since I went to Mass. It was never, uh, something I would take as a comfort, I don't know, I wouldn't feel welcome.”, a noise of understanding comes from the woman's side. Despite the cosy breeze, she was having difficulty breathing, but she was no longer sure if it was the rain she had taken or the company.

“See, it's okay to go to church without believing. He knows we all have doubts, and sometimes we just need to hear a word of comfort. Someone to say 'keep calm, things will get better'. I guarantee you will always be welcome in St. Patrick’s. However, feel free to deny the invitation.”, his smoky voice enunciates, a gentle but almost imperceptibly eager cadence in his tone.

“I have nothing against masses, really.”, she says, taking a long breath. The tension in her shoulders ached in her neck, snapping it, she continued. “Let's do this”, the priest looks up from the dirt road to her, one dark brow arched in curiosity. “If I've settled down by the time of mass, I promise to give the air of grace.”, Father Paul laughs subtly with the dry tone, almost acid, that runs from Miriam's lips.

She didn't seem to notice the slight twinge of sarcasm in her own words, he liked noting that, it seemed intrinsic to her personality.

“You know, you're the first truly kind priest I've known in years.”, the first person, in fact, she completes the reasoning for herself. The compliment escaped her lips faster than she was able to filter it. The woman doesn't understand how he’s able to do this, it's as if she's compelled to speak her mind raw.

A tense silence ensues.

Paul felt the heat of shyness on his face, the shadow of a smile painting his features. It had been a while since he'd received a really sincere compliment. For some reason, the praise coming from this stranger warmed his chest.

“I guess I shouldn't have said that, you were uncomfortable, sorry-”, she started, noticing the awkward silence she had caused. The priest laughed, he found the woman's honesty lovely.

“No, no, I… I'm glad that you feel that way, in a certain way, means I'm doing my job right.”, he says, his voice warm. Shrugging his shoulders slightly, he gave her a chaste smile. “Haven't met many priests, have you?”, the man questioned her, dark eyes staring, eager for an answer. A sad seriousness passed in her eyes for a moment.

“Actually, I did. I was raised most of my childhood and adolescence in a Catholic boarding school in Burlington… I think those are bad memories. The only thing those priests and nuns knew was the punishment…”, memories of that dark time invaded the woman's turbulent mind. Every rude word, every harsh punishment meted out to the child she was, mostly for petty reasons, she still had the marks. Inhaling, unshed tears burned at the corners of her eyes. “Excuse the melancholy, Father. Let's just say it's not a time I intend to revisit.”, looking up at him, she noticed the sadness behind the dark orbs and maybe something else.

“Everyone deserves to have their fears heard. Everyone deserves a word of comfort, I believe that. God is always taking care of us, He bleeds when we bleed. He's always willing to listen… I'm sorry you went through this.”, That same comforting tone echoes inside her, warming her core. The priest looks at her with unhappy eyes.

“In deed, I feel sorry too…”, the answer comes naturally.

Miriam was truly sorry that her mother, — at least a decade younger than she was now —, had been forced by her family to leave her, her preciousness, in her grandmother's care. Mathilde was a good woman, very much a believer, but she had no idea of the harm she had inflicted by putting her granddaughter in that boarding school. She was just thinking about the best for Miriam and for her own daughter, — who wasn't even out of college. She died not knowing what she had done to her granddaughter for fifteen years of her life. Miriam didn't blame her, how could she know?

“You know”, the priest began, he would try his best to distract her from her sorrow. “You know my name, but I don't know yours, I find myself at a terrible disadvantage.”, he hoped that the slight smile that the woman had sketched was a sign that he had managed to push her away of her own restless mind.

“Oh, you're going to laugh, Father.”, The woman sighed deeply with a weak smile as she looked at the curiosity painted in the darkness of the man's eyes. “Miriam. Harper, if you prefer to call me by my last name.”, the woman added, moistening her lips dry from the sea air. She heard a noise of understanding escape the good father. “Oh no, don’t you dare…”, she laughed, she knew what comes next.

“And Miriam sang to them thus: sing to the Lord because he has won a glorious victory; he threw the horses and riders into the sea.”, Father Paul recited the words with a wide smile, enjoying the disgusted moan that the woman accompanying him humorously released.

“Exodus 15:21.”, Miriam uttered, drawing a slightly surprised look from the priest. “Don't look so shocked, Father, I had to learn every word of Scripture for my own good.”, she said, dark memories flooding her mind in an incessant torrent.

“Miriam did great things in the bible. She had an important part in the great plan of God.”, he mentioned, trying to make her feel better. The dark-haired man was uncomfortable returning to the painful subject, but he couldn't have known. She continued when she noticed his smile fade slightly.

“Honestly, a lovely name for a child, especially if its most common meaning is 'sea of bitterness'. Thanks, Mom.”, she laughs with a slight harshness. Her sour mood eroded the tension in her forehead lines.

The sound of waves breaking in the distance is the white noise that fills the silence.

“Oh!”, The man's noise of alarmed comprehension, pulled her from the dark place she'd crawled into. “There it is. Erin Greene's house, as promised.”, He smiles, taking his hands out of his pockets, he subtly points to the dark wood building.

Both of them hurried to the porch of the house. The sun was already up, the gradation of pastel oranges had dissipated into a shimmering hue of azure blue. A few clouds painted the clear plane, the croaking of hundreds of seagulls reverberating through the air as they neared shore.

Her feet made the porch boards creak. Standing with their feet planted on the ground, they stared at each other for what felt like long minutes, however, as they both prepared to say goodbye to each other's company, their ears caught a shrill child's scream. Abruptly, they turned their heads toward the sound. Miriam left her things on the porch and moved out of the house area.

Another scream ripped through the peace.

Without a second thought, Miriam ran toward the child's scream. Paul followed with almost the same haste. They ran, their long strides taking them to the shoreline. Miriam froze on the ground, her eyes widening at the scene ahead. Her ears caught the steady footsteps of the approaching priest. The man's dark eyes focused on the small figure crouched on the damp sand floor.

A boy, no older than seven, was on his knees, a dark brown stain spreading in front of his knees. Approaching cautiously, the woman noted the reason for the child's toil. There was a tabby cat, the body stiff with postmortem stiffness, a wide wound at the neck, the tendons, and flesh already half-rot, exposed in a strange red colour. Calmly, she lowered herself to the child's height. A trembling hand stroking the child's small shoulder. The boy raised red, watery eyes to her in confused pleading.

“Hey, are you okay?”, Her voice was low and whispery as usual, her timbre restrained to convey the sense of comfort as she always did. Serenely she squeezed where her hand rested on the boy, she saw the fresh tear marks that glistened on the boy's face.

“Mina…she”, a sob cut off his choked speech, he pointed with his eyes to the eviscerated cat. “Mina, she's not moving, I think she's hurt.”, The child's voice, congested with crying, tightened in the woman's chest. For someone so young, a child, to face death so early, even the death of a pet, was bitter and left an uncomfortable weight inside her, she knew well how these experiences could affect a child's pure mind.

Taking the boy by the wrist, she gently lifted him. Where's your mummy, little one?, she pondered to herself as she looked around for an adult. The woman's reasoning was interrupted with a sudden movement of the child, he grabbed her by the leg in a desperate hug. His childish voice murmured 'help her, please' over and over against the fabric of her pants. Miriam took a few seconds to assimilate the touch, stroking the boy's red hair, she looked with pleading eyes at the priest, he had a worried crease in his forehead and a sad frown marked the curve of his lips.

“Hey, it's okay, you'll be fine.”, she stroked his hair in an attempt to calm him down. The priest approached the two patiently. Lowering himself to the child's height, he began.

"Hey," he patted the boy's rosy, freckled cheek. “Don’t be sad. All creatures have their time.”, the freckled child stopped his crying with a sob and paid attention to the priest's words. “She's in a good place, I'm sure. Our Lord loves all creatures infinitely.”, the boy looked at him with big, tearful eyes.

"Even the cats?" the child sobbed, his breathing calm. With his fingertips, he stroked the boy's messy hair, his long fingers lightly brushing Miriam's.

“The cats, the birds, everyone, without exception. Mina is fine, I guarantee it. God wants us to be strong. Have faith, my boy. Now, why don't you go to your mother? After all, she needs to know that she has a strong and brave son, capable of taking care of her, doesn't she? What do you think?”, the priest's deep and melodic voice quieted the boy, he had his sobbing breath, but he seemed strangely resigned. Sniffling, the child nodded, disentangled himself from the woman, and began to walk away from the two of them, glancing at the dead cat one last time before continuing on his way.

The priest rose up next to the woman, the backs of their hands brushing the slightest bit, that mere contact being enough to send a shock wave through both of their arms.

“What's going on?”, the confused woman said. Her eyes scowled, horrified, at the nearly endless corpses of hundreds of cats that stretched across the shore.

“I'm not sure…”, the priest's deep, smoky tone seemed to resonate within her bones due to their closeness.

In her peripheral vision, Miriam saw a couple approaching. The woman had wavy black hair that cascaded over her shoulders, her brightly coloured clothes contrasting with the paleness of her skin. Her pale eyes focused first on the priest and then on Miriam. She started to approach, accompanied by a man about the same height as her, his hair cut close to his skin. He had deep circles under his eyes and an unshaven beard. His steps were melancholy and measured, almost like Miriam's, he walked with his head down, as if in constant penance.

“Good morning, Father”, the woman said as she studied the woman beside the priest, slightly curious about her.

“Good morning, Erin. Riley.”, greeted Father Paul, with a simple nod of his head, his dark orbs not straying from the corpses for a second. His forehead furrow still present. The name ‘Erin’ caused Miriam's eyes to turn more intently to the woman. “Do you know what's going on?”, the priest asked, gesturing to the hundreds of cats ahead, an expression of disgust painting his warm features.

“I'm not sure Father, they talked about some kind of epidemic, I don't know, maybe the storm flooded the Uppards…”, she explained turning to where, in the distance, there was a small commotion of people. Erin turned to Miriam with a knowing smile. “I see a new face. I'm Erin Greene, you must be the new manager, I imagine. I expected you yesterday.”, she said, extending her hand to greet the woman.

“Yes, uh, I'm Miriam. I beg your pardon, but, did you say epidemic?”, Miriam shook her hand quickly and returned the scowl on her face in confusion to the cats.

Adjusting the shoulder bag that rested over her shoulder, she gazed intently at the remains on the beach, dozens of seagulls flying from all directions and feeding on the cats' carnage.

The squawks were giving her a headache.

“I don't know, I think the sheriff should have news later, Riley told me they want to burn them.”, she pointed slightly at the man, — Riley. They were side by side with Miriam and the priest. The quartet stared silently at the commotion for a moment.

A breeze blew hard on the shore, and the smell of decaying corpses invaded her nostrils, making the woman's face twist in disgust and her stomach to churn.

“My God… I need to speak to Mayor Scarborough. Do you know where he is?”, Miriam questioned, the tension returning to her shoulders and tightening her posture, she tried not to breathe through her mouth so as not to taste the putrid odour.

“Yeah, he's up ahead with Sheriff Hassan…”, she pointed to the huddle that had gathered around something in the distance. “I'm going home now, want to come along? I can settle you down before I take Riley to the port.”, Erin asked, her hair flying chaotically around her head in the incessant gale.

“Sure, I'll catch up with you.”, Miriam says, her voice anxious, her mind working dozens of different ways to explain what had happened to the Uppards' apparent feline population.

Erin and Riley nodded to Miriam and the priest, beginning to distance themselves from the two of them, walking as they talked to each other, following where both of those who stayed had come. A heavy, weary sigh escaped the woman.

“Fuck’s sake…”, she ran her hands through her still-damp hair with a disgusted moan. My goodness, this is going to give me such a headache, the thought, and the feeling of regret passed through her chest, making it difficult for her to breathe. Then, the warmth of a body back beside hers reminded Miriam of who was with her. “Um… I'm sorry, Father Paul-”, she trailed off as he held up a hand with a contained laugh. There was something behind those deep brown eyes that she couldn't identify due to the whirlwind of thoughts that plagued her brain. Under the man's watchful eye, once again, she felt herself blush.

“It's all right. We all have our… moments.”, the charcoal-haired man smiled smugly at her. “Well… I don't think I'll see you at Mass, am I?”, There was a note of disappointment in his deep voice, but he kept his gaze gentle and slightly apprehensive. She nodded, pressing her lips into a tense line. There was a lot of work to be done, of that there was no doubt.

“Yeah, I don't think so.”

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ebiemidnightlibrarian · 2 years

Text

Cornucopia | II — Castimonium I | Father Paul x Fem!Reader | English

SUMMARY | AO3 | MY MASTERLIST

Chapter Summary: Miriam is faced with a pile of dusty problems and has her first interaction with Bev, things don't go as planned. She meets Sheriff Hassan and Joe Collie and discovers that there might be some very well hidden skeletons in the island's closet.

Chapter Title: Castimonium (/castīmōniae/; latin): abstinence; abstinence (sexual/from meat) for ritual; purity of morals; chastity.

Warnings: Slow Burn, Angst, Mentions of Past Religious Trauma, Description of an Anxiety Attack (Slight), Anxiety, Descriptions of a Cold, Descriptions of Depression Symptoms (Is just a suggestion of actually).

Word Count: 7.8K

Note: Skin, hair and body descriptions has been handled as vague as possible so that everything can be read as a reader fic.

Again, English isn’t my mother language, so I’m sorry for any orthography or writing mistakes you might find.

A/N: So… how do I say this… This chapter has completely got out of hand. My idea was to release it on Christmas Eve, to be a gift to everyone reading this (THANK YOU SO MUCH!). But what ended up happening was that the chapter got so big and so full of information that I had to split it in three. It's, like, 12K, and I didn't even get to the crock pot luck part *laughs w despair*

This is part one, where our priest meow meow only comes up a little bit and there's A LOT of OFC development, in this case, the reader. This first part is more connected to Angst and Character Study than anything else. HOWEVER, I swear our boy shows up quite a bit in part two (which I'm still finishing lol) including, ladies and gentlemen, tense moments (you know what kind ; D).

Also, my asks are always open to you all, make yourself comfortable to send me anything!

Enjoy the reading! See y'all in a couple of days, so, happy New Year! I wish all the best in the whole world, and that in 2022 all of your dreams come true.

ONE ASPIRIN. An aspirin and a comfortable bed were all Miriam wanted most. Her head throbbed with the white noise that Beverly Keane's squeaky voice had become in the last half hour she'd spoken non-stop. Both, along with the mayor, Sheriff Hassan, and Ed Flynn, were all in the small police station at the back of the grocery store.

Miriam smoothed her fingers over her forehead and pressed hard against the bridge of her nose in an effort to keep her tired eyes open and to calm herself with a long inhale. The small island's problems had escalated considerably quickly since her arrival in the early hours of that day. The entire morning she was supposed to settle down had been spent in lengthy discussions with Mayor Scarborough and the unofficial administrator, — arising from the end of Mass and who, at this moment —, was looking reproachfully at the young woman. Shafts related to her futility of presence shot toward her with a subtle vigor Miriam had never seen.

Hassan prostrated himself for some time in a corner away from the tiny, enraged woman, his toned arms crossed in a defensive posture, his dark eyes watching the discussion unfold. Miriam caught him analysing her at one point, when Wade miraculously managed to become the deaconess's target. The young woman caught an identifying look behind the sheriff's tired orbs. Found a brother in the pain of being unwanted, it seems, she concluded to herself, sighing as she turned her gaze to the two arguing in front of her.

“…and that's why I don't think it's wise to allow a stranger, someone unfamiliar with Crockett's ways, to run our community.” To Miriam and Hassan's relief, Bev seemed satisfied with the numerous listing of her reservations to the newcomer. Her poisonous green eyes looked up and down at the woman patiently awaiting her turn to speak.

“Yes Bev, I know that well, you've already made your discontent very clear, but you have to understand that the City Council has decided. We've taken a vote, there's nothing to argue about.” The mayor's voice was low, slightly husky, almost irritable, and despite being much bigger than the deaconess, the mayor seemed to cringe before the woman in a mixture of complacency and barely contained anger.

“Right.” There was a short pause, the woman looked at the oldest Flynn leaning against the door frame of the tiny office and seemed to remember the real reason for that meeting. “What do you suggest we do then? With the cats, I mean.”, asked the beatified, looking pointedly at the young woman in front of her.

“I believe the best way to find out what happened to those poor creatures is, of course, to investigate. And since this is not my field of expertise, I think it's more than clear that Sheriff Hassan should be in charge. He'll know better than any of us what to do on this occasion.” The sheriff and the woman exchanged a simple look of understanding.

“She's right, I can manage this.” The law man's slurred voice echoed through the cubicle for a moment. The sour look that gleamed in the deaconess's eyes directed them both with caution and discretion. The mayor was ready to speak, his large moustache moving as he opened his mouth before being rudely interrupted by the braided woman.

“Yes, this is more than clear, but I was referring to what must be done with the bodies. I don't believe it's wise to just leave them lying around.”, the tartness of the words did not go unnoticed by any of those present. The lamp attached to the ceiling produced an incessant hum that made the back of Miriam's head throb in pain even more.

"Of course. You’re right, miss.” Miriam allowed, by one beat, Bev to gloat over her 'superiority'. “The wisest thing would probably be to burn them, as suggested by Mr. Flynn. They could be contaminated with some form of illness, and it wouldn't be good for the children to have contact with infected waste, would it?” There was a passive aggressiveness in Miriam's words, mirroring the tone of the deaconess.

Silence.

The only sound other than her breathing was the persistent hum of electricity running through the lamp.

“I can't guarantee the parishioners will approve.” The woman's high-pitched timbre seemed to ring like bells inside Miriam's head. She was starting to get impatient once again in less than twelve hours.

“It's for the safety of your children, I'm sure they'll understand the steps to be taken, Ms. Keane.” The beatified’s name slipped acidly across her lips. A smug smile painted the curve of the young woman's lips. Turning her body to Ed Flynn, Miriam walked past the deaconess, rummaging in her coat pocket for her cell phone. “Mr. Flynn, would you mind telling me how many gallons of petrol do you think it will take to cremate the cats without any major problems?” Typing quickly into her mobile device, taking notes of spending possibilities, Miriam waited for a response from the man.

"Well," the fisherman glanced at the sheriff in the corner and then at the irritable figure of Beverly Keane, who was incessantly squeezing with the neat tips of her nails the hem of her greenish jumper sleeve. “About three gallons should be enough, is what? A hundred?” the man who smelled of fish and sea air asked Hassan, avoiding any form of eye contact with the small, sullen woman. The good sheriff nodded with a nod of his dark hair and eased himself into a more comfortable position against the wooden wall.

"Excellent. Sorry to bother you with this, but I'll need a detailed list of the island's supplies, whatever's in store, can you get me that Mr. Scarborough?” the woman turned, her exhausted eyes falling on Wade. Taking a few more notes on her cell phone, Miriam returned to her spot propped against the sheriff's desk, facing the prime deaconess. Nodding his head, Wade muttered a restrained 'Sure' as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

Still unreconciled but restrained, Beverly Keane clasped her hands in front of her with a sigh and nodded, like a cranky child who has had to settle for less candy than she wanted. A short beat of silence followed. The deaconess was staring at Miriam, her eyes scrutinizing her, as if searching tirelessly for a hideous flaw that lurked in the weary marks on the woman's features. Her greenish orbs glowed with an eerie light as she caught the rosary that stood out, glittering around the black collar of her jumper.

"Very well, then. May I ask you something Miss…”, the space to be filled in her soft, squeaky speech was deliberate.

"Harper." Miriam's voice came out as pure hoarseness. The sandy feeling at the bottom of the palate starting in grades. Clearing her throat, so her voice sounded less like the dragging of an iron slab over dry concrete, she continued. "You can ask me what you want, I want you to feel at ease with me.", the deaconess’ green eyes narrowed for a moment. Two would play this game.

"Ms. Harper, tell me, are you Catholic?” The passive-aggressive tone covered her words, and the lopsided half smile that painted her freckled features screamed at Miriam to be careful with that woman. Harper had always trusted the unease that gripped her chest with some people, this time it would be no different.

Casting an almost imperceptible glance at Hassan, — who was still watching the discussion like a curious feline —, Miriam stiffened her posture the least bit and looked as deeply as she could into the dry green of the slightly shorter woman's orbs. She chose her words carefully.

“I believe I can honestly say, Miss. Keane, I was once very devout. However, it is normal for us to have our disagreements with God. I don't disbelieve him, but I haven't practised the good dogmas of the Holy Church for years.”, a palpable tension had formed, the deaconess' thin smile faded slightly, she would find a way to muster the islanders' general contempt for the newly arrival, of that Harper was sure. Both women maintained their haughty postures, eyes glazed over.

“Ah!” the noise of understanding escaped the redhead’s lips with clear contempt. "I see," she said, glancing sideways at the sheriff and giving the mayor a sharp look. “I believe we're done here.” The tone of authority increased the tension in Miriam's shoulders. Beverly turned to leave, her rigid braid snaking behind her body.

Wade whispered some mild apologies on behalf of the woman and excused himself, the woods creaking with his weight, as he passed the fisherman still standing on the jamb, the mayor greeted him briefly and continued on his way. Ed Flynn turned tired eyes to the woman who had remained and cleared his throat.

“She…”, a restrained pause to choose words, followed. “She just cares a little… too much. Will get used, Ms. Harper.” The man watched the young woman's tense shoulders shake the slightest bit with a deep breath, and, refraining from saying anything more, waved goodbye to the sheriff and walked out the door.

A joint sigh escaped the remaining two.

“Let me guess, she doesn't get better after you meet her.” The woman's once melodic and now husky voice bounced against the walls and returned to her, her own speech ringing bells in the aching inside her head. A weak nasal chuckle escaped the detective.

“Honestly?” the man asked, a hint of light humour in his voice. Moving from where he was, Hassan closed the door to the tiny parlour and turned his worried face, — softer now —, to Miriam. “No.” The man watched the woman rub her eyes hard and inhale deeply a few times.

“Who could imagine, right? I believe she almost made it clear that she despised me when she said, and I quote, 'it is useless to hire someone to fill a position that is already competently occupied'. It's amazing, really. I was called, — very subtly I should point out —, useless, stupid and incompetent in the same sentence on my first goddamn day on the job.” A disgusted moan escaped her as she ran her fingers through the tousled strands of her hair.

“I must say she's not usually so openly hostile to someone. Maybe she's just not used to having someone stand up to her. I haven't been here that long, but I can safely say this is the first time I've seen her be so… aggressive with the mayor.” Settling down casually in his chair, the sheriff studied the exhausted figure propped up on his desk. He felt sorry for her, the deaconess could be a pain in the ass without even needing to be provoked, but now, from what he'd seen, Bev would certainly develop the extra vigor to crucify the newcomer.

Amazing! Apparently I hit the jackpot. Bad Wi-Fi, a thousand problems, and now the only person I shouldn't tease wants my head. Great first day! Exhaustion was making her more acidic than usual. Nodding at the man, Miriam noticed in her peripheral vision a passage she hadn't noticed there. Moving with curiosity, she saw that it was a set of two small, barred cells. Her eyes caught sight of a shape lying on one of the beds, the musky odour and the unmistakable smell of cheap beer invading her nostrils.

"This is Joe Collie." said the sheriff, appearing behind her in the passage. With a flick of his wrist, Hassan pushed open the cell door frame, the pulleys sliding with a loud snap that woke the man asleep inside the cell. "Good morning, Joe.", a pair of confused eyes, stared at the two standing at the door.

"Arg… Coffee?", waving a chubby hand, he ignored the sheriff's greeting. The man's grumpy timbre was choked with sleep. With an effort, Joe sat up on the messy bed in the cell and rubbed his eyes and his face, trying to ward off sleep. Releasing a hoarse grunt, he looked up at the nearest woman, his restless eyes locked on the burgundy colour of the coat she was wearing. "And… who are you?" his eyes to her face, half curious, half uninterested.

Hassan whispered 'be polite' to the man in the cell, like a father berating his son for not paying attention to visitors. The sheriff walked away from the two of them unhurriedly, under the pretence of getting himself and Joe a mug of coffee. He kindly offered it to Miriam, which she politely declined.

“Ah… I'm Miriam, Harper, I came… to work with the mayor. Nice to meet you, Mr. Collie.” She introduced herself for what felt like the ninetieth time that day. Taking her hands out of her coat pockets, she reached out to shake the sleepy man's hand. Joe stared at the hand held out in front of him for a moment.

"I heard Bev's bitch voice a little while ago, she doesn't seem to like you very much, maybe that's a good sign.", a nasal laugh escaped Miriam at the comment. He soon shook the woman's hand firmly, an approving half smile curving his lips hidden under his beard. If she had laughed at his comment, it must have indicated that she was as fond of Beverly as he was. She hadn't looked down on him when she saw him, or with pity, she had greeted him honestly, without judgment, like a real human being.

"Yeah, I suppose you can put it that way.", the woman laughed again weakly. “I guess it makes sense, I'm stealing her job anyway…” she lazily leaned against the door jamb, weary of arguments, happy to speak of her dislikes to the deaconess with someone who so similarly seemed to detest her.

The new information piqued Joe's interest. If Bev was being removed from her post, that was news to him. Happy news.

“Hm… Are you… taking care of things now?”, he asked. The answer he got was an exhausted nod from the woman.

A muttered 'excuse me' came from behind the woman, and Miriam gave space for Hassan to walk past her with two steaming mugs of coffee. She watched as Joe thanked him and took the crockery object in his big hands. The sheriff leaned against the wall, inhaling the reek of the dark liquor and watching the interaction between the two.

“I already heard about the Spill, didn't you?”, another brief nod. “But…” the man took a sip of his coffee and cast a quick glance in the detective's direction. “Do you know what happened next?” There was a conspiratorial tone in Joe's words, almost as if he shared a secret. Realizing this piqued Miriam's curiosity.

“Joe…” Hassan's husky, slurred voice sounded like a warning, something that indicated he shouldn't say whatever he was going to say next, the patronizing timbre again present in his words. Joe Collie glanced sideways and deliberately ignored the sheriff's warning.

"She needs to know.", the detective smoothed his face, knowing he couldn't stop the man from talking. Joe continued, turning to Miriam. “When the oil spill happened a few years ago, business went down the drain. We are a fishing community, fish are our livelihood, without them life was fucked up.”, a long sip of his coffee followed. His unquiet eyes moving restlessly, as if remembering a time millennia in the past. “Obviously, it was huge shit, but they thought they could get rid of us by offering a deal for the loss. You know, a lot of people took a back seat to accept it.” Hassan opened his mouth in a deep breath to interfere. Harper glanced at him briefly, a hint that there was no need for interference, but he continued.

"You don't know if that's true, Joe.", the detective intervened with a calm tone of someone who didn't want to argue. Hassan looked as exhausted as herself, Miriam noticed. All the surrounding signs pointed to a great avalanche in her path that only a trickle of snow was holding back. Trouble, and more trouble… Her head was still throbbing. Her back ached and every limb of her body seemed to want to let go.

“You have no idea what I know, Hassan.” There was a bitterness in his words. Joe sipped the last of the blackened liquid from the mug and placed it on the floor beside his feet. His drunken, sad features turned serious for a moment. “Bev Keane killed half this town with the shitty deal.” His tone was incisive, annoyed. “I've known that woman since elementary school. And nothing she ever did or does is…”, he trailed off, hands rubbing his palms nervously against his jeans, the man with the thick beard and the smell of alcohol shook his head as if to expel an unwanted thought. “Bev encouraged everyone to accept the oil companies' agreements. It was a lot of money, well, it seemed at least, until a few years of lost income counted. But nobody bothered to do the fucking maths at the time.”, the curse came out with emphasis from the man in the cell.

Miriam was unnerved. It was not uncommon to find someone who took advantage of the business, but it was always revolting. Standing now, against the door frame, the woman ran her hands over her face, understanding the scale of the problem. Taking a deep breath, she stared at Joe, waiting for him to continue.

“Then, in the midst of all that shit, Bev came up and said, 'Take the money, it's a gift from God. Enjoy and give some back to Him.’ And that's what everyone did. They took part of the money and gave it to the church. But old Pruitt was so sick that all the money ended up in that bitch's hands. I don't know what she thought, if it was some sick kind of guilt or just a front, so it's not obvious she outsmarted half the island, but she decided to build the damn Recreation Center. Nobody knows if building it really cost what they gave her. And a lot of people have already left this backwater, so maybe you'll never really find out how much money she laundered building that useless centre. Nobody uses that shit, only when there are storms and sometimes not even like that.”, he finished. The heavy breathing of someone who had talked a lot.

“My God…”, the young woman, was exasperated.

It wasn't enough: the endless, outdated paperwork in the city's files, the cats, the fiduciary damage, there was still a fucking money-laundering scheme right under everyone's noses. That realization made her want to beat herself up for the bad decision, but now it was too late, she was already here, and promise made is promise kept. Fucking promise, she thought, absorbing all the information.

“Thanks, Joe. For sharing this information with me. I promise to try to do everything in my power to try to reverse this situation as soon as possible.” With a nervously trembling hand, Miriam took a small notepad and pen from her inner pocket. Quickly, she jotted down her contact number in two places on the same sheet, highlighted it, then separated the ends where her number was noted. "Here. Please don't hesitate to call me with any information that might be of interest to the community. Sheriff Hassan, I'd like you to update me on the cat situation. Talk to me, just me, please.” she asked, handing them the small detached pieces of paper, the numbers written in her hurried print.

Joe nodded, getting up from his place in the cell and bidding a short goodbye to the two who remained, his unsteady steps heading towards the grocery store coolers.

"Okay," confirmed the good sheriff, his dark eyes moving from the paper in his hand to the young woman's face. “Look…”, he began with a worried father tone. “You seem like a good person, well-meaning… Just be careful with Bev. And don't get in trouble, okay?”, Hassan approached her with calm strides. A hand rested on the woman's shoulder in a comforting, friend-like grip you can trust.

“Yes sir.” Smiling with patience and weariness, she nodded in understanding and started to walk away.

The worn woods on the floor creaked in the same place they had first made it when Wade had passed by. Walking toward the exit, the young woman said a simple, friendly 'good morning' to Annie Flynn behind the counter. The woman with short blond hair smiled widely in response, turning her green eyes away from her husband, with whom she was talking about something. How Annie smiled reminded her of her mother. Miriam was already at the door when she spotted Joe picking up a crate of beer cans and approached the counter, she waved a vague gesture, the prim man didn't seem to notice.

Continuing her way outside, she felt the warm, welcoming breeze of the afternoon embrace her aching body. ‘Shit…’ she whispered so that she would be the only one to hear. Anxiety and anguish splintered, tearing each other for the space in the woman's chest. It was a constant, nervous grip. Her eyes lifted to the sky, the azure colour of the dawn having been replaced by a lingering misty gray. Stepping down the first step, Miriam felt a wave of pain run up her spine.

“Fuck…”, the murmur, escaped her lips. With some effort, the woman sat down on the low steps of the grocery store.

It was only when she was already sitting with her face buried in her hands that she felt something cold touch her cheek. Raising the confused orbs, Miriam was slightly startled as her field of vision was taken up by the obscure shadow of a huge dog. The animal seemed interested in her, curious in some way for the person who looked so distressed, disturbing his peace. A wary hand prostrated itself in front of the dog's icy muzzle. One sniff, two, and he happily licked the tips of her fingers.

"Hi.", her husky voice called the dog. Miriam felt her fingers spread over the animal's fur. It felt like velvet and it was so warm and cosy, she didn't mind when the dog laid its heavy head on her thighs.

The young woman looked at the thick collar that resembled a leather belt that wrapped around the animal's throat. There was no small metal tag with an identification, in fact, the dog's name had been sloppily scratched into the leather of the collar. Letter by letter, she read the name: P-I-K-E.

“Pike. Is that your name, boy?” The furry animal's ears in her lap perked up at the call to his name. Miriam smiled serenely, her well-cut nails scratching affectionately behind the dog's ears. She took a deep breath, the anxiety calming in her chest as she focused on running her fingers through Pike's fur.

Miriam looked around her vehemently, studying the small ghost town intently. It was peaceful, no cars speeding wildly along the roads, no buildings over twenty floors high scratching the sky. Just trees that calmly swayed their foliage and small houses where a few families lived.

"Mom, you would have loved this place.", she sighed. Calm and composed again, the weight of problems less incisive on her tired mind.

Pike lifted his head from her lap with a sudden interest in a tall, slender figure who walked leisurely a little way away from where they were standing. Miriam also followed the animal's attentive gaze curiously. It didn't take long for an easy smile to curve her lips. His full black hair pulled back and a messenger bag snug over his shoulder.

The good father felt the unmistakable awareness of eyes on him. Lifting the deep, dark puddles that were his brown orbs, Paul noticed a figure sitting huddled in front of the grocery store, a large dog lying nearby, its diligent head resting in its lap, for a moment he wondered who was looking at him. After his renewed eyes adjusted to the distance, a wide smile spread as he realized it was her.

He slowed his pace, nodding sparingly at Miriam. She held up a hand and sheepishly returned the greeting. The young woman felt a comforting warmth spread through her core, instantly relaxing her shoulders and her rigid posture. There was a strange comfort in the man's aura, a friendliness that mingled with a sense of mystery. Miriam attributed the strange feeling of mystery to the resemblance between the priest and the old Monsignor.

Paul debated whether to turn away from his walk towards Millie's house or continue. He hesitated, but the weight of the sacrament he carried with him kept him going. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the strap of his bag tightly and continued his long stride. Millie needed this as soon as possible, his sudden interest in the newcomer could wait a little longer.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

Trim!

The microwave's shrill whistle blew late in the afternoon. With a moan, Miriam looked up from the cold kitchen island counter and caught sight of Erin Greene's gleaming face. She had placed a plate of steaming food in front of her, the sound of crockery clicking against the counter echoing in her head. There was a glass cup filled with water, a small aspirin waiting beside the cup. Pulling out a chair, the pregnant woman sat down, and propping her chin on her palm, she was amused to watch the slow movements of the woman in front of her.

“I heard Bev was hard on you today.” With a weak gesture, she pushed the aspirin and glass closer to the huddled figure on the counter. “Here.” Erin watched the marks of a tired worker on her tenant's face. Harper made a disgusted expression, her mouth a downward frown.

“I wonder who told you. News travels fast, doesn't it?”, Miriam's slurred voice rang out dry. I'll definitely wake up sick… but at least I'll have an excuse not to run into Bev. Miriam stared at the plate of food in front of her. There was some oven-roasted rice, some cherry tomatoes, and a fried fish filet. It looked good, but she had no appetite.

“Not who you think. Apparently you made a… strong impression on the Flynn family.” A husky chuckle escaped the counter, along with a long, childish 'no'. "Annie described you as a…'girl with strong presence of mind.'", A wide grin of mischievous amusement painted Erin's full lips. Harper remembered when she'd seen them whispering at the grocery store earlier.

“I will stay spoken. Jesus, they hate me.”, whimpered Miriam, burying her hands in her face. The woman with long curly hair laughed once more. Harper smoothed her fingers through her hair, its strands a damp, oily mess.

“No, I don't think that's it, Miriam. Maybe it's just weird that someone finally faces the old cow.” They both laughed weakly again. A beat of silence ensued. "Well. Take this and eat something. You've been out all day, I doubt you've had time to eat.” A mother's serious tone covered Erin's words, and for a moment Miriam considered.

“Yes ma'am.”, still smiling, but firmly, Miriam took the small white pill in her fingers and swallowed it without difficulty. The sandy feeling in the back of her throat when she swallowed bothered her a lot.

With the eyes and a big smile, Erin stared at the woman, gesturing to the plate in front of her. Sighing, Harper picked up a fork and rummaged through the food without much interest. The tiredness and the sleepless night were finally getting to her.

"Good. I'm going to bed, soon the night sickness will start and these are particularly worse than the morning ones.” Her gentle expression and witty comments made Miriam feel at home, comfortable. Saying goodbye, Erin went upstairs to her own room, leaving Miriam to finish her dinner.

With little interest and some effort, the woman forced herself to eat a few mouthfuls of the food, the dampness of the oven rice not so bothersome when she swallowed. Miriam finished the rice and a portion of the fish. Moving her slightly trembling hands to the mobile device in her pocket, she reached for her cell phone.

7:15 pm.

Wow, how much in such a short time, she kept the thought to herself. In fact, a lot had happened since she'd set foot on the sodden wood of the dock. A storm worthy of a disaster film; an infestation of dead cats in the best 'The Ten Commandments' style; a ghost town crammed with fervent Catholics; a money-laundering scheme and, of course, a priest who certainly shouldn't be so attractive to her, after all he was a man of cassock, — and her experience with such men told her not to trust them.

Once again, Miriam found herself thinking of the good Christian with the deep brown eyes. He looked so pure, so genuinely kind for his own good, that he looked almost suspicious. She laughed at the thought. Despite his stature, the priest didn't look like someone capable of doing any harm, not with those lost puppy dog eyes.

Thinking of the adorable way Paul's wide eyes crinkled when he smiled or how perfect his teeth were made a cold wave run through her body to lodge in the pit of her stomach. Paul, when did she start thinking of him by name and not title? By God, they barely knew each other, and he is a priest. Maybe all that time in Catholic boarding school had driven her insane, or maybe just a little prone to a Thorn Birds’ romance style.

Shaking her head, Miriam got up from the chair she'd been sitting in and picked up the half-eaten dinner plate from the glass still with a little water on it. Carefully placing the plate, — already clean of food scraps —, on the sink, and the now empty glass, Harper called her much-loved cousin, leaving the call on speakerphone as she grabbed a sponge and soap to wash the dishes dirty.

Only three calls were needed for Abel to take her call. His soft, modulated voice squeaked in the background, which she quickly identified as one of his David Bowie's Berlin trilogy albums that he adored so much.

“Hello?”, he asked after a second of silence.

“Good night, Abe, it's me, your cursed cousin.” Miriam announced, her voice so husky he was sure to hear the change in her tone.

“Holy shit, what happened to your voice? You sound like mom.”, Abel chuckled as he asked. The woman could imagine him pulling his smooth dark locks back across his worktable. The open laptop and the pair of rectangular glasses resting on the table as he compared her to his mother, — her aunt, who used to smoke two packs of cigarettes a day.

Laughing, Miriam got a sense of how terrible her voice sounded to anyone who heard it.

“Don't exaggerate, it can't be that bad.”, she knew it was a lie, but she didn't care. “I ended up in a storm when I arrived. I spent the night in a church, I was soaked, so now I'm like this, but don't worry, I'll probably be worse tomorrow.” Miriam laughed at her own bad luck, drying the cutlery with an embroidered cloth.

“Oh my God, you’re indeed the cursed member of the family, Miriam… But other than that, how are you doing?”, there was a good-natured concern in his modulated timbre. Abel had always been her best friend, her heart-brother, and her confidant.

For a moment, she pondered telling him what she had learned about money laundering through the recreation centre. Carefully calculating, she came to the conclusion that there would be no harm in mentioning it, even if she still needed the papers for confirmation.

“Abe, I'm going to tell you something, but I require you to do nothing, okay?”, a noise of confirmation came from the other side of the line. Looking around, Miriam had already put away the dishes when she cautiously started up the stairs towards the room where she would be staying. Once she was sure Erin was sleeping in her own room, Miriam locked the door and took a deep breath.

She told everything, Abel listened carefully to every piece of information and made little observations here and there about one thing or another. Both came to the consensus that, in fact, there was something at least suspicious about the whole thing. Her cousin offered to help her with anything she required regarding the process she had got herself into. Miriam thanked him.

“Thanks, Abe, this is really going to give me a horrible headache. Did you know the files here are still made of paper?”, A nasal laugh reverberated through the cell phone's speaker. Sluggishly, the woman sat at the head of the bed, her eyes intent on the cloudy moonlight outside.

“I figured that could happen, that place parked in the 60s, so I'm not surprised, but it's late, and apparently you've had quite a hell of a day, you should go to sleep. I want news from you tomorrow, okay?”, he mocked, the sweet tone of concern warmed the woman's chest, she was already missing him.

“I promise to call. Good night, Abe, give Lenz and Karly a kiss for me.” Miriam smiled, Lenz and Abel were a lovely couple and their little girl was the sweetest. Harper was never very good with children, but little Karly was special, her shrewd questions amused the woman.

"I’ll, now rest. I'm serious. Bye.”, the line was silent and without much interest she threw the device onto the old spring mattress.

She scanned the room carefully. The walls were covered with yellowish floral wallpaper, the geraniums were faded with age. The dark wooden wardrobe was crooked, one of its feet was broken in half, making it dangle on just three feet. Worn and slightly dusty stuffed animals resided on a shelf with their expressionless eyes glazed over at the seated female figure. A particularly tattered rag doll sent a shiver down Miriam's back. The dim light from the lamp engulfed the room in gloom, its yellowish light glinting off the framed embroidery glass that prostrated itself beside the white door. It was verses Miriam knew well that were woven into the cloth, it was verses from the Book of Lamentations.

“‘The kindness of the Lord never ends, His mercies have no end; they are renewed each morning’” she read aloud.

The irony of the words sank claws in her mind. Jeremiah had written those words, looking at Jerusalem destroyed. Jerusalem was the hope of a dream, it was freedom, it was the function, the effort, the dedication to a promise made by God himself. And yet, seeing it destroyed, Jeremiah had hope. ‘Faith’, she could hear her grandmother's voice correcting her.

Only a fool can hope and be faithful in the face of impending disaster, Miriam remembered how those pessimist words had saved her multiple times. After all, if you expect the worst of all, it's harder to be disappointed. The memory of the searing rock salt cutting into her knees sent an uncomfortable tingle down her spine.

Suddenly, a flock of night birds that had perched silently on the tree beside the house took to the air. Miriam was startled by the loud noise of the flapping of wings that had so rudely broken the morbid silence of the room. Her eyes were drawn to the darkened outline of birds against the sky. The birds scurried away, as if fleeing from something. It wasn't long before her tired gaze landed on the slender, blackened shadow that soared into the sky like a harpy. The figure rose, so close to the window that it made her move away.

The snap of the tiles that covered the slab complaining of a sudden heaviness made every hair on the back of her neck prickle.

The almost anaesthetic sensation of uncertainty making it difficult to breathe, she felt the same feeling of dread as when she had seen what appeared to be the Monsignor on the balcony of his rectory, however old Pruitt was not on the island…

Miriam couldn't finish her train of thought, the cracks were now right above her room, but they didn't feel like just cracks any more, they were footsteps.

Taking a deep breath, Miriam rationalized as best she could: It's just an oddly large bird, that's all. This is a lie, and you know it. An insistent voice whispered in the back of her tired mind.

Another sound similar to the flapping of great wings resounded. She was silent, straining her hearing in an attempt to hear something else. Approaching the window, she peered out.

Nothing.

The dark leaves of the tree danced in the direction of the wind. She took a deep breath. It was just a bird that your overworked mind is turning into something else, Harper forced herself to believe that, at least for now.

Closing the frayed curtains, she walked away towards her suitcase to organize her things. With some speed, Miriam removed her already folded clothes and arranged them in the empty wardrobe that smelled of mould and mothballs. She carefully laid out her toiletries, a towel and a pyjama top on the patchwork quilt. Closing her suitcase, she pulled out the last thing she had: a framed photo of her, her mother, and Abel, all together at her cousin's graduation.

She had kept that photo with a certain fondness, it was one of the few photos where she and her mother were smiling. Her mother, who had suffered so much, had a proud, shining smile. With her fingertips, she caressed the glass that held the photograph affectionately. A tiny smile painted her lips.

Placing the frame on the night stand, she gathered her things from the bed and wandered barefoot against the carpet toward the bathroom. The click of the switch reverberated through the room. It was a cubicle covered in white tile with an over-the-tub shower, a sink, and a toilet. She put one foot down, a cold shiver running up her leg. Miriam closed the door, which creaked with the movement, the lock clicking with a low metallic clang. Her silent steps led her to the sink.

Releasing a heavy sigh of exhaustion, Miriam stared at her reflection in the mirror. The dark smudges under her eyes from bad sleep stood out now, in the white light. Unhurriedly, she began to undress, the coat slipping off her tense shoulders and soon followed by the thick wool jumper and a pair of trousers. The cool air coming from the open window ruffled her skin. Leaning forward, with a trembling hand, she closed the window, interrupting the night breeze that enveloped her.

The running water was warm, the temperature easing the knots of tension in her back, relaxing her muscles. Now, undressed, Miriam could feel the beads of the rosary weighing down against her chest. Taking a deep breath, the woman replayed the events of that day once more in her mind, like a scratched disc.

The way the islanders behaved was not necessarily abnormal, but it gave her a mixed feeling of strangeness and anxiety. Their unshakable beliefs gave her memories of her years at St. Agnes boarding school. Memories she had never intended to recall, not even the sporadic visits of her mother, grandmother, and cousin, who always took place on Catholic holidays, all of them ending with her begging to leave that place.

Dragging her mind to those moments reminded her of the Christmas that her grandmother had passed away years ago. She remembered her mother's exhausted and bereaved expression, and how she'd shown up alone that holiday. As much as she didn't have as much contact with the old woman, and that, especially during her childhood, she held a grudge against her grandmother's attitude of throwing her in that place, Miriam remembered how she'd felt her chest sink with the news. She also remembered feeling a certain relief in knowing that Mathilde had left in her sleep, that she had died a painless death.

Death. There was a lot of death around her, as a child, as a teenager and even in her adult life. The people around her seemed to leave constantly, without warning, without giving her a chance to try to stop them. This had drastically reduced her family circle, and now her only remaining family was her cousin. Abel. Miriam never told him, but somehow she envied him. He had a beautiful daughter, a great husband, and was drowned in their loves. She wanted that, but maybe she wasn't born to have her own family, after all, everyone who approached her always seemed to die.

The first was her father, Atticus, who had died in the army before she was even born. According to her mother, he had no intention of taking it on, for him Miriam had been an accident that he was unwilling to deal with, 'it was a one-night stand', he said. The second had been the death of Abel's mother, she wasn't particularly close to her aunt on her father's side, but still she felt the full brunt of the woman's death through her cousin. The third had been a young priest who taught her at boarding school, he was something close to a friend, he was the only one who showed the least bit compassionate to her, despite his dark personality, she respected him. Miriam remembers that one day, out of the blue, Father Romero collapsed lifeless in the middle of the classroom. No one seemed to understand what had happened, but the look of pure fear he had given her a thousandth before had been imprinted on her mind.

In her teens had been her grandmother, she was fifteen when she lost her, a woman of frighteningly unshakable faith and a strong pulse that she had come to love. Miriam felt torrid tears mingle with the running water that bathed her. Her mother's death was so short a time ago, she couldn't help but struggle. The first week, she couldn't even get past her mother's room. It had taken nearly a month for her to stop putting two places at the table daily.

A sudden sob made her gasp, her mind once again drowning in thought. Breathing heavily, she forced herself to choke back her tears and focus her mind on now. There was a real mess to be worked on, and she couldn't let her anxieties tie her to the past.

She ran her fingers through her hair, massaging her oily scalp and letting the shower wash away the remnants of her sadness. She was so tense and allowed herself to empty her head. Closing her eyes to clear her thoughts, the first thing that crossed her mind was the way Paul had caressed her hands, how big and warm they were, how strong. Miriam felt a rush of heat run down her abdomen at the thought. A malicious idea crept into her thoughts, and she wondered for a moment what it would be like to feel those hands gripping her thighs.

No, she broke off at the sensation. Opening her eyes and feeling a familiar pulse in the tops of her thighs, she sighed. Not that. Come on, he's a priest! The idea of fantasizing about someone who would be so close to her in her daily life was definitely not a great thought. Also, she was probably close to her period, which would certainly explain the ease with which she had been shaken by the image, and also the excessive anxiety and anguish she felt.

"No, I'm just tired, I need to sleep and forget about all this for now.", Miriam whispered to herself, finishing her shower and turning off the faucet, the cold metal against her hot palm sending a shiver over her skin.

With some caution, the young woman climbed out of the tub and wrapped herself in her towel, the softness of the fabric against her breasts not helping her forget the soft throbbing below her venter. Firmly, she gripped the edges of the sink for support as she wiped her damp body. Setting the towel aside, she stared at her reflection in the mirror once more.

Her once-bleached cheeks had taken on a slight blush from the hot water and the other sensations the dark-haired priest was arousing. Her hair looked better, washed now. Miriam saw someone different from what she used to be, realizing it drew an exhausted sigh from her. A beat of absolute silence followed, only her breathing to accompany it.

A strong chill shivered on the back of her neck, that funny, disconcerting feeling you get when someone is watching, observing her movements. She felt watched, her brows knitting in slight confusion at the feeling as she glanced at the reflection in the window beside her. Miriam froze as her orbs caught a pair of glowing eyeballs glinting in the darkness. The reflection was beyond the window, among some bushes that spread out at the foot of the tall tree.

The eerily tall, shadowy figure moved like an animal interested in its next meal. That sank ice into the woman's guts. Without delay, she turned in a rush, closing the window and the curtains. There was definitely something very wrong, either with her or with this place.

Miriam felt her heartbeat in her ears. Her hands shook in disarray at her sides. Her lips parted on a shaky, trembling breath. She didn't take long to brush her teeth and get dressed after that. The woman felt her muscles tremble with each step she took towards the bedroom. As soon as she entered the room, she closed the door and took a deep breath, letting her heartbeat settle as well as her breathing. You really need sleep. Really, a voice in her mind whispered to her.

Turning off the lamplight, — after making sure the window was securely closed —, she lay down on her bed, her feet covered in white socks and her body warmed by her old pyjamas. The patchwork quilt she had covered herself with had an almost imperceptible scent of lavender and years of disuse.

For a time she clung to that scent, and how the moonlight made perpendicular patterns on the ceiling through the gaps in the curtain, achromatic and dancing patterns. It was not long before her tired mind delivered her into the arms of Morpheus to fall asleep soundly in the sleep of the righteous.

Taglist:

@stardustandgunpowder, @liesandghosts, @pruitts-tight-fucking-jeans, @un-kiss-de-breakfast, @girlwiththenegantattoo, @dreams-madeof-strawberrylemonade, @sterwild, @thegardenarcher, @snapessecretdiary, @judarspeach, @novywhere, @hungrhay, @midnight-mess

If your name is striped, it’s because Tumblr don’t let me tag you for some reason. =(

Here's a Google form, where you can tell me where you want to be tagged.

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ebiemidnightlibrarian · 2 years

Text

Cornucopia | II — Castimonium II | Father Paul x Fem!Reader | English

SUMMARY | AO3 | MY MASTERLIST

Chapter Summary: Miriam has a weird nightmare with and strange pair of glowing eyes. Despite the consequences of the storm on her body, she decides to investigate further and discovers more than a few skeletons in the closet through the city's archives. She also receives an unexpected visit.

Chapter Title: Castimonium (/castīmōniae/; latin): abstinence; abstinence (sexual/from meat) for ritual; purity of morals; chastity.

Warnings: Slow Burn, Mentions of Past Religious Trauma, Descriptions of a Cold, Mentions of Blood, Body Horror (Slight), Blood Drinking (Slight), Gore (Slight), Sexual Tension, Main character is a workaholic, Dizziness due to poor diet (Please eat well and drink water). [These warnings are subject to change as I re-write this part].

Word Count: 8K

Note: Skin, hair and body descriptions were purposely vague, everything has been handled as vague as possible so that everything can be read as a reader fic.

Again, English isn’t my mother language, so I’m sorry for any orthography or writing mistakes you might find.

Update: I'll be re-writing this part, the whole thing. I found myself very unhappy with this chapter, to me, it really is out of tone with the others, so I'm managing to make it more in tune with the whole narrative I intend to tell. Some things will remain the same, but others will be completely remodelled, the truth is, I want to feel that this chapter really leads somewhere, and that it's not just out of place and blocking the story. That said, expect a slight increase in word count.

A/N: I know I've promised that this would be the part 2 of chapter 2 and then the smut would come, BUT, this thing became so big that I had to split it again. I mean, I'm a person of context, I need to prepare the field before the action. Sorry, but I've no self-control, please be patient. However, the end of this huge chapter it's already 95% finished, so I'll be posting part 3 soon, seriously.

This part was supposed to see the light of the day in the Ash Wednesday, but I needed to brush it up one more time. I hope you enjoy, I'm really thankful for all the support, y'all are so incredible, lots of love!

A STRANGE SENSATION covered her chest, as if she were hollow inside. There was a constant tingle at the base of her neck that crept like a snake down her back. There was also a noise passing through her ears, it was a terrifying sound, coming from all directions, confusing her senses and exerting a pressure on her.

Miriam moved her fingers the slightest bit, a bolt of pain shooting up her arms, but as she moved her fingers she realized one thing, that oppressive sound was nothing less than the noise of the wind. Opening her eyes, Miriam froze, her muscles tensing with the hazy realization of what was happening. She was falling, but never hitting the ground, just falling.

Her first reaction had been the uncontrollable urge to scream, her chest suffocating in sheer desperation. However, she couldn't, instead of a desperate cry, a searing pain shot through her throat in the form of a broken moan. Reflexively, she ran her fingertips over her neck, feeling irregularities in her skin and something slimy and warm running along the curve of her neck.

Blood.

Her blood.

She was bruised and falling, unable to do anything to stop her impending encounter with the ground below her back, a ground she didn't see, but she knew would come. The time had come for her to settle her accounts with the one who surrounded her family, with death. Silenced by an injury, she had no idea how she'd got it. Her eyes watered with fear, overwhelming terror choking her.

The sky was pitch black, there were no stars above, or moon, or clouds, just total darkness. The feeling of anguish sinking in her chest, and the thin air made it difficult to breathe. There was an agonizing tingle in her arms, she didn't feel them any more, realizing that made her notice that she didn't feel her legs either. Dormant like a corpse. Miriam uttered in her mind, silenced by despair.

Her only physical sensation was the wind that cut in a constant noise around her, and the perception of icy blood running down the side of her torn neck. Miriam could feel, she could tell she knew she was about to die, there was a feeling, something that told her. Whether it was the throbbing in her head, or the numbness of her limbs, Miriam knew, the imminence of death was coming, this time for her.

The wind noise was briefly muffled, covered by a thunderous flapping of wings. That unnatural noise unnerved a frightened shiver down the back of her neck. Her tired eyes tracked around her, wide with awe.

Darkness.

Only the blackness of the night greeted her, the empty darkness.

Then, very suddenly, something caught her. She could feel the two-armed embrace holding her, carrying her away from wherever she was falling towards. Extreme relief washed over her body. I won't die, I won't die, I won't… she thought, clinging to her saviour. The rhythmic, muffled sound continued, this time closer to her. Much closer. Her mind finally registered the information: wings. Who or what took her had wings.

As soon as it came, relief left her, panic and fear once again settling in her chest, both ripping her apart for space. There was a heated awareness, an intense heat against her, against her soft body and skin. Flame heat licked at her back, and the light from the streamers illuminated the pale face of the creature who carried her in its arms. A mouth full of sharp teeth, sharp blades that gleamed in the fire, a blood-soaked pearl, eyes as dark and cold as a shark, reflecting the light from the blazing flames and the darkness.

A demon was carrying her in its arms. Its skin was icy and rigid like a marble statue, illuminated by the dull light of the fire consuming her back. A scream of absolute horror rang out, a deep, smoky voice roared through the flames and wind, a desperate cry calling her name. An unknown name crossed her mind…

John.

There was a familiar oddity to the name, she didn't understand at that moment the reason why.

The creature's claws sank gradually into her back, but she didn't register the pain, fear, and blood loss that had numbed her senses. Miriam squirmed and struggled to free herself from the creature's firm grip, in vain, its inhuman strength too terrifying for her weak limbs.

However, the woman didn't give up, her disoriented and alarmed mind spitting out a nonsensical solution which she readily accepted. Grasping the creature's skeletal shoulders, she struggled as best she could, and bit the thing's exposed neck, hard enough that it broke through the thick skin and the bitter taste of the wine coated her tongue. In a burst, the winged gargoyle released a painful howl that deafened her, an insistent tinkle perpetuating itself in her auricles. The lacerated chunk of flesh filled the woman's lips, nerves, and muscles tightening as she pulled her bite away, a piece of the thing stuffed into her mouth, her chin, and lips smeared in blood.

The creature dug its nails even deeper into the soft flesh of the woman's back, crushing her bones in an oppressive embrace, and with a sweep of its disproportionately long arms, snatched her off of itself, hurling her toward the blazing fire.

The heat was enough that she almost felt her skin melt. The sting of the flames and the sulphurous smell of blood and ashes from the houses and the dead seeped into her nostrils. Miriam could see the ground approaching, growing, as her limp body twirled in the air aimlessly, helplessly. Until her eyes took in the city in flames, every little fishing house, every boat, and even St. Patrick's burned in hellfire…

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

The shrill tinkle of the alarm woke her up. The pounding of her heart pounded in her head, and the pained cry still echoed in her mind. Her thinking was confused and sleepy, and the throbbing in her head was real. Stretching out an arm, the woman lazily fumbled on the bedside table for her cell phone. When she couldn't find him, Miriam sat up in bed, her aching muscles complaining of the sudden movement. Clutching the rectangular mobile device with a trembling hand, the faint glow of the screen bothered her eyes, and she read the time.

6:05 am.

She sighed. Three days had passed since her arrival. For three days, she had been recovering from one of the worst colds she had ever had. For three days she had been having the same dream, — nightmare —, she corrected herself. A demon would carry her from the darkness towards the flames, and someone would scream for her, despair bathing the male voice, then she would wake up after seeing the entire island engulfed in fire. Miriam didn't understand the meaning of such a dream, nothing made sense. She just felt more tired, as if a supernatural weight was slowly being placed on her back.

A knock on the bedroom door caught her attention, and she looked up from the luminous screen on which she read messages to meet Erin's serene and worried gaze. The young pregnant woman with abundant curly hair waved a little at the sick woman. Her lips filled into a tight smile.

“Good morning, are you feeling better?”, she asked, entering the room that once belonged to her. Erin stared into Miriam's face with motherly concern, her dark brows drew together in an unnerved look.

Her reddened nose was almost completely blocked up, her cheeks were an unhealthy pale colour, her hair in an oily tangle, and her keen eyes were sunken with weariness and illness. Miriam looked as exhausted as the first time they'd met. The rain-soaked accountant, eyes red from a sleepless night, accompanied by the town's strange priest.

Since her arrival, Erin hadn't seen Harper stop working a single day. The first night she slept in her house, the tenant had woken up practically without a voice and had refrained from leaving the house, the wind from the outside world threatening to drain her last of her strength. On the same day Mayor Scarborough, along with Sturge and two others came to bring the City Hall files at her request for the woman to review them in the cosiness of her room until she was able to go directly to City Hall.

Since then, Erin hadn't had many visitors to her home.

“Better, but I still feel like I've been run over.”, Miriam muttered with a sleepy half-smile, her voice slightly strained due to her stuffy nose.

Erin nodded. Both had good conversations in the meantime, the newcomer's insecurity would not allow her to say they were friends, but good colleagues. Erin liked Miriam, and she cared about her safety in a way.

“Your voice is much better, I just can't say the same about your appearance, if you get sick like that on Halloween you will be successful in scaring the kids.”, Erin laughed at the dramatically exaggerated expression of outrage the sick woman gave her, and allowed herself to lean on the door.

“I'll keep that in mind.”, Harper grinned as she forced herself out of bed, she shuffled her sock-covered feet across the floor cluttered with stacks of paper files, and sat down at a table she'd improvised to work on. “With luck I can cough on Bev and maybe sick she'll stop inflaming the town hall and council people against me.”, the woman ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it out of her face. With a slightly shaking hand, she picked up a yellowed bottle of flu and took a dry pill. The pregnant woman frowned at the comment.

Erin had slightly regretted telling Miriam what had happened at the town hall meeting that had taken place the day after her arrival. The woman had felt sick to see the disgusted expression on her tenant's face when she mentioned the way Beverly Keane had talked about her. However, she was able to assuage the newcomer's displeasure by saying that the Flynn's seemed to like her and that Hassan had subtly defended her, as well as herself.

“Are you going to start work so soon? On a Sunday?”, asked the pregnant woman. Erin liked Miriam's sarcastic personality and insightful comments, but believed the woman worked too much.

“There's no rest for the wicked.”, muttered Harper in a deliberately mischievous tone. “I have discovered some very interesting things that I need to make sure of before I spread the good news.”, Miriam opened her laptop and turned it on and waited for a moment for the screen light to come on, while turning around to gather some clothes to wear in the closet.

“I wonder what could be so interesting about these piles of old paper.”, Erin looked around at the files piled all over the floor, almost making passage impossible. A few worn cardboard boxes that had not yet been opened were arranged one on top of the other by the door, the collection so tall that it exceeded the height of the expectant mother by almost eight centimetres.

“Oh, you have no idea. The records from 2003, 2004 and last year are endlessly fascinating. And if what I've discovered is indeed confirmed, I can free this island of a big, filthy tick like I'd rip it off a dog's back!”, Miriam emphasized as she closed the wardrobe door with the back of her hand.

Erin drew her brows together in curious confusion. Miriam hadn't told her what Joe Collie had told her about Bev, — she didn't even know Miriam had met him. However, there were files that clearly indicated the deficit of what had happened to the economy of Crockett Island before and after the Spill, and mainly, about the expenses of the construction of the Recreation Center. Harper was sure that when she found these records, — and she would find them —, there would be a ridiculous imbalance that would indicate the embezzlement the deaconess had so maliciously carried out.

“I hope that when you have confirmation of whatever you're looking for I'll find out who this evil 'tick' is.”, the curly haired woman's voice sounded intrigued, but she wouldn't press, her curiosity could be sated another time.

Lowering her clear eyes, she glanced at the watch on her wrist and sighed.

“I was going to ask you if you want to go to mass with me today, but you're visibly busy.”, she laughed briefly looking around. “Father Paul will be disappointed, yesterday he asked me how you were adjusting. He seems to like you.”, the suggestive tone that the pregnant woman used did not go unnoticed in the woman's ears.

Harper stopped what she was doing as if freezing and looked confused at the young woman in front of her, but she didn't show her interest in the cloth man, he had already disturbed her thoughts too much during the night.

Erin watched as Miriam skirted the sprawling monsters of paper and approached her, her arms filled with a pile of clean clothes and a towel slung over her shoulder.

“He's just being nice.”, a beat of silence passed.

Miriam decided not to push the subject, feeling her cheeks heat up at the mere mention of the man.

“And I guarantee you'll be one of the first to know the parasite's name.”, she blinked conspiratorially, moving to the side and standing shoulder to shoulder with her landlady, Harper patted her forearm affectionately. “I really appreciate the invitation. I'd love to trade all this dusty paperwork for you, but the sooner I get this done, the better. I'd give you a hug, but I don't want you and the 'little foot' to contract that shit.”, the young woman said, looking discreetly at the pregnant woman's slightly pronounced belly.

With a sweet smile, Miriam opened the bedroom door and made room for Erin to leave, following close behind.

“Fine. I'll see you in a few hours, so good luck with that 'tick'.”, laughing and making quotation marks with her hands, the curly woman walked down the stairs without haste, but stopped halfway when she heard the muffled voice of her tenant calling your name.

“I can make lunch if you want, I owe you. Is it okay if I do?”, Miriam asked in a friendly tone, also walking down the stairs. When she saw Erin nod she smiled, the woman was great company and the newcomer was happy to be able to make up for having to put up with her. “Right then. Goodbye, Erin!”, Miriam waved her free hand, finishing up the stairs and catching a glimpse of the expectant mother walking out the door.

“See you!”, the cheerful, gentle voice echoed back once she had left.

Miriam sighed wearily. She knew she had blushed when Erin had mentioned the good priest's interest in her well-being, his interest in her. A wave of heat lodged in her bones. She mentally scolded herself for letting the thought take hold. Paul wasn't interested in her, what nonsense! The man was devoted to the Seven Virtues, romance was not on the menu.

My God, what an idiot I am! Romance!? A disgusted groan escaped her lips. Harper felt foolish, not because she found him attractive, or eloquent, but because for a moment she'd almost given herself hope.

Another low sigh escaped her rosy lips, and she decided that for her own good, she would shower and drown in work until her mind carried her away from the black-haired priest.

Her eyes burned. She had already spent a few hours reviewing files on her laptop, turning some of the most important among them to digital. Erin hadn't arrived yet, at least she hadn't heard the front door slam or footsteps under the low music that played over the device's speakers. With a thrust of her hips, she dragged the wheels of her chair against the carpeted floor and stretched. So many hours of sitting weren't doing her spine any good.

Running her fingers through her freshly washed hair, she slid out of her chair and picked up the phone. Abel had sent her some messages about the records she had asked for his opinion on. She was close to discovering how much money the deaconess had laundered, she just needed to find a single file that contained the expenses of the construction in the midst of all those papers that seemed to have no end. Dropping her cell phone on the table, she crouched down on one of the piles of files she'd already rearranged herself.

For such a small place, they are terribly disorganized, she thought as she ran her careful fingers over the old sheets. Thanks to her powers of observation, — spurred on by years of financial practice —, and her patience, Miriam was much closer to the truth than she'd expected. When Mayor Scarborough arrived the previous afternoon to deliver what she had requested, Miriam was surprised at how many outdated files, they kept. Don't these people know what a computer is?, she remembered wondering.

Knowing she wouldn't find what really mattered before the 2000s, she discarded all the paperwork, trusting the files would at least be organized.

Silly assumption.

Everything was so confusing that after the initial two hours she decided to organize everything herself. So much skewed or poorly recorded information, files, and notes that shouldn't be where they were, the mess of messes!

Now that most of the paperwork was gone, Miriam could finally focus on finding the Recreation Center records. Wade had questioned why she wanted all that documentation, but she turned him off under the guise of 'doing an economic survey of the island's financial stability'. Since that way, she could supposedly make projections of the local fishing market in the near future.

Harper closed her eyes tightly as she felt a sudden dizziness as she stood up. Her vision dimmed a little, and she needed to lean against the table to keep her balance. It had been a long time since her last meal. Sometimes her mind was so sunk in work that she forgot her basic needs. Thinking about it reminded her that she still hadn't made lunch like she'd promised Erin she would. Wrapping herself in a shawl to keep warm and grabbing her laptop from the table, she left and headed downstairs. She could finish what she was doing while she prepared lunch.

Upon reaching the kitchen she placed the electronic device open on the counter and quickly searched for a rice pudding recipe, it was quick, familiar, and she could make something that didn't have seafood after all.

Miriam enjoyed the warmth of the kitchen. As cosy as Erin's house was, it was cold, and even the coffee coloured shawl draped around her shoulders didn't do much to warm her. Taking a deep breath, she started looking for the necessary ingredients.

The lunch was almost ready. The constant clatter of the knife blade against the wooden board was rhythmic, almost hypnotic. The sounds of the kitchen soothed her. The low bubbling of boiling water, the crackle of the fire, the knife cutting through the garlic and layers of onion. The smell of cooking spices and sautéing vegetables reminded her of her mother.

Lyanna was a calm and compassionate woman. Always trying to keep everything under control. When her mother Mathilde died, she removed Miriam almost immediately from St. Agnes. Out of respect, — and some fear for her mother —, she had allowed her daughter to grow up in that place, but with the matriarch's departure, Lyanna had seen the opportunity to finally start a new chapter in her life, this time with her daughter. At thirty, she was already a trained doctor, and she had an income with which she would take care of herself and Miriam. Both had a good relationship, at first it had been strange for them to live together on a daily basis, as this had only happened when Miriam was still a very small child, and those were dark times she didn't want to remember.

New memories formed for both of them, good ones this time.

The acidity of the onion she was cutting and the fond memories of her mother made her shed a few generous tears.

A muffled knock on the door pulled Miriam out of her reverie. Strange, she thought initially. Of course, Erin hadn't locked the door, and if she had, she'd have the keys. Lowering the rice heat, she washed her onion-smeared hands and wiped the moisture on an embroidered cloth, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands and heading for the door. Before she touched the handle, another knock sounded, this one slightly louder. It didn't take long for her to open it.

A pair of black-clad shoulders and a clerical collar greeted her. The recognition of who had just slammed her door made the blood drain from her face. She watched with some confusion as the man's broad smile faded. Paul's brows were knit together in confusion and his eyes were wide as if he'd just seen a ghost.

Miriam shivered a little in the icy wind outside, tightening her grip on her shawl, and embarrassed herself to imagine how dishevelled she must be.

The good priest looked at her, somewhat surprised at the state of the elegant woman he had only met two days ago. Not that he judged her to be ugly, no, she just looked so…drained.

The locks on her head were a bit messy, tied in a loose bun anyway, her eyes red from crying, the skin beneath them was purplish, slightly swollen and covered with too much apathy. Her rosy lips were discoloured and cracked, and her nose looked as red as Rudolph's.

“Jesus…”, he let out a sigh, a sudden redness faintly covering his cheeks as he realized that she had noticed his initial awkwardness.

Miriam was the picture of someone who definitely and unquestionably needed to rest.

“I look awful, I know.”, she laughed weakly, her voice twangy and slightly hoarse. Sniffling, she backed away, giving way. The sick woman chose to deflect her embarrassment with derogatory humour.

“Oh, I'm sorry I didn't mean to offend or make you uncomfortable, it's just that… I didn’t expect you to look so tired.”, Paul corrected himself, mentally berating himself for being so rude. He smoothed his hair as he watched her shake her head no.

“It's okay, it's not like I'm a Disney princess. Please come in.”, she whispered, opening the door wider for him to enter. At no time had Miriam actually looked him in the eye, her orbs pointed at the ground the entire time. Paul was confused by her apparent speech reference, but decided to ignore it.

The priest passed close to her, his perfume composed of a faint scent of wood, sandalwood, and censer myrrh incense invaded the accountant's nostrils, she had barely been able to smell it. He'd smiled slightly at the woman's comment about herself, a comforting warmth filling his chest as he saw that the newcomer's acidity was still there.

Harper's eyes studied him briefly as he entered. His stature was even more impressive when there was an environment to measure. He was carrying the same messenger bag he'd used earlier when she'd spotted him walking in the distance, however, this time he was holding a small brown paper bag in one hand.

Paul looked around, he remembered Peggy Greene's house.

Everything was a lot less messy since the last time he'd set foot in the place, he ruefully remembered a Peggy Greene in an alcoholic coma who'd departed this world delayingly on a couch, choking on her own vomit. This time, there were no empty liquor bottles strewn about every room, and the air was no longer tainted with the smell of cigarettes and spilled alcohol over the years. Now the house really felt like home.

The music playing bass on the laptop sounded like some 1950s ballad in a slower version. That little detail made the whole atmosphere cosy, the fact reminded him of his childhood. The image of his own mother and sisters cooking in what seemed now centuries ago flashed through his mind.

“Well, how can I help?”, Harper asked, closing the door with a low clatter and walking back to the kitchen with long strides. The woman felt the pulse in her auricles. Surely, of everyone she hoped might knock on her door that day, the good priest was not one of them.

Paul seemed to wake up from a sudden daydream, his large ebony eyes fixed on the huddled female figure.

“Oh, uh… Erin mentioned that you were sick… In fact, someone had already commented, I believe it was Wade…,” the priest began, a reverie as he approached the kitchen counter, where Miriam had propped herself up. “But I decided to come visit. See how you're doing, if they're treating you right. I want you to feel welcome in the parish.”, a nervous laugh escaped him.

When Paul had decided to detour from Millie's house to visit the newcomer, he hadn't imagined he'd feel this pang of anxiety, but being alone with her wasn't in the plan, well, not exactly.

“That's very kind of you.”, Miriam replied, not being able to look at him in those warm cocoa puddles. Instead, she approached the stove, uncovering a pot and stirring its contents with a wooden spoon.

“I think I can say that Erin has been great company. I like her very much. But I'm not saying that I didn't expect some hostility from some of the… islanders. After all, like it or not, I am an intruder in a tightly-knit community, primarily in its values.”, She sighed with a half-bitter, half-affected laugh, dividing her attention between the pots in front of her and the man that so often disturbed her thoughts. “Ms. Keane is a rare piece indeed,” she muttered under her breath, glancing in his direction as she tossed the chopped onion into the pan and added a little more butter to the sautéed vegetables.

“You learn to live with her.”, he murmured, wondering what Bev had told her. After so many years of living together, he had grown used to dealing with the deaconess's petulance and wiles, and as his mind drowned in darkness, he had no ability to reprimand her for certain behaviours, he wasn't even able to perceive them.

Suddenly he remembered the small package that weighed heavily in his hand.

“Oh, I almost forgot. I brought this for you.”, His deep timbre sounded a little childish as he set what he was carrying on the granite counter. “It's sweet.”, Paul smiled, pulling out a chair and sitting and watching her.

Miriam turned off the heat on the vegetables and approached him, a shy blush covering her cheeks as she thanked him and opened it.

“My mom used to give me sweets when I got sick, I loved it, so I thought you'd like it.”, The dark-haired priest curiously watched Harper remove the small blueberry cake from the slightly greasy paper and gently place it on a plate.

“Well, your mom definitely knew her stuff.”, Miriam commented, a blush heating her cheeks. She looked away from him as she absently licked the tip of her index finger that was sprinkled with the sugar that covered the muffin. “My mother used to make rice pudding and gingerbread cookies, especially when I had a cold.”, the woman smiled widely at the memory. Paul was infected by the gesture, unable to contain his own contentment. She seems to have fond memories of her mother, he noted.

Miriam looked adorable with the red that generously covered her cheekbones. A wave of inconvenient heat coursed through his body as he noticed the sinful way she sucked the icing sugar from her fingers. Taking a deep breath in an attempt to stave off the impure suggestion of the innocent gesture, the priest removed the messenger bag and placed it carefully on the counter in front of him, the scent of sautéed vegetables and butter wafting into his nostrils profusely. In an attempt to distract himself from the smouldering proximity of the woman opposite him, he got to his feet and stalked around the kitchen.

“What are you cooking? It smells amazing!”, Paul asked, shoving his hands in his jeans pockets and taking a long breath, watching her with interest. The good priest mentally scolded himself as he enjoyed noticing how long her legs looked in those plaid pants.

Miriam lifted the reddish orbs off the muffin and slid the tip of her index and middle finger out of her mouth, having gratefully licked off all the sugar they contained. She looked distracted for a moment, her mind having been lost in the chilly afternoons she'd spent cooking with her mother. Harper smiled as she finally processed what he was asking.

“Oh!”, she exclaimed, remembering to turn off the heat on the rice. “Rice pudding recipe. It's not what my mother used to do, but I think it should finish off a Sunday lunch.”, Miriam replied, her still voice less whiny than it had been some time ago.

She skilfully placed the sautéed vegetables on the rice that still had some broth, covering it again, so it could cook again.

“It's a good thing it smells nice, because I don't smell or taste anything any more”, the woman laughed weakly, wrapping herself in her dark shawl, her body shaking slightly with a shiver. She leaned her hips on the counter and hugged her body, facing the floor. The heart in her chest about to explode.

“Such a pity. It looks great.”, the priest muttered with a half smile.

There was a shy silence.

The woman felt small under the priest's deep, dark-eyed gaze. For an instant she looked up and stared at him, both of them holding their gaze, with that she felt her heart skip a beat.

He was barely three feet from her, propped up on the far side of the counter with his hands in the dark pockets of his jeans, a lock of his dark hair falling stubbornly across his forehead. She fought the urge to shove it back into place. Shyly, she looked away from his sunken eyes, feeling exposed, her vision focusing disinterestedly on the red-painted aluminium pot that was cooking the rice. An idea flashed through her mind.

“Well, w-would you mind a taste? It's almost done, and I'm not sure how it tastes. Everything tastes like sawdust”, she suggested, stroking her neck awkwardly with a half smile, her fingertips playing with the white beads of the rosary. The orange and black short-sleeved blouse she wore highlighted the redness in her tearful eyes. He couldn't deny the request, she looked so embarrassed and nervous, so delicate.

“I'm not opposed to the idea at all, but have you ever eaten sawdust?”, the cloth man pretended to consider for a moment and shrugged his shoulders amiably, he smiled at the amusing comment. Miriam rolled her eyes and a faint smile played on her lips.

Both were strangely comfortable with each other's company.

Miriam wanted to beat herself up for saying something rather than sending him away, for giving him an excuse to spend some more time near her. She inhaled deeply, nodding with a tight-lipped smile. Harper thought she was only one step away from saying or doing something that sounded inappropriate, she was trying so hard not to show her improper interest in the priest that she might be sending the wrong message. Don't get your hopes up you idiot, get it fixed right away, she scolded herself.

“OK, then. Sit down, Father, I'll get you some”, she whispered, an emphasis on the sacred title, sneaking into a cupboard to grab a plate and two silverware.

Obeying, Paul realized that this was the first time since he arrived that she had referred to him by his ecclesiastical title. A flush of its own warmed his face.

Being with her in such a domestic context made him forget for a moment, just a moment, who he was. A holy man, unfit for the pettiness of worldly life. He carefully watched the woman's subtle movements as she arranged a small amount of rice on a yellow plate. She looked tense under his scrutiny, her fingers trembling as she sprinkled some thyme leaves over the food.

Being watched so curiously by the dark-haired man was disconcerting her, in fact, the whole situation caught her off guard, obviously a pleasant surprise, but having him so close to her wasn't really helping her self-control. With slightly trembling hands, she placed the plate between them, handed him a fork and kept the other for herself. Staring at each other for a moment, each took a forkful, blew on it and brought it to their mouths.

“Yeah, I don't taste anything.”, Harper declared, first looking away to a specific corner of the kitchen, putting the fork in the sink and turning to Paul. “Verdict?”, she asked.

The good priest made a deliberately exaggerated face, as if he had just eaten a forkful of earth.

“My God, is it that bad?”, the woman asked, mirroring the priest's grimace out of instinct, laughing slightly. Father Paul then laughed weakly. He managed to make her laugh, if only a little.

“I'm just kidding. You looked nervous. It's actually great, just a little bland, but maybe that's just for me”, said the tall man with light humour, chewing slowly as he scraped what little was left on the dishes with the tip of his fork.

“Shit, I knew I forgot to add salt, but I didn't want to risk it.”, She nodded, lips pressed into a tight line as she leaned against the counter, fingers drumming against the granite in time to the low music. “Let me see…”, She turned after a moment and scanned the kitchen for the ceramic salt shaker. Not finding it, she started looking through the lockers one by one.

The woman knelt on the floor and opened the lower cabinets, going through cautiously. Where did I put this? I was here a minute ago! Miriam heard the crockery click against the bottom of the metal sink and guessed her company had placed the plate there.

She found the damn thing in a drawer on the counter, next to the sink. Most likely she had put it there herself in a moment of distraction. Finding it, she picked up the salt shaker with one hand and got up quickly, but her vision darkened, and a sudden dizziness gripped her. The lack of oxygen and too many hours without food hit her like a train, and Miriam felt her legs lose all strength.

The young woman would have fallen if a pair of strong arms hadn't held her tightly.

“Hey, are you okay?”, Paul asked worriedly, leaning some of her weight on him and some on the counter. His big nervous eyes scanning the woman's face.

Harper could feel the priest's deep voice reverberate from the priest's slender torso to her chest at how close their bodies were.

Carefully so she wouldn't fall, Paul ran a hand along the woman's arm that was firmly holding the ceramic object and released it from her trembling fingers, placing the cylindrical object behind her on the counter in one movement. His nose sinking into her hair in the process for just an instant. As he moved back, he unconsciously pressed their bodies even closer together. Holding her weight as best he could, he whispered her name in a worried tone.

The woman raised confused, squinted eyes at the clergy, waiting for her vision to adjust. Blinking a few times, she watched the dark spots in her vision lighten. Her shaking hands having braced themselves on the man's broad shoulders. He had one leg between hers, supporting the weight of her hips against her thigh, while his arms had encircled the female figure's waist and bust. She breathed in deeply, each inhalation heavy. Miriam's brows drew together, confused by her blurry vision and stunned by her sudden proximity.

Paul brought a hand to Miriam's face and very subtly slapped her cheek a few times for her to open her eyes. This made her drop her dizzy head into his hand, which began to cup her face, hoping to make her come to her senses.

The priest was lost for a moment in the sweet scent of her locks, the scent of bergamot wafting through his nostrils, slowly drawing him to her. Little by little, he allowed himself to face the woman's panting lips. Even slightly discoloured, they looked soft and inviting. Is chastity still one of your virtues, Father? There was a voice in the back of his mind that abhorred the feelings his proximity to the strange woman aroused in him. Paul only realized how close he had got to her when the ginger breath from the woman's parted lips reached his senses.

Miriam felt the warm hand of the man who had stopped her from collapsing cup her face after lightly patting her. His body was so warm, and his arms held her so carefully, as if she were made of porcelain, ready to shatter at the slightest movement.

Opening her eyes a little, her vision no longer as dark as before was taken over by the tall form that cradled her. Miriam gasped minimally at how close he was, their faces just a hand's breadth apart. The accountant lost herself in the encompassing darkness of the priest's squinted eyes, his thick eyelashes darkening the colour of his irises even more. They stared at each other for just a brief moment, but the moment seemed to stretch on for long minutes.

Paul had a few loose strands falling into his eyes, as did she. The young woman let her gaze slip surreptitiously to the well-shaped lips of the man opposite her. A wave of heat pulsing in her core as he seemed to intensify the loop of his arm around her waist, unconsciously.

No, no, no, she stifled her impulse by pushing the thoughts to the back of her mind. Blinking hard a few times, Miriam giggled shyly, her face as red as a beet, pulling away from him slightly, and leaning her full weight against the counter to avoid the tempting pressure that the leg that rested between hers exerted on her core. The good priest cleared his throat and cautiously released her gradually, his face as flushed as her own. Once more, he asked if she was all right, just after putting the space of two steps between them.

“Uh… yes, dizziness, nothing more. I… I just forget to eat sometimes,” Miriam muttered, pressing her eyes down hard to steady herself, calming her breathing and organizing her thinking, she took a deep breath.

The priest's perfume seemed to have permeated her clothes, her hair, her skin, intoxicating her senses.

“The body complaints and I don't hear it all the time, so, well, dizziness. I'll be fine… Thank you for keeping me from hitting my head and having a possible concussion.”, she says with a crooked smile, feeling embarrassed for leaving herself so vulnerable around him.

“Okay…”, the man with black curls muttered, his hands in his pockets and his gaze fixed on a specific spot on the worn floorboards under his feet.

Paul looked up at her once more. Miriam hugged her body shyly, her legs outstretched, distributing her body weight. He smiled slightly, she looked like an embarrassed little child, caught even before the mischief.

“You really shouldn't ignore the warnings, I might not always be around to try to keep you from getting hurt.”, he smiled, combing his black hair with his long fingers, a childish smile curving his lips.

“Yes, I shouldn't. I promise to be more careful from now on, I don't want it to end up happening when I'm walking up the stairs… Thank you.”, she tightened her lips in a thin line and mirrored the man's action, smoothing her own hair, which ended up letting go of it from the loose knot that held them. Her bangs cascaded down in front of her eyes.

The good priest was distracted by the young woman's beauty as she absently cleared his view of her hair. The sweet scent of those locks had permeated his cardigan, he smiled at the jovial thought that he would have her good scent to himself for the rest of the day. The gruff voice in his mind ruminated. You shouldn't think about it, there's a higher purpose you should dedicate yourself to. God chose you. That voice would keep him awake at night, along with the animal noises and murmurs of the Angel in his closet.

With some effort, Paul shook his head, as if to banish the lingering thought, and decided he would like to see her again.

“Um… Will I see you on Ash Wednesday? There will be a community event after the Mass, I'm sure you've been told…”, he said, his deep, smoky voice dying as he felt his cheekbones burning.

He smiled and acted as casually as he could. His dark eyes gleamed as he saw her blush.

“I would appreciate your presence there.”, the priest completed with a gentle tone, moving to pick up his messenger bag and putting it on his shoulder he turned to her, awaiting an answer.

Her shoulders felt shaky, even curled under her dark shawl. Taking a deep breath, she knotted the bow of her shawl and approached with a soft curve to her lips.

“Sure. I look forward to seeing you—” Miriam broke off abruptly, not having managed to get her tongue under control in time. She rephrased, her cheeks flushing a bright red. “E-Erin told me that your homilies are very beautiful.”, the woman smiled when she saw him chuckle slightly at the compliment.

“I'm glad she likes my homilies. I hope you like it as much as she does.” Paul smiled and prepared to leave, the weight of the sacrament he carried sinking his feet into the tiled floor.

Millie needs you, stop stalling and focus on your mission. The voice screamed in his mind. He took a deep breath. God has chosen you, don't let Him down.

“Well. I'd love to chat a little longer, but duty calls.” He waved his hand briefly around the strap of the bag that held the Sacrament. His feet led him to walk towards the door. “Good Morning. I hope you get better soon, Miriam. See you soon.”, said the clergy with one last smothered smile.

Miriam followed in his stride. Sock-clad feet sliding across the floor and stopping at the door jamb. With a flick of her wrist, she turned the knob and followed him outside. Now, they were both standing once more and ready to say goodbye on Erin's porch.

“Thank you so much for the visit, and for the muffin, you got it right.”, she smiled a slightly tired smile, although her eyes were apparently more active.

The woman looked uncomfortable about something, gripping the doorknob and staring at the tense lines that marked the priest's forehead, a lip between her teeth. Miriam looked like she wanted to tell him something important.

“Have a nice day, Father Paul… I…”, she pondered for a moment if she should tell him that she would like to tell him something about Bev. She seemed right to inform him of the deaconess's light hand on church money.

Biting the inside of her cheek, she lowered her eyes to the floor for a single moment, considering. Then she lifted her gaze to the dark coins in the priest's eyes, determined to warn him.

However, her decision was shattered as soon as her orbs caught a figure of medium height and thick hair walking towards the house. Recognizing Erin from a distance, the sick woman wrapped herself more tightly in her dark shawl and took a deep breath. It wouldn't be good if this got out before a confirmation, on second thoughts she decided to disguise her speech.

“Father, would you please send my best wishes to Monsignor Pruitt?”, Her voice was little more than a whisper, the shy tone giving way to the calm timbre that was hers. Paul blinked at her for a moment and nodded, his gaze shifting guiltily from her eyes.

“Sure, anything specific in mind?” The priest didn't like having to continue to support the lie he'd told, but it was a necessary evil. An uncomfortable knot tightened in his chest.

“No. Just…”, Miriam wondered for a moment whether she was questioning the old Monsignor about some unusual activity by one of his closest parishioners, but she pushed the idea aside. No, he's too old and too sick for that. “Not really.” Smiling simply and awkwardly, she played with the beads of the rosary around her neck.

“Well, as you wish.…”, he smiled minimally, still staring at his shoes, pushing away the guilt that that dialogue evoked in him. “I'm sure he'll be happy to hear it, so consider it delivered.”, The priest slightly uncomfortably adjusted the strap of his bag, the metaphorical weight of the Sacrament hunching over his shoulders. Taking a hesitant step back, he held the look she'd given him, a silence ensuing.

Miriam was staring at him, as she had as they walked together when they first met. A scrutinizing look, as if just looking at him could tell what he was thinking. Paul thought that for an instant he had seen the young woman's orbs swing to his lips.

The priest dropped his eyes to the feminine fingers that wrapped the rosary around her voluptuous bosom. The black haired man found it curious how the rosary she played with so often seemed to somehow be an anchor for her restless mind.

Looking closely at her, the priest couldn't help but think of the beautiful shape that the amulet adorned her neck. Paul scolded himself for imagining what it would be like to touch the soft skin at her throat. Even renewed the sins repeat themselves, the ruminating of the disembodied voice in his mind haunted him. The priest cleared his throat and looked away as her voice broke through the silence between them.

“Erin!”, Miriam called with youthful enthusiasm. Stepping forward and standing side by side with the good shepherd, breaking the distance he had put between them. Her shoulder brushed lightly against his arm, and she felt a rush of heat through her body.

The closeness seemed to burn in both of them.

Turning around calmly, the good cleric nodded to Erin, smiling weakly, he straightened his posture and cast a last glance at the young accountant.

“See you soon, Ms. Harper.” His smoky voice muttered, as he patted her shoulder gently, starting down the porch steps, the boards creaking with the sudden weight.

Miriam almost shivered at the measly touch.

“Good morning, Father”, Erin greeted briefly as she passed him on the way to the porch, her eyes squinted against the particularly sunny day. Without delay, Paul replied with a warm 'good morning' and a restrained smile. Nodding one last time, the priest began to distance himself from the two women. His strides carried him towards his own hidden mission.

The expectant mother looked at her tenant with an inquisitive arched brow. Once the good priest was gone, she discreetly pointed at him over her shoulder.

“I knew you were bad, but apparently it's a lot worse than I thought. What did he come to do? Give you the Anointing of the Sick?”, Erin asked with a mocking smile, humour tempering her words.

Miriam could barely contain her laughter, shaking her head and re-entering the house as the curly woman followed. Erin didn't get the answer she wanted from her tenant that day, but she certainly had her own suspicions.

Taglist:

@stardustandgunpowder, @liesandghosts, @pruitts-tight-fucking-jeans, @un-kiss-the-breakfast, @girlwiththenegantattoo, @dreams-madeof-strawberrylemonade, @sterwild, @thegardenarcher, @snapessecretdiary, @judarspeach, @je55b, @hungrhay, @midnight-mess, @ledzeppelindeanmon, @vivi-venus

If your name is striped, it’s because Tumblr don’t let me tag you for some reason. =(

Here's a Google form, where you can tell me where you want to be tagged.

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eddiemetalheadmunson · 3 years

Text

heeeeey, ya filthy animals. chapter two of The Dying of the Light: Electric Chapel is complete. no warnings for this chapter, things are pretty tame. for now. hehehe.

click here for chapter I, "she wanted storms".

follow me, don't be such a holy fool /

follow me, i need something sacred from you /

together we'll both find a way /

to make a pure love work in a dirty way

electric chapel - lady gaga. listen here for the vibes.

chapter II: electric chapel

The sharp rapping of a fist against the front door jerks Lilith out of a particularly pleasant nap and she groans, rubbing her hands down her face sleepily. It’s dark out already, hence the pitch blackness surrounding her, and she wonders absentmindedly just how long she’s been out. The little house had gotten considerably colder with the breeze coming from the open water and she shivers a bit, grabbing an oversized hoodie from the backpack next to her and yanking it over her head.

With her bones popping in protest, she pushes herself up off of the floor and stumbles ungracefully to flip the porch light on, swinging the front door open. There stands a tiny woman with a rather strict demeanor and a prim expression on her face.

“So sorry to intrude on, well…” the woman glances up at her, no doubt, extremely tangled long red hair, “…whatever it was you were doing, but I was informed of a new resident of the island and thought I’d stop by and introduce myself,” she says curtly, plastering a genial smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Lily doesn’t miss the way she looks her up and down with mild distaste. To be fair, she probably does look like shit, but damn, she could at least pretend not to notice.

“Oh…yeah. Yep, that’s me. Um, I’m Lilith Rowan. I’m just here to help sell –”

The woman cuts her off abruptly. “Oh! You’re Frederick’s granddaughter! Yes, yes of course, I remember now. I’m so very sorry for your loss, dear. He was a nice man. Kept to himself, mostly…one of the few on the island who rarely attended mass, in fact,” she says, obviously oblivious to how rude she sounds.

“Oh. Well, church isn’t for everyone, I guess,” Lily shrugs, earning a piercing stare from the woman.

“I suppose not. Anyway, my name is Beverly Keane, I’m somewhat of a coordinator of things here on the island. I meant to greet you when you arrived but you must’ve snuck right past me,” she says, clasping her hands together and cocking her head to the side to study Lily in a way that makes her rather uncomfortable.

“I didn’t realize anyone even knew I was coming, honestly,” Lily chuckles. “I haven’t been here in what feels like forever. It looks like there’s a lot less people living here then what I remember,” she says, momentarily glancing around at the lack of the living surrounding them.

Beverly sighs, joining Lily in surveying the land. “Yes, we’ve had some…unfortunate events transpire over the years, but we march on. Not much else we can do. Most people here are admirably faithful, and we trust that Christ will see us through.”

Lily clenches her jaw and nods with a stiff smile. This lady was pushy as hell about the whole God thing. Great, she thought. I’m going to have her hounding me the entire time I’m here.

“Well, now that you’re here I suppose I’ll leave you to it. We do so hope to see you at the service tomorrow, dear. It would certainly make a good impression on the residents if you attend. An easy way to meet everyone, if nothing else,” she says, pursing her lips confidently and sticking her chin up in a way that makes Lily want to snort with laughter.

“Um, well, I don’t really do the whole “church” thing. Not anymore, at least. But I appreciate the invitation. I’ll…I’ll think about it,” Lily manages to grind out her response and barely suppresses a grin at how taken aback Beverly looks at her statement.

“Well…I suppose that’s the wonderful thing about God. You can choose to be saved at any time in life. Just make sure you do it before – well, I’m sure you know, dear.” She chuckles dryly at her own joke and brushes her dress off, smoothing the wrinkles. Before Lily can formulate an undoubtedly aggressive response to that, a low, gentle voice interrupts them.

“Who’s this, then? Have you been hiding her from us, Bev?”

Lily’s heart skips a beat when her eyes land on a tall, handsome man with a kind face making his way over to the porch. Thick and somewhat curly raven hair sits atop his head and his smile is the kind you can just tell is genuine. His hands are in his pockets, giving him a slightly boyish demeanor that is admittedly quite endearing, and he’s dressed in all dark colors: skinny jeans, a black cardigan and…

A white collar? He’s a priest?!

All at once, Lily realizes she’s basically just staring the poor man down. He grins and nods at her in a friendly greeting. She feels a blush creeping from her cheeks down her neck, but for the first and most likely only time, Beverly’s clipped tone saves her some pain.

“Monsignor! I didn’t expect to see you around this area of the island so late. This is Lilith, she’s here to take care of some real estate on the island for her Great Grandfather.”

Lily’s head snaps to Beverly in barely restrained offense.

“I mean, he’s dead, so…not really doing it for him, per se. Unless you’ve seen his ghost floating around town,” she quips with a raised eyebrow and a tiny smirk. She looks to the priest and doesn’t miss the way he inconspicuously chuckles, but then looks up into her eyes again with gentle concern.

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Lilith. Your Grandfather was a good man. He never had an unkind word to say about anyone, or so I’ve been told by Monsignor Pruitt. You most likely don’t remember him if you’ve been away as long as Frederick had said, but Father Pruitt is currently on the mainland on sick leave I’m afraid, so I’m just here stepping in for him while he’s resting up.”

Lily bites her lip and wracks her brain, trying to place the old man who’d led the church when she was little. A spark of a memory flits across her mind, and she can’t help but crack a smile and shake her head sheepishly at him.

“Oh god…yeah, I remember him. He was exceptionally…patient with me when I was little. I was kind of a holy terror as a kid. I remember one particular prank that may or may not have been my doing. He knew. He totally knew, there’s no way he couldn’t have,” she laughs genuinely now, leaning against the railing of the porch in thought. “He never ratted me out, though. Good guy,” she recalls warmly, hardly believing she’d completely forgotten about him until this moment.

“Yes, well – Lilith has informed me that, unfortunately, we won’t be seeing her at the church in the coming weeks. She doesn’t prefer it. To each their own, I suppose,” she nods at Lily in a gesture that is apparently supposed to be respectful but fails monumentally, and it sends a jolt of fire through Lily’s veins.

“I don’t feel like I need any help finding my moral compass, Ms. Keane. I mean, I could be a real psycho, y’know?” Lily quips. “I try to be as nice I can. I help old ladies across the street. I pay my taxes. Hell, I even recycle sometimes! I can’t have strayed too far from the flock, right?” She crosses her arms and tilts her head to the side to stare resolutely into Beverly’s eyes, which widen a fraction in surprise before she flares her nostrils and clears her throat.

“Well, I suppose the Monsignor and I have introduced ourselves, then. Best get to bed, Father, big day tomorrow. Oh, you probably don’t know, but tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. There’s a rather beloved event that follows the church service, the “Crock Pot Luck”. Welcome to all who worship our Lord and Savior, and…and of course, any newcomers,” she reluctantly informs Lily, nodding her head and turning on her heel to leave. She stops when she realizes the Monsignor isn’t following in her wake.

“Oh, I’d like to talk to our new friend for a moment longer. I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow at service, Bev,” he replies with a kind smile, turning to look at Lily again when Beverly, resigned, huffs and continues her journey home. Lily snorts derisively and watches her depart, shaking her head at the balls on this woman.

“New heathen, more like.”

The Monsignor takes a few steps towards her and shakes his head good-naturedly. “You’re far from being a heathen. Bev is…well, she’s very devout in her faith. Try not to take it personally. None of us are spared of her strict morality lessons,” he laughs gently as he reaches the bottom step of the porch, smiling up at her in a way that warms her from the inside out. “I’m Father Paul. Hill. It’s very nice to meet you, Lilith.”

“Oh, you can just call me Lily. Most people do. I mean, you don’t have to, just throwing it out there, if you’d rather,” she rambles, instantly feeling mortified at how awkward she’s acting.

What the hell? He’s a priest, you fucking moron. Get over yourself.

“Well, Lily. I’m glad you’re here. I wish it was due to different circumstances, but you’re always welcome here in Crockett,” he says softly, reaching out a hand to shake hers. She grins down at him and reaches her hand out to take his, instantly feeling a tickle of electricity through every finger at his warm, comforting touch.

“Thanks, um – shit, I’m sorry, I don’t know really know what the protocol is for this kinda’ thing. Do I call you Father each time I address you? Or, Father Paul? Just Paul? O’ mighty one?” she shyly jokes, rubbing a hand behind her neck in mild embarrassment. He laughs out loud at this, smiling beautifully at her – all white teeth and sparkling brown eyes, and she’s taken aback at just how ridiculously attractive he is. She wonders if he even realizes.

“Call me whatever you feel comfortable with. Most just call me Father Paul, Father Hill, etcetera. Nothing too fancy,” he offers, crossing his arms and titling his head a bit to study her in a way that makes her feel like she’s being x-rayed, but not unpleasantly so. She blushes at the thought of calling him “Father”. She’d never addressed anyone as “Father” in her entire life. It always seemed like such a stiff, overly formal title for her own Dad, or anyone for that matter. But calling him Father? It feels rather…personal, almost bordering on intimacy, and she isn’t entirely sure why it makes her flush as she thinks about it. These thoughts are enough to rattle her nerves, but she mentally shakes herself off and pulls it together.

“Gotcha’. Right. Well, Father Paul,” she says in an overly dramatic manner, punctuated by a flamboyant, tiny bow, “It’s nice to meet you, too. Thanks for not shunning me off of your island.”

His eyebrows raise in amusement at her response, and she quickly finds it hard to maintain eye contact. She suddenly becomes very invested in the grain direction of the floorboards beneath her feet. She clears her throat and bounces on her feet a bit, trying to ease her own self-induced embarrassment.

Ugh. Why do I have to act like a five-year old boy every time I talk to a man?

“I’d invite you in for coffee and a chat but there’s no furniture. Like, literally none,” she says, changing the subject and laughing lightly. His brows pinch together at this, and he leans his head to the side to peer into the barren little house behind her.

“You don’t have anywhere to sleep, then?”

“I do! No, I do. It’s just not “company” ready is all I meant. I didn’t – I couldn’t face any personal items if I was going to sell the house,” she manages to stutter out, suddenly feeling rather childish by how flighty and unprepared she must seem.

“You do know there’s a fairly large storm coming, right? Sometime this week. You’re rather close to the shoreline, if not the closest on the island. I feel…deeply uncomfortable with you staying here during the thick of it,” his voice falls into a murmur as if he’s thinking out loud, studying the distance between the shoreline and the house. Genuine concern etches itself across his facial features while he rakes a hand through his unruly hair in deliberation. It causes her heart stutter like a fucking school girl, and she studies his face as he’s looking elsewhere. Dark brown eyes canopied by thick lashes, pretty white teeth, a constant expression of kindness, and damn, those lips…

Dude. He’s a PRIEST, she hisses at herself internally before that thought can evolve. He’s probably this nice to everyone. That’s literally in his job description. You’re not special.

She laughs lightly in attempt to ease the tension coiling inside of her, watching her hot breath swirl into smoky looking tendrils amongst the chilly air. “Seriously, Father, it’s – I’ll be fine. I love storms, actually. They stay awake and, well, keep watch over me while I’m sleeping. We’re on pretty good terms with each other,” she says, trying to ease his worries. His deep, dark eyes land on her face, scanning her from her neck to her lips to her freckled nose and finally, to her green eyes. His facial expression tells her he remains unconvinced.

“It’s apparently going to be a pretty bad one. We’ll all lose power most likely, they say that’s pretty much a given. Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay somewhere else?”

She couldn’t hold back a bashful smile at his insistence. “I don’t even know anyone here to stay with, and I’d really rather not inconvenience anyone. It would be kinda’ awkward,” she says, chuckling lightly and absentmindedly playing with a piece of her hair out of habit. He gently scoffs as if she’s said the silliest thing in the world, his expression full of sincerity that has her cheeks growing warm again.

You have got to get your shit together, woman.

“Well, you’re more than welcome to stay at Monsignor Pruitt’s house. It’s where I’m staying, myself, until he starts feeling better. It isn’t my home so technically we’d both be guests, not just yourself, and there’s a perfectly good bedroom with no occupant.”

Lily’s eyes widen in surprise and she studies his face, wondering if perhaps he’s joking. “Are – you’re serious? You just met me. I could be a murderer for all you know.”

He smiles up at her and chuckles, shaking his head. “Yes, I can see you’re very dangerous. A – holy terror, I believe it was? – but I’ll lean on faith that you won’t throttle me in my sleep.”

She bites her lip in an attempt to hide the giant, dorky smile trying to form on her lips. “Hey, I am dangerous, thank you very much. I like you though, so you’re in the clear. I’ll let you live. Out of the goodness of my heart,” she says as she places a hand across her chest above her heart, failing monumentally at suppressing said dorky smile.

His raises an eyebrow in amusement and mild surprise, his expression one of curiosity and something else she can’t quite put her finger on. She internally kicks herself and feels her face flush, hoping he didn’t read into her statement the wrong way. Growing up with so many male friends had done her a disservice in that way, as sometimes she would say things that could be considered not entirely platonic because she was so comfortable being herself around them. It made for a few awkward situations where someone would start having feelings for her, thinking she felt the same, and the friendship was just never the same after she set the record straight with them.

“Well, I must say, I’m quite flattered, Miss Rowan. Or is it Mrs. Rowan? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.”

She snorts inelegantly, shaking her head and crossing her arms. “Ha! No, your assumption is quite correct.”

Something flashes within his eyes as he nods, lightly exhaling in a way that could almost, almost pass as…mild relief? No, that wouldn’t make any sense. She scolds herself again, wondering what it was about this skinny priest with kind eyes and a warm voice, and really nice hair, the kind you can run your fingers through…or tug on…

She snaps back to reality and when she does, she realizes he’s been staring at her. Studying her. “Just think about it at least? No pressure either way, of course. If you’d feel better giving something in return for my hospitality, coming to tomorrow’s service would be more than enough,” he says, crossing his arms and looking off into the distance, feigning indifference at her answer.

She laughs, really laughs at this, recognizing that he’s teasing her. He joins in on the laughter and faces her again, his eyes lightly drifting across her form before snapping back up to meet her eyes. She pushes herself off of the porch rail and shoves her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, rocking on her feet a bit in thought.

“I guess that would be the neighborly thing to do, wouldn’t it? I’ll…um – I’ll consider it.”

He claps his hands together, giving her a sweet smile that has her insides buzzing like a hive of bees and takes a few steps back. “Good! I really hope to see you there, then. It would make the day all the more special. I’ll get out of your hair now, I’m sure you’re still trying to get settled in,” he says, backing up a few more paces to take his leave.

“Yeah…yeah, you too. I’ll be seeing you around,” she replies and returns the smile, trying not to react to his previous comment about her presence at the service being special, but manages to make an ass out of herself all the same by her stiff reply. He smiles and departs, lifting a hand to say goodbye and Lily does the same. She quickly scurries back inside the house, closing the door a little too loudly, and slumps back against it once she’s in. Her stomach is still doing little flips from their conversation and her head feels fuzzy. She hadn’t felt this instant of a connection with anyone in…well, ever, if she’s being honest with herself. But this connection was between her and quite possibly the most unattainable person she could think of.

Well, fuck.

#midnight mass #father paul #father paul hill x ofc #father paul x ofc #father paul hill #father john pruitt #midnight mass fanfic #the dying of the light #midnight mass fanfiction #ofc #Lilith Rowan #ofc: lilith rowan #riley flynn #sarah gunning #erin greene #leeza scarborough #joe callie #sheriff hassan #pike

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eddiemetalheadmunson · 2 years

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THE DYING OF THE LIGHT | CHAPTER 5: AFTER DARK

the night will hold us close and the stars will guide us home /

i've been waiting for this moment, we're finally alone /

i turn to ask the question, so anxious, my thoughts /

your lips were soft like winter /

in your passion, i was lost.

TW: there is a very brief assault scene in this chapter. non-sexual, low on the violence scale, but is it nonconsensual. LISTEN TO AFTER DARK BY MR. KITTY HERE (PLEASE LISTEN! IT SETS THE VIBE FOR THE CHAPTER) PREVIOUS FOUR CHAPTERS HERE

It’s around 6 pm when the power finally shuts off after a particularly loud clap of thunder shudders across the atmosphere. It causes her heart to skip a beat in surprise, even though she’s been anticipating it for hours. She sighs, bookmarking the novel she’s reading, and gets up to look through her little window facing the distant sea. The sound of the raging wind is, admittedly, a bit more haunting than she’d imagined it would be, especially with her being alone in the now darkened house. She shivers a bit as a sliver of lightning strikes, illuminating her surroundings for a brief moment, and her breath catches in her throat as her vision zeroes in on the unmistakable form of a very terrified dog running like mad down the road.

“Shit...Pike! What the hell are you...?”

She curses again and without hesitation, runs to grab a sweater that she quickly yanks over her head, then scrambles to the door and pulls on her partially unbuckled boots. Not wanting to lose track of him, she decides off the cuff that she has no time to waste, so she yanks the front door open and runs directly into the thick of the storm. The wind is deafeningly loud, and so strong that it has the rain pelting almost horizontally against her body like bullets. She sees a small, darkened form running towards the beach and feels her heart sink into her gut.

He’s running to the water. Why is he running to the water?!

Lily takes off in a run, knowing that as long as she can feel the gravel of the road beneath her boots, she’ll hopefully not collide with anything (or anyone) as she tries to keep her eyes on that little moving target that’s growing fainter every second.

“PIKE!!! PIKE, HERE, BOY! C’MON PIKE!” she screams, all volume being swept away with the unforgiving wind and rain. She can hear the waves crashing violently against each other as she nears the beach and is doing all she can to keep her eyes focused on what now looks like a tiny dark speckle against the beach sand.

Then, through the violence of the storm that’s almost knocking her to the ground at this point, she hears something that chills her to the core: the unmistakable high-pitched cry of an animal in pain. Anger surges through her like a forest fire and she’s running as hard as she can now, ready for a fight. She skids to a messy halt when she sees a dark, crumpled form laying upon the beach. A feeling of panic ricochets through her.

She takes off in a sprint again, barely able to push against the screaming wind and rain, and finally reaches Pike, her knees buckling in front of his body into a kneeling position to get a closer look at him. He has a nasty gash on his right arm, but as she quickly runs her hands over his body, she finds no other injuries. The internal sigh of relief this brings is followed by an immediate panic.

How in the hell am I getting him back to the house?

As if he’s reading her mind, he grunts and hobbles his way to his feet, the cloudy, dazed look in his eyes now clearing. He promptly shakes his body in rapid speed, dousing her with even more water as relief courses through her. All she can do now is concentrate on getting him back to Joe. She quickly rips off the belt from her jeans and wraps it around Pike’s collar, sliding it through the buckle to create a makeshift leash, just in case.

Pike jogs alongside her, bouncing back to his normal self rather quickly despite his wound, and they begin running their way across town. The gravel road is flooded up to her ankles and she almost loses a boot when her foot sinks into a large water-filled hole, but as she runs past the church, she thinks she hears a voice, muffled by the violent wind and rain. Pike’s ears prick upwards and before she can even react, he bolts towards the sound, the leash sliding through her slick hands before she can get a better grip.

“PIKE! Pike, wait, come BACK! Come – “

She collides in a panicked frenzy into something, or someone, so hard that it sends her bouncing backwards onto her ass with a splash of water and mud. She blinks hard against the rain and looks up, trying to see what she ran into with full force and there in front of her, a very wet, very concerned Joe appears. He grabs her hands and helps yank her up, his voice trying to yell something that keeps being carried off by the wind. She can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. She grabs the belt attached to Pike and slips it into Joe’s hand, then grabs his shoulders and pivots him around towards his home with a light push. He turns only to wave and, she thinks, yell something that sounds a bit like “thank you” at her before taking off with Pike up the hill towards their trailer.

She momentarily breathes a sigh of relief but has little time to revel in it as a crack of thunder rockets through the sky so violently that the ground beneath her trembles. She turns around and tries to follow the direction she thinks she came from, but the storm is so thick with rain she can barely see an inch in front of her. Without a rescue mission to keep her bravery in full force, she starts to feel the creeping tendrils of fear snaking their way around her arms and legs like vines and comes to a halt, crouching down and blocking her head with her arms to try and brainstorm on how she’s going to get back home.

Shit...where the hell am I?

Then, she feels it again. That prickling sensation on the back of her neck, as if her senses are warning her of nearby danger. She whips her head up and around, squinting her eyes against the rain to try and see her surroundings, but its in vain. The rain is coming down too thickly to see more than a few feet in front of her.

She feels herself start to panic and holds back a frantic sob, pushing herself up from the ground and running aimlessly through sheets of rain, hoping to stumble across something, anything to take shelter in. She doesn’t get far before a hand wraps itself around her bicep, yanking her to the left of where she was heading. Her yelp of surprise is swallowed up by the storm, and before she can process what in the hell is even happening, the person’s hand is quickly replaced by their arm as it wraps itself around her back, their hand gripping her firmly at the waist. They pull the side of her body flush against their own, practically lifting her off of her feet and up some stairs that have now materialized beneath them, and it isn’t until they’re under the shelter of the porch that she realizes who is holding onto her.

Father Paul wastes no time in yanking his front door open and pulling her inside with him, quickly slamming it shut the moment they enter. She puts her hands on her knees, breathing heavily, comforted instantly by how much quieter her surroundings are now compared to just seconds ago. A warm hand comes to gently rest against her back, and she quickly stands upright to meet Father Paul’s extremely concerned and slightly exasperated gaze. He’s looking at her like she’s gone mad, and she can’t hold back from laughing out loud and shaking her head, wiping her eyes free of water.

“I know what you’re thinking, believe me. I was only out there because Pike got loose and I had to chase him down,” she confesses sheepishly as he looks at her as if he’s about to scold her like a child for putting herself in danger. A shiver ripples across her skin and she suddenly realizes how cold she is now that she’s stopped running.

I must look like an absolute lunatic right now.

His tense expression quickly softens, however, and he huffs a laugh and shakes his head incredulously. “I take it you succeeded?”

She snorts, nodding her head and wrapping her arms around herself to try and warm her trembling body.

“I did, indeed. Something hurt him, though, poor guy. Out at the beach. It was almost impossible to see anything, but I heard him cry out like he was being attacked and when I got to him, he had a huge gash on his leg and was just lying there, kind of in a daze...”

Father Paul’s humored expression slowly shifts into one of deep concern, catching her off guard.

“Is he all right? Did you...did you see whatever it was that attacked him?”

“He’s okay. Luckily I ran into Joe -- like, literally ran right into the guy -- and sent them both on their merry way. And no, I didn’t see anything, the rain was coming down too heavily. I was lucky to even spot Pike, honestly” she replies, cocking her head to the side to study him and his sudden change in demeanor. “Why, is there something out there I should be worried about, Father?”

She swears some of the color drains from his face before he shakes his head quickly. “No! No, I just – I’m glad you got him back to Joe safely. He’ll get him fixed up, I’m sure.”

She looks at him a bit warily , but before she can question him further, she becomes distracted by him running his eyes down her very cold, very wet body, and blushes profusely when she realizes her clothes are sticking to her like a second skin. Her shirt is white and her bra is black, she remembers, and is no doubt glaringly visible to him. He clears his throat then, quickly tearing his gaze away from her soaked form, his own cheeks reddening ever so slightly.

“We need to get you out of these wet clothes, Lily,” he declares matter-of-factly, meeting her eyes again with his own. She blanches, her eyes widening to stare at him like a deer in the headlights. His own expression mirrors hers when he realizes how he must have sounded to her. She’s now blushing furiously and he coughs, rapidly shaking his head.

“I just – I meant that you must be cold, and I can loan you something dry to wear. If, if you’d like,” he stutters, and she exhales a breath through her now slightly chattering teeth, wanting to smack herself for reacting like such an idiot.

What, did you think the priest was going to have you strip for him?

The thought sends another shiver through her that has nothing to do with being cold.

“S-sure. That would be awesome.”

He nods, quickly jumping into action and walking briskly to his room to fetch her some clothes. She notices that he isn’t wearing shoes, and for some reason, seeing him in his black socks feels rather intimate in comparison to his usual priestly attire. He’s wearing a light blue jacket over a grey shirt and dark, slim fitting jeans, and she finds herself gawking at him in appreciation as he returns with some sweatpants, a baggy long-sleeved black shirt and some fresh socks. If she thought she was blushing before, it’s nothing compared to how flushed she feels now that she’s about to get naked in the mans bathroom and then wear his clothes.

“If for some reason these don’t work, I’ll bring you something else,” he says kindly, patting the top of the little stack of clothes and handing them over with a small smile and warmth in his eyes.

God, he’s so cute. And here I am, dripping all over his floor looking like a drowned rat.

“You’re amazing. Thank you so much, Father. Seriously, you really saved my ass out there,” she laughs, unable to continue looking him in the eyes as her fingers graze his while taking the clothes from him.

He chuckles and waves her off as if it was no big deal. “You’re the real hero around here, running into storms to save innocent animals,” he says, tilting his head and giving her a ridiculously handsome smile. “I’m just glad you’re all right. Pike too, of course. Bathroom’s right over there – so just...let me know if you need something different.”

Okay, now he is definitely blushing.

Seeing him acting a bit shy like this emboldens her, and she can’t fight the urge to tease him a bit, hoping to ease some of the palpable tension between them.

“Will do. Actually, wait, I don’t see any underwear here?”

He blinks at her, his expression now making him appear as if someone had just banged him over the head with a frying pan. All of the previous awkwardness was completely worth it, she quickly decides, and she bursts into a fit of laughter, playfully pushing him in the shoulder.

“I’m kidding, Father! Totally kidding! I’m so sorry – I just...I couldn’t resist.”

He exhales the deep breath he’d sucked in and his dumbstruck expression slowly morphs into a one of playful frustration as he gives in and laughs along with her. His eyes crinkle adorably at the corners in a way that makes her heart skip a beat, and she swears she’s never before seen a smile as beautiful as his.

“Oh, very funny, Lilith. I’ll remember that. Now go on, get into something dry before you get sick,” he chuckles, raking a hand through his unruly hair in a rather distracting manner.

“Yes, sir!” She concedes with a parting grin and a wink, and she thinks she sees a mischievous flash of something in his eyes in response to her, admittedly, flirty gesture.

By the time she’s wrung out her dripping clothes, hung them to dry, and changed into his surprisingly soft clothes (sans underwear and bra, much to her chagrin) the smell of fresh coffee fills the house and he’s now made himself comfortable on the little couch at the center of the room. She lingers by the bathroom doorway, unable to keep herself from just admiring him for a moment as he softly hums a psalm while gently turning a page of the weathered bible in his hand. She smiles as that special warmth that only he can call into existence begins to fill her up inside before quietly reentering the living room, instantly spotting a cup of coffee on the little table in front of the couch.

“That’s for you. You drink it black, if I’m remembering correctly?” He asks, gesturing to the cup. The memory of their last encounter sours the pleasant feelings she was just experiencing, and she mumbles a quiet “thanks” before picking it up and taking a small sip. When she looks up from her mug, he’s staring at her as if he’s studying her, his eyebrows pinching together thoughtfully.

“Lily, I’d like to apologize for having to leave so suddenly last week. It was very kind of you to invite me in, and very rude of me to take off in such a hurry,” he says, closing the bible and staring directly into her eyes with a hint of concern.

She swallows hard, trying to keep her heart steady and lowers her eyes to peer at the swirling black liquid inside of her mug that, turns out, is quite delicious. A dark roast, she thinks. She shrugs in an attempt to remain casual, biting her lip without realizing she’s doing so.

“It’s...it’s no big deal. I understand. Priests don’t really get time off, do they?”

He smiles at her then, in a way that looks an awful lot like affection, and she flushes, taking another sip and gazing out his window. Right as she does, the lights dim with a quiet crackle of electricity, then go out completely with a sharp pop. They’re both surrounded in darkness with only the sound of rain hitting the roof and the whistling of the wind.

Confused, she turns to look at his silhouette in the darkness. “How come my house was the only one to lose power earlier? Until just now, that is.”

Father Paul sighs, setting his bible down and walking over to a desk, grabbing a few candles from within and a box of matches. He lights them up and the room is bathed in a soft, warm glow that makes everything seem rather...well, romantic.

“Well, I can’t say for certain, but it sounds like your Grandfather must’ve been using his own personal generator. The one that powers the town is usually rather useless during even the lightest of storms.”

“Hm. Makes sense," she replies with a grin, the atmosphere of the the room becoming rather cozy amidst the peaceful candlelight.

When he’s seated again, he takes a sip of his much paler coffee and pats the unoccupied part of the little couch without meeting her eyes.

“You must be freezing. Come and sit.”

Lily feels her mouth go dry and her pulse spike as he grabs his book and resumes his reading without another word. Truthfully, there’s nothing she’d love more than to sit by him, and despite her nerves walking across multiple tight-ropes inside of her stomach, she nods and sits down, placing her cup on the table and grabbing the draped blanket from the back of the couch to cover up in.

“Want some? I don’t wanna’ hog all the blanket,” she asks a bit shyly, laughing lightly as she positions herself to sit cross-legged on the couch while fanning the blue blanket out and over herself. Her heart is in her throat at how close they are now, and she can feel the warmth radiating off of him even though their bodies aren’t quite touching.

“I’m all right,” he replies, giving her a good-natured smile, “besides, I can practically feel how cold you are from here. Do you want another blanket? I have some extras in the closet.”

She’s about to tell him that yes, another blanket would be wonderful, but her mind forms its own plan. She gently scoots a bit closer to him, pressing her side against his own just enough so that their arms are now pressed against each other. If not for the lingering pulse of adrenaline from her impromptu rescue mission earlier, she doubts she’d have done something this bold.

His entire body goes rigid as her relaxed shoulder presses against his own, which is now stiff and unyielding.

Shit. Bad idea.

She’s about to start pouring out a slew of apologies for pushing his boundaries and begins to scramble away in gut-wrenching embarrassment, but as soon as she tries to distance herself, she feels his arm gently wrap itself around her shoulders to pull her back against him more snugly.

Holy shit. He’s...we’re...

“Is...is this okay? You’re way warmer than a blanket,” she confesses with a quiet giggle, feeling her heart pound happily as she soaks up his body heat and silently celebrates this little victory. He chuckles, his body relaxing a bit more beside her as he gently sets the coffee mug in his other hand down on the coffee table.

“Whatever gets you warmed up faster. I can’t guarantee the power will be on again anytime soon – best get you back to a normal body temperature before it gets even colder in here. You already feel like an icicle,” he replies, a corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a ridiculously sexy smirk that has her quickly looking away with pinkening cheeks.

Why does he have to be so damn handsome? And sweet? And compassionate? And –

“Do you mind if I ask you something I’ve been curious about? It is, of course, completely fine if not,” he asks softly, leaning sideways to place his bible on the side table next to him, causing his grip around her shoulders to tighten a bit and pull her closer yet into his wonderfully inviting warmth. His scent overwhelms her senses in an almost intoxicating way. She detects aftershave, and the faintest hint of something spicy and rich mixed with a calm woodiness, almost like that of a forest.

He smells like autumn.

Intrigued, she nods, lifting her gaze to meet his. “Sure, why not? I owe you for running out into hurricane weather to come and save me so heroically.”

He turns to face her and the candle light coaxes out the depth and ethereal darkness within his eyes, the flames reflecting off of them and making them sparkle like the stars that begin to awaken at evenfall. Her breath catches in her throat as his penetrating gaze flickers across her face, pausing for a fraction of a second on her lips. The simple act of him looking at her sends her pulse racing. He’s never been anywhere this close to her before and she feels somewhat paralyzed now that he is.

“That day at the end of the service you attended, Ash Wednesday, you...well, you looked scared to death, Lilith. I can still see that look on your face, as if it’s engrained into my mind, and I feel rather responsible for your discomfort that day. I shouldn’t have brought you to the front of the church without asking first – it was inappropriate and presumptuous of me, and I’m truly sorry for my missteps so early on in our friendship. Or, what I’m hoping is a friendship,” he confesses, his eyes never leaving hers and his expression displaying nothing but genuine honesty.

Her mouth falls open a bit as she inhales, not realizing she’d been holding her breath, and the familiar prickle of tears gathering behind her eyelids has her quickly abandoning his gaze. She stares instead out the window again, simply surveying the power of mother nature, the world, and all of its brutality. Something she’d become rather accustomed to throughout her life, but not in the way of hurricanes or tornados or being hunted by predators.

Just a bottle of liquid with her name on it, filled to the brim with poison.

She’s startled out of her trance when she feels a large hand engulf her own that had, without her realization, begun clenching itself into a fist until her knuckles turned white from the intense strain.

“Lily...” He begins to backtrack, but she cuts him off before he can.

“Father...it’s fine, it’s a valid question. I get it. But it has nothing to do with a cross being smudged across my forehead,” she snorts, fighting her tears into submission and shaking her head at herself. “It’s just...I need you to promise me you won’t...”

She does turn to look at him now and she’s met with him looking upon her with his undivided attention, brows furrowed and stress lines accentuated upon his forehead. She sighs, dropping her head to look down upon their conjoined hands. Very briefly, it occurs to her how normal it feels for him to do this, to touch her this way. It’s an entirely new sensation that she quickly locks away so she can analyze it on her own later on.

With a deep breath, she sits up straight, nodding to herself firmly in resolution and stares directly into his beautiful eyes that somehow have secured her trust in the mere handful of days she’s known him.

“No, I...I can’t make you promise not to feel differently about me, it wouldn’t be fair. So, for now, I’ll ask you to please just try. Pinky promise?”

She holds out the pinky of her free hand, putting on her bravest face to ease some of the tension steadily building inside of her, and his features soften from their tense expression into one of gentle reassurance. The honesty of his emotions always manages to catch her off guard, sending her heart into a frenzy. He glances down at her pinky in confusion, however, making her giggle, before she gently lifts his hand off of hers still resting on her lap and hooks her pinky around his own.

“A pinky promise is...well, when I was kid, it was the ultimate promise. The promise of all promises, if you will. A promise you can never break,” she murmurs with a grin as he looks down at their conjoined fingers, then back up again with raised eyebrows and an amused grin that has butterflies erupting inside of her chest.

“You know, you just continue to surprise me, Miss Rowan,” he chuckles, tightening his pinky around hers as his smile becomes gentle again. “I would never judge you, Lily. But yes -- I promise.”

As she stares at their conjoined pinky fingers and then into his eyes, she finds that she truly believes him.

By the time she’s told him all about her struggles, in both the past and present, at least an hour has passed. She can’t remember the last time she’s felt this comfortable talking to anyone about the terrible things that derailed her life so thoroughly years ago. Every bad choice, every lost friend, every miserable morning and lonely night – never once does he grimace or react negatively. His face remained attentive and calm throughout it all, his only reaction being that he’d take her hand in his own when she’d start to struggle with speaking some of her darkest memories aloud. She felt content here on this little couch with him, with the flickering of the candles casting dancing shadows across the room while the storm outside raged on.

She felt safe.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” he murmurs as they nurse their second cups of coffee that have managed to stay nice and hot in the carafe.

“For what?” She asks, blowing into the steaming mug and trying to hide the shy smile beginning to form on her lips.

“For telling me your story. It takes an immense amount of bravery to open ourselves up to another, and now that you have, would you like to know what I think?”

She freezes, her cup almost at her lips as she digests his question and her eyes flit over to look at him. He’s got that adorable, good-natured smile on his face, eyes twinkling again playfully, and she internally sighs in relief.

He promised he wouldn’t judge you. You have to choose to trust him on that.

“Um, well – eh, what the hell. Your opinion sort of...really matters to me though, so, y’know...go easy on me, please,” she laughs nervously, taking a gulp of coffee before setting the mug down and turning to face him, pulling her legs up to her chest and resting her chin on her knees.

He squints his eyes a bit at her little confession about caring what he thinks of her and studies her thoughtfully while his gaze flickers across her face, and she suddenly feels rather childish for letting that slip. He doesn’t linger on the topic, luckily.

“Hmmm. Well, for one, I think you’re far stronger than you even remotely realize, Lilith. To have made it through so many tests and trials is no small feat. I can’t begin to imagine how difficult it must have been. Must still be at times,” he says, his words coming easily to him as if it was common knowledge. She feels a glimmer of pride at his praise.

“I also think that you’re too hard on yourself. And before you argue,” he says with a little grin as she opens her mouth to heartily disagree, “try to see things from my perspective. You’ve suffered. You have, and you were given plenty of opportunities to give up. To lose your spark, which to me, looks as if it’s very much alive and shining brightly within you still. You didn’t let sadness or bitterness turn you cold. You continuously choose to be kind to others in an unkind world. Most importantly, you didn’t let your demons kill your softness, Lilith. That, is what I see when I look at you.”

She doesn’t even realize she’s crying until he leans forward and thumbs away the tears that have slipped down her cheeks, his amber eyes glowing with such open honesty that it takes her breath away. His hand gently moves to cradle the side of her face and she allows her eyes to flutter closed. She finds herself instinctually leaning into the warmth of his palm, choosing not to think about anything other than the electric current coursing through her veins at his touch.

“I don't even know what to say, Father...I —”

Words abruptly fail her as she feels the faintest caress of his thumb on her cheek, her eyes snapping open to peer up at him in surprise. Her breath catches in her throat when she takes in his ardent gaze, his eyes now glowing like molten gold. For a moment, it's as if time itself has come to a halt. The storm is silenced, the flickering of the candlelight stills, and he is no longer just a priest dutifully counseling one of his little lost sheep.

He’s just Paul. Just a man. A man she’s desperately and undeniably falling for.

An invisible force has her lifting her chin from her knees, never breaking eye contact, as his hand slides from her cheek to cup the nape of her neck, his fingers sifting through her damp hair. She sucks in a shaky breath and his jaw clenches as he exhales roughly through his nose, appearing to be fighting against whatever is leading him forward still. Her heart is thumping like a drum inside of her chest, and she has to hold back a shiver when he tilts his head, just so, to openly stare at her neck.

His expression darkens, then, and as if in a trance, she’s allowing him to pull her head towards him with the hand holding the back of her neck. His other hand gently grips her chin and angles her face to further expose the pale column of her neck to him. A steady warmth begins to pool into her lower stomach as her heart begins to positively pound, now, and she hears him suck in a ragged breath that sends goosebumps erupting across her body. She feels his hot breath ghosting across the skin of her neck, and he’s so close that his thick hair is gently tickling her cheek now. A tiny whimper slips from her throat and his grip on the back of her head tightens, pulling her closer until she feels his lips ghost across the tender spot beneath her jaw –”

A crack of lightning strikes somewhere far too close to the house, its sound so deafeningly loud that it sends them both jumping away from each other and scooting to opposite ends of the couch in panic. She’s breathing heavily from being startled half to death while he has hopped off of the couch completely. He begins pacing, arms folded around himself tightly and his head hanging low, rapidly muttering something under his breath. Lily, not knowing how to react, simply stares at him as she catches her breath, her hand pressed over her frenzied heart.

What in the hell is doing?

“Father...? Are you okay?”

It’s as if he can’t even hear her amidst his own troubled thoughts as he continues to pace. She notices now that in one hand, he’s clutching onto a rosary so hard that his knuckles have turned white. Dread quickly douses the fire she’d been feeling only moments ago.

He feels guilty for what just happened. He regrets it.

She decides right here and now to squash the problem before it gets out of hand. She wouldn’t put him in a position like that ever again, as long as he’ll stay in her life. As long as he’ll stay her friend.

Please don’t let it be ruined.

She stands up and inches towards him, and as he distractedly brushes past her while he paces, she reaches out and wraps a hand around his arm firmly.

As if he’d forgotten she was even in the room, he startles and yanks his arm from her grasp, his chest rising and falling rapidly, a look of fear and slight desperation in his wide eyes.

“Don’t! Don’t...please, I can’t...you can’t be close to me right now, I’ll -- I don’t want to hurt you, Lily,” he stammers, backing up as he holds his hands up as if to ward her off.

“Father, please, just calm down. I’m sorry for...what just happened. I know you’ve probably taken vows, and I shouldn't've --”

She’s interrupted by him crying out in pain and doubling over, his knees hitting the floor as he curls into himself, breathing hard and fast.

“Father! What’s...? Please, what can I do?!” She’s starting to feel panicked now as a horrible gagging sound bursts from deep within his chest.

She kneels down in front of him resolutely, gripping both of his shoulders and shaking him into attention. His head snaps up and his eyes are feral, almost inhuman in the way they pierce through her.

“What can I do?! Should I run and get the doctor? Please, let me help you!” She doesn’t realize she’s practically yelling at him, but he’s lost all color in his face now, looking practically grey, and her heart is beating so hard she can almost feel it in her head.

For a moment, his face contorts into a grimace, white teeth bared and jaw clenched tight as he glares at her with a look so hateful it causes her to involuntarily jerk away from him and fall onto her backside.

“Father...” she murmurs in a cracked voice, trying to speak calmly despite the sound of her own blood rushing in her ears. Rather suddenly, a feeling washes over her, similar to the creeping fear she’d felt earlier out in the storm. It blankets her entire body and closes in from all sides, and she feels only one thing as the hair on the back of her neck stands straight up: real, raw terror.

She tries to kick her way backwards to slide herself away from him, but her socks afford her no purchase against the slick wood floor. Fast as lightning, he grabs her ankle and roughly yanks her back to him, straddling her body at the hips and yanking her arms above her head before she can even begin to process what’s happening.

Panic sears its way through her chest and she begins to thrash beneath him, bucking her hips to try and throw him off.

Oh my god oh my god oh my god what is happening what do I do why is he doing this –

“Get the fuck off of me! What are you doing?! Father, please, just...STOP!” She roars, adrenaline kicking in and anger taking the place of fear as she fights against his weight with every ounce of strength she has.

Her scream causes him to freeze up as he hovers above her, his face far closer to hers than she’d like. The ferocity in his gaze is starting to slowly dwindle away. His jaw unclenches and he’s no longer baring his teeth at her like a feral beast. She pants beneath him, breathing hard and fast as she watches his entire being slowly slip back into a man she recognizes. While no longer glaring, his eyes reflect unnaturally now in the partially darkened room, like that of a predator, and this observation momentarily stuns her into complete silence.

He doesn’t look...human...

He blinks a few times as if he’s waking from a long slumber, still looking directly into her eyes until she sees something in his brain click into place. Horrified, he practically throws his entire body backwards off of her, his back colliding against his front door, chest heaving. He looks at her with such transparent dismay, then looks down at his hands in revulsion. When he looks back up, she sees tears glistening in his wide eyes.

“I...I... oh, god, Lily. I’m...oh god. No, no, no. Please, I –” He slowly pushes himself from the floor, sliding upwards with his back against the door and then very slowly makes a move to get closer, his hands held out in front of him as if he’s trying to calm a skittish animal.

“Stay away from me,” she hisses, scrambling backwards until she too collides into something, a desk, she thinks, knocking the breath right out of herself. She realizes numbly that she’s trembling, and all at once, her adrenaline ebbs away for the second time that night, leaving only the reality of what’s just occurred. It hits her like a punch the chest.

She chokes on a sob, burying her face in her hands and shaking her head, as if to deny that he’d just attacked her, deny that any of this had even happened. The truth was too excruciating to bare.

“Lily, please, please listen to me. That wasn’t me. Not the real me, it’s -- Lord above, how can I explain this...you’ll never believe me... But I swear on my own soul, I didn't mean to. I’m so, so sorry, Lily, please...I’m...oh God, please grant me the strength to show you the truth,” he rambles on, and she only hears bits and pieces of it over her own whimpering.

“Lily, I would give anything to turn back the clock and take my own life before ever doing what I just did to you! Please, I’m begging you, give me just this one chance to prove to you that, at the very least, I was not in control of my own mind,” he pleads, his voice gravelly and thick with emotion.

Sniffling, she peeks through her fingers and finds him on his knees across the room at eye level, looking similar to her with his head held despairingly in his hands. She stares at him, watching his shoulders quiver with pent up emotion as she tries to work her way through the white static in her brain and make some sense of what’s happening. He acts as if he’s just committed murder, and she can see his fingers yanking his own hair at the roots, chest still heaving in what seems to be both panic and regret. It disturbs her to see him this way, with all of his usual light and positivity burnt away, leaving only the most vulnerable parts of himself on display.

She knows that she should take advantage of him being distracted and try to make a run for it. She really, really should. But something in the back of her mind is forming, a spark of curiosity that keeps her in place, still staring at him and wondering what her next move should be.

When she was a little kid, there were certain things she was taught that she didn't really understand at the time. Stranger danger, not getting into cars with someone she didn’t know, not walking alone at night...all of these survival techniques that she never truly thought she’d one day need to know in order to survive. Everything she’d been taught from birth is screaming in warning that this is that moment. This is what her mom and dad were warning her of when they sat her down and tried to prepare her for what can happen to anything too innocent in this world. This is the time to hop on a boat and paddle herself across the ocean without so much as a single glance backwards.

Her instincts, however, are nudging her in an entirely different direction. In fact, the urge to understand, and the strange intuition that whatever it is that he tells her just might be true, drives her to pull her knees closer to her chest for comfort and contemplate her decision. They sit in silence for a few minutes as she starts to feel a headache coming on, and she sighs in surrender.

“...Okay,” she whispers, her voice cracking under the strain of her conflicting emotions.

His head instantly snaps up to look at her, his eyes full of utter shock and his eyebrows raised in disbelief. They simply stare at each other for a few moments, the wind and pelting rain the only sound to be heard. He’s still on his knees, his expression apprehensive and eyes still glistening with emotion, but then he lets himself sink back onto his legs, exhaling a grateful, quivering sigh as if she’s just saved him from being put in the electric chair.

She shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to regain some control over herself before...well, she’s not entirely sure. This knowledge should have her reaching for the nearest weapon and fighting like hell to get away from him.

“One chance. That’s all you’re going to get, Father, so I’d advise you to make it count. Now – explain,” she demands, squaring her jaw and staring directly into his eyes as she sheds the last scales of fear that had been clinging to her.

I must be out of my fucking mind.

#midnight mass #father paul #father paul hill #father john pruitt #father paul x oc #father paul x ofc #father paul hill x oc #father paul hill x ofc #john pruitt #crockett #midnight mass fanfiction #midnight mass fanfic #midnight mass fic

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agirlinherhead · 2 years

Text

Captain of a Shipwreck.(8/8)

Father Paul x OFC

"Crockett Island. He had remembered it so fondly that it had taken him almost the entire trip back to recall the reality of it; A stagnating Island waiting to die. As he stands on his porch picking at the peeling white paintwork and looking out into the bleak rain he ponders that maybe this is his fate now too?"

Or: Father Paul is a sad boy.

Chapter 1: My name it ain't nothin'.

#midnight mass #father paul hill #father john pruitt #fanfic #father meow meow #father paul x oc #father paul x ofc #monsignor john pruitt #I'M BACK WITH MY BULLSHIT AND MY OLD ASS SONGS #Captain of a shipwreck

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eddiemetalheadmunson · 2 years

Photo

CHAPTER IV: COMING CLOSER

stranded in this spooky town /

stoplights are swaying and the phone lines are down /

with the moon i run /

far from the carnage of the fiery sun /

and it’s coming closer...

coming closer - kings of leon (highly recommend listening, this song sets the tone for the chapter) // read previous chapters here.

this was a tough chapter to write for some reason. probably because i’m so excited to write chapter V but it wouldn’t make much sense without this one, haha. cannot wait to get started on the next one! hope you enjoy, darlings. click the “read more” for the chapter. ❤

chapter iv: coming closer

She’s sitting cross-legged with a screw held between her lips; one hand gripping a screwdriver and the other hand holding onto instructions to the unexpectedly vexing Ikea couch she’d previously ordered when a knock on the door startles her into sending the screw flying. She exhales slowly, letting her face rest in her hands for a moment to regather her wits. A couple of long, deep breaths soothe the panic a bit, so she pushes herself up from the floor to answer the door.

Standing there, with the setting sun from behind the house illuminating all it drifts upon, is Father Paul. Golden hues dance in tandem within the dark currents of his eyes, his stare penetrating her to the point of speechlessness. The ceremonial robe has been shed, along with the reverent focus of the Good Word.

He looks positively beautiful. Ethereal, even…but those eyes. They contradict the possibility of a peaceful heart full of god’s reassurances. The cross upon his forehead is significantly smudged and his hair is rather disheveled for a day with very little wind.

“Father,” she croaks, immediately becoming re-aware of her attire since putting it on after the disaster that was the church service earlier that day, and immediately wanting to evaporate on the spot.

She wouldn’t have remembered so quickly had he not openly gazed at the exposed skin beneath her ribcage where her crop top ended with eyes that widened, lingered momentarily, then quickly looked elsewhere. The pair of red and black checkered men’s boxer shorts and her Hello Kitty boot-slippers only added to the mortifying ensemble.

She almost backs away from the door to change into a baggy top and some sweatpants. Her mouth is already opening to tell him she’ll be right back and to sit tight. But then?

Fuck that. It’s my house. I can wear what I want.

“Do you – I mean, would you like to come in for a bit? There’s actually coffee being served this time. Very ritzy stuff. Still working on the couch, however, so hopefully the front porch swing will be up to your standards?” she offers, realizing she’s wringing her hands together when he peers down at them.

“I’m sorry to just drop by like this – I was on my way back from the Crock Pot Luck and just wanted to...well, to make sure you’re all right? I’ll be honest that I’ve thought of little else since this morning, and if I’ve done something to offend or upset you, I wanted to apologize – “

“Father, it’s - it’s okay. I’m okay, I mean. Everything is okay,” she cuts him off in a rush, instinctively placing a hand on his upper arm and giving it a light squeeze and a reassuring smile.

A wave of relief washes across his features and he lets out a breath slowly that he must’ve been holding in his anticipation. He chuckles dryly and shakes his head, reaching to take ahold of her hand that rested upon his arm and holding it then in-between both of his own, warmly.

A flood of adrenaline ricochets through her at the intimate gesture and she can’t help but stare for a moment at the way his big hands and long fingers envelop her own. He must mistake her reaction as discomfort and gives her hand a light pat before dropping it, the cold air immediately emphasizing the loss of his warm touch.

“I’ve always been a bit of a worrier, I suppose I should have just stopped by after the service and asked you then, but I didn’t want to encroach upon your privacy. Much like I’m doing right now,” he chuckles, his big brown eyes drifting up to meet hers. There’s a tenderness within them that rattles her, and she feels herself flush with heat, right down to her collarbones.

She swallows her nerves, forcing herself to keep looking into his eyes and smiles. “Not at all, I mean it. You’re my first friend here on the island, you have VIP access that others don’t.” She sees his eyebrows knit together in confusion and before she can hold it a back, a giggle escapes her at his utterly perplexed expression.

“Erm, VIP means you have extra rights others don’t. Like, there was this one time I had VIP tickets to a concert, so I got to meet the band one on one backstage. You have an all-access pass to stop by whenever you’d like. Not assuming you would like to in the future, I just mean you could. If, if you wanted,” she manages to stutter out, internally flipping herself the finger for apparently never learning how to communicate normally with the human species.

Oh my actual god. Why are you like this?!

It’s his turn to let out a little laugh, his hands finding their way into his pockets as he smiles at her, eyes twinkling and white teeth gleaming in a way that makes her stomach do flips.

“That sounds like a fairly exclusive privilege. Should I feel, dare I say, special for such an honor?”

“Don’t let it get to your head, Father. I’m just trying to butter up the big guy upstairs,” she says wryly, crossing her arms and raising a playful brow at him.

“Uh huh. Well, I suppose befriending a priest isn’t a bad way to go about it. Though truthfully, I have an awfully hard time believing you’d need such an advantage,” he replies with a small, sweet smile, his eyes casting downwards almost shyly.

Butterflies erupt inside of her at the almost imperceptible notion that he might actually be flirting with her, and she with him. Nervous energy clings to her now, causing her to clear her throat awkwardly and look down at her slippered feet. The little pink kittens on them look up at her almost mockingly as she blushes in embarrassment anew, reigning in the urge to kick them off of her feet and into the bushes nearby.

“Well, did you – I mean you don’t have to of course, but if you want, you can come in. Not much to see yet. Or sit on. But I can offer you coffee?” She realizes she’s wringing her hands again and slaps them down by her sides, willing herself to quit being so damn antsy.

He agrees with a gentle smile and they make their way inside the warm little home. As she passes by her now fully blown-up bed, she snatches her Blackstar hoodie and yanks it over her head, jumping ship on the whole I’ll wear what I want argument she’d had with herself earlier.

Pick your battles, Rowan. One at a time.

She busies herself in the kitchen and grabs the clean new mugs she absolutely didn’t need to impulse buy (her collection has long since spiraled out of control as it is) and smirks at the words on them written in a pretty gothic font. She decides she’ll take the one with occult symbols and upside-down crosses, which leaves him with the only slightly less offensive mug bearing the words: FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCK in bold uppercase letters.

“Did you want some help with this couch, Lily? I’m not bad at putting things together. Built some of my own furnishings at home, actually,” he calls from the living room, making her jump. She’s about to immediately turn down the offer, simply out of habit and ingrained politeness from her parents, but stops short.

I really have no clue what the hell I’m doing. And he offered, it’s not as if I’m forcing him.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to invite you in just to put you to work,” she chuckles, pouring piping hot coffee into both mugs carefully.

“It would be no trouble at all. But to be clear, I’m not insinuating that you need the help. I have no doubt in your abilities.”

She snorts and carefully makes her way into the living room. He’s crouched down looking at her mediocre handiwork so far, and looks up at her as she enters, his eyes very obviously drifting across her pale, bare legs before he seems to realize he’s openly staring at her exposed skin. He quickly re-directs his eyes to her face, giving her a smile that she can’t help but feel is slightly strained.

She has to look away so as not to drop the hot coffee out of nerves and wonders how in the hell this guy has such a hold on her. He stands and takes his mug gently with a soft thank you, but as he raises it to his lips for a drink, he stops short and studies the text. With a raised eyebrow and amusement dancing in his eyes, he tilts his head to look at her.

“Call me crazy, Lilith, but it's almost as if you’re trying to tell me something. If you don’t like me, you needn't've gone to such trouble.”

She barely contains the laughter threatening to burst out of her chest and bites her lip, her face scrunching up with the effort.

“I’m so sorry, Father, would you rather drink from the mug adorned with this instead? It’s not too late to trade.”

He laughs, his eyes crinkling delightfully at the corners with a full smile on display that completely disarms her.

God. I could get used to seeing that smile.

His eyebrows shoot towards his hairline as she twists the mug around to showcase the little symbols of “evil,” but before he gets a chance to react, a spike of self-consciousness hits her and she turns it back around.

“Just felt wrong to give you this one. Like, I don’t know. You’re too good to have something like this in your hands,” she exhales a breathy laugh and looks away from him, taking a large gulp of coffee that scorches her tongue and makes her eyes sting with tears.

Ouch. Not a good move.

As she squints away tears and waits for the pain to subside, he steps closer to her. “It would take a lot more than some profanities painted onto a coffee cup to upset me, Lily. Especially if the person who owned it is easily one of the kindest people one can cross paths with,” he says quietly, and her eyes quickly find his in her mild shock at such an intimate admission on his part.

“I — well, I mean, you just met me. You haven’t seen the worst parts of me yet. Not that you ever will, of course. Just sayin’,” she replies with a tight-lipped smile and redirects her gaze into her coffee cup, silently begging it to cool down so she can hide her face with a sip.

“Perhaps not. But that’s what faith is all about, after all. I have faith in you. God has faith in you. I hope someday you’ll share the same opinion of yourself as we do,” he responds, sipping his coffee and grimacing momentarily at the bitter taste.

Before she can truly take in what he’s said, she realizes she didn’t even ask him how he took his coffee. She quickly turns and crouches down to set her coffee cup on the floor next to her failed work-in-progress couch project and is about to ask what she can get him, but as she pivots towards him on the balls of her slippered feet, she notices one of his black boots has become untied.

Without giving it a second thought, she looks up at him with a grin. “Shoelace,” she informs him, pointing to his boot, then quickly and efficiently leans in to tie it. It couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds but as she stands, she catches his very obviously perturbed facial expression in response to her actions. It sends a jolt of embarrassment and slight shame through her, causing her to take a small step back in case she’s offended him.

“Sorry — I just, I was already down there. I used to do that to my friends all the time. I’m pretty uncoordinated and one untied shoe is enough to take me down so I just always notice it, now,” she rushes out, her voice raising an octave as her nerves rattle through her bones.

He stares at her for a very brief moment with the same expression, then as if nothing at all has affected him, smiles tightly, and lifts his wrist to check the time on his watch.

“Lily, I’m so sorry to duck out on you like this, but I’m just now remembering I have a prior engagement I agreed to in about fifteen minutes. Could I come by tomorrow and help you with the — “

“No, no. I’m fine. I can handle it myself. I didn’t want you to have to mess with it anyway,” she manages to say with a clenched jaw and a tingling feeling of shock numbing her extremities. It feels as if she’s been slapped in the face.

I fucked up. I really fucked up.

“Um, here, I can take that for you. Sorry I didn’t offer any cream or sugar. I’ve only ever drank it black so I forget sometimes, that, that others, you know, don’t like it that way.” Her heart is pounding as she gently takes the mug from him, willing her hands not to shake as her fingers gently brush against his in the process and immediately turns and walks briskly to the little kitchen to pour it out and set the mug in the sink. By the time she turns around, he’s standing there in the doorway of the kitchen, watching her with a strangely conflicted look on his face.

“Don’t worry yourself, it’s just coffee. That’s all,” he murmurs, swallowing thickly and averting his eyes. The meaning of his words aren’t lost on her in the slightest and she has to physically restrain herself from recoiling at them.

“That’s true. Yep. Just coffee. Thanks for stopping by, Father. I’ll — I’m sure I’ll see you around town,” she nods at him stiffly, forcing a tense smile across lips that are threatening to start quivering, accompanied by the building tears tingling beneath her eyelids.

His expression softens as he gazes at her with concern, or perhaps pity. It immediately pisses her off. So, she hardens. Like she always does, always has, and fixes him with a blank but resolute stare that's about as genuine as the smile plastered on her face.

I’m not going to let you make me feel weak. God’s apostle or not.

He seems to read the unspoken message she’s sending and jerkily nods his head a couple of times, clearing his throat and taking a few steps back.

“Right, of course. Thank you for...for the coffee. And the company, of course.”

She tries not to grimace at the formalities he’s sticking to, as if they were just now meeting. As if there was no friendship continuing to blossom between them just minutes ago.

“Yeah, of course. Have a good rest of your night. I hope your...prior engagement goes well,” she says as they both simultaneously head towards the door. As he’s opening it, he turns back to look at her, and the solicitude within his gaze momentarily stops her in her tracks. His mouth opens and she sucks in a quiet breath, anticipation thrumming in the air.

Then, his mouth closes, and his eyes fall. He nods again, and makes his exit.

Lily is quick to close the door behind him and lock it noisily. Lock him out. Lock this feeling out. She feels slightly nauseated after everything that’s happened and twice as tired.

Sleep. Time for sleep. I’ll figure this shit out tomorrow.

So, she shuffles to the blown-up bed and flops down, kicking her slippers off and sending one of them flying across the room. She grabs her favorite stuffed animal, a fuzzy dog wearing the collar of her real dog who had since passed, and yanks the covers over her head so only her nose and mouth are visible. She wills herself not to keep thinking about that awful look he’d given her. Was he truly that repelled by her over such a simple gesture? She hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable. Obviously, she’d crossed a significant boundary of his.

She feels a few hot tears slip across the bridge of her nose and seep into the pillow beneath her while the lonely night closes in from all sides. It settles its weight above and against her like a lover, but does nothing to warm the aching cold that is already making its home inside of her bones.

The next few days are spent in a funk. Lily knows that the longer she avoids leaving the house, the worse it’ll be when confronted by him, or anyone else in town, for that matter. Groceries are running low, however, and she’d officially excavated the last bits of coffee grounds she could collect at the bottom of the bag yesterday morning for her cup of morning coffee.

You know it’s just going to get harder the longer you’re holed up in here.

Even her voice of reason holds a gentler tone than usual, and she’s not sure whether to feel thankful or defeated by this realization.

This isn’t who you are, and you know it. Get up, shower, and walk out that door.

She groans, throwing the book down that she’d been reading (granted, it was the same paragraph over and over again) and decides to take her own advice despite the pit that’s formed inside of her chest that grows a little deeper with every flickering thought of Father Paul.

She decides to take her own advice and soak her bones under a hot, steaming waterfall of catharsis. She pampers herself with her best shampoo and conditioner, accompanied by her favorite peppermint body scrub. It’s not until she’s squeaky clean, smooth and smelling of cherry blossoms with a hint of something spicier, that she finishes up and exits the steamy bathroom.

Padding her way into the bedroom where there’s now a storage container with drawers full of her clothes, she walks past the window and does a double take when she makes out the figure of Father Paul further up the road. He’s talking animatedly to Leeza, and she can’t refrain from grinning at the little mannerisms that are unique to him and him only.

As if the man can sense that she’s looking his way, his head turns and looks directly towards her window. The slowly setting sun is shining into her room at this hour in the late afternoon, and a visceral panic rockets its way through her body as she tears herself away from the window to flatten herself against the wall next to it.

You’ve gotta’ be fucking kidding me.

All previous comforts attained through the hot water are instantly doused with a cold wave of reality, leaving her feeling shaky and overexposed. She crawls under the window in an insanely undignified manner while clutching her towel around herself, and pulls the cord so the worn blinds quickly descend with a loud smack upon the sill.

Her heart races from the adrenaline (and mortification) of possibly being seen dripping wet in only a towel by a fucking priest. She chokes out a loud laugh at this and shakes her head at the ridiculousness of the situation, pushing herself up off the floor now that she’s protected from view. She’d already been brutally humbled by him; might as well add being seen naked to the list.

She rifles through her clothes, slipping on her black panties and a Nike sports bra. Pulling on a thick, fluffy pair of pink socks she’d gotten one Christmas that reach just above the ankle reminds her that she should make sure to dress a little warmer than usual. The very few people she’d run into over the last few days warned her with a slightly unnerving veracity that tonight would be the beginning of one of their worst storms in a decade. She wonders how bad a storm can really be on an island. It’s not as if tornadoes can touch down here, right? The water doesn’t seem nearly close enough to reach her, despite Father Paul’s previous concerns, and there’s a building built on higher ground for people to gather in should the situation become dire.

She nods in self affirmation as she wiggles into a pair of black skinny jeans with a studded belt and her warmest sweater over a tank top. One leather jacket and pair of Doc Martens later, she’s grabbing her bag and locking the little house up behind her. Her damp hair against the steadily growing wind sends a chill down her spine, but it’s the quickest way to dry the ridiculous mop upon her head without the added effort of a blow-dryer.

The little town holds a strange energy this evening as the sun tries in vain to penetrate the gray sky full of dark clouds. That same unease she’d felt that tingled through her nerve endings the day she first stepped foot onto the soil of Crockett reemerges from the shadows of her mind. Her heart beats faster the further she distances herself from her only safe place on the island.

These cryptic, powerful premonitions of hers have always manifested this way, even in childhood. Especially in childhood. The worst ones waited until she lingered just on the cusp of sleep, surrounded by stuffed animals that, try as they might, couldn’t keep her safe. Not from the carnal fear that would descend upon her body when she awoke enough to see, but not move or speak. She remembers her eyes landing on that unnaturally dark corner of her room. In daylight, her walls were pink and her window let the light in. The white canopied mosquito netting surrounding her bed made her feel more protected than any door or vault ever could when being illuminated by the warm sun rays slipping through her blinds during the day as she’d play, but when the darkness came, so did the monsters. Everything that comforted in the light, haunted in the dark.

A chill snakes its way up her spine to the nape of her neck, making all of the hairs there stand up in instinctual fear. She feels as if she’s being watched by someone, or something, from every shadowed alleyway between the houses and abandoned buildings. Windows are boarded up securely in preparation of the storm’s oncoming wrath while the sun is becoming eclipsed by the ominous, inky clouds that slowly but inescapably creep towards the little island. She shakes off her nerves and quickens her pace, eventually spotting the dim lights of the grocery store in the distance.

There is no Pike to sweetly greet her this time, much to her dismay, and her presence in the little corner store is announced with the pleasant tinkling of the bell attached to the door.

She grabs a basket and gets to work, wanting to get back to the house before the rain comes, but about leaps out of her skin as a deep voice from behind the counter announces themselves.

“Cutting it pretty close, don’t you think?”

She spins around, nearly knocking a few things off of the shelves with her basket before exhaling loudly upon seeing Sheriff Hassan now grinning at her from behind the previously unoccupied counter.

“Why do all of you do that?!”

“Do what?” His eyebrows raise a bit as he asks the question, genuinely perplexed.

“You know! That...that fucking stealthy ninja thing where you just show up out of nowhere and scare the ever living shit out of me,” she accuses light-heartedly, laughing and placing her hand over her rapidly beating heart.

“I meant no offense, Miss Lilith,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll do my best to announce my presence from here on out,” he declares with a chuckle, shaking his head and hunching over a bit to relax his forearms on the counter and give his back a rest.

“It’s Lily, and oh, yeah? And just how do you plan to do that? I guess I could get you a bell to wear around your neck,” she teases, grabbing a box of chicken flavored ramen and a few cans of SpaghettiOs.

He feigns offense by slapping a hand over his heart dramatically with a look of anguish and she can’t help but laugh out loud at the display. The easy smile he wears looks good on him, she observes, smiling sweetly at him in return as she wraps up her shopping.

“Kidding, kidding. It’s a good thing that you can just appear somewhere incognito, being the head honcho of the law on this island. You do a good job of it, Sheriff.”

He grins, breaking eye contact and casting his gaze downwards with a gentle nod. Hoping she hasn’t made him uncomfortable (she’s apparently become a pro at this as of late), she clears her throat and finishes up her shopping: water bottles, a big bag of Dunkin Donuts coffee, some canned goods that can be safely eaten right from the can if the power shuts off, and the essentials for making a hearty sandwich. She grabs a premade salad on her way to the counter and a few packs of Reese’s peanut butter cups as well.

As she places the last item on the counter, an astonishingly loud crack of thunder slices through the atmosphere, making her squeal in a most undignified way and clutch her chest.

“Jesus christ! Where did that even come from?! It was fine when I was walking here,” she pants, gripping the counter and lowering her head to take a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm her frantic heartbeat.

“Not a fan of storms, huh?” He’s gazing at her with a trace of concern when she looks up to meet his eyes and she smiles at him reassuringly, shaking her head.

“No, actually. I love a good storm. I just get startled easily if I’m caught off guard. Sorry for the theatrics,” she chuckles, blushing in embarrassment and impulsively tucking a strand of long, red hair behind an ear. “It feels like the world is more alive than ever when it storms, don’t you think? It’s kinda’ comforting to know the earth has its own agenda. It’s own power. Something us humans can’t get our hands on and control.”

He stares at her and as he does, she sees his pretty eyes flicker with an emotion she can’t even begin to place that instinctually makes her pull back the reins incase she’s rattling on too much.

When three bags are full and paid for, she slips her arms through the holes to carry them with each of her forearms and grins at him.

“You should get home soon, too. I’m really sorry for getting here so late, hopefully I didn’t hold you up. Stay safe, yeah? You and your kiddo.”

“I’ll be heading out right after you – by the sound of the wind I think we got done just in time. You stay safe, too, and make sure to stay inside.”

She snorts at this. “Why would I go outside?”

He grins wryly and crosses his arms. “Not sure why, but something tells me you’re a bit of a wild card. As your Sheriff, I’ve gotta’ protect all of my citizens – that includes you, too, miss.”

She chuckles and playfully shoves his shoulder. “Very funny. I think I can manage to take care of myself. But I appreciate your dutiful efforts all the same. I’ll see ya’ when all of this blows over, Sheriff.”

The two part ways and Lily hastily power walks towards her destination. The sky has turned almost completely black with large, looming clouds that are moving significantly faster than they were before. Thunder rumbles ominously in the distance, but it gives her that same little thrill and excitement that comes with an approaching storm. It’s already almost completely dark and as she stumbles along, she abruptly remembers that she forgot to buy candles and matches. She freezes on the spot and turns to look back at the general store in the hopes the Sheriff hadn’t locked up yet, but the windows were dark and the “Open” sign had been turned off.

Damn. It’s gonna’ be a dark night.

Shrugging it off, she increases her pace as that same feeling of being observed from the shadows settles into the back of her mind. The air is practically shimmering with the energy of the storm and she feels goosebumps erupt across her skin as the cold wind slices through what she’d thought was a warm sweater and jacket.

Finally, she reaches the porch and hastily unlocks the door as the wind starts to truly blow in earnest, whipping her hair around ridiculously in the process. Once inside, she locks up with a relieved sigh and brings her storm stash into the kitchen, setting the bags on the counter. Grabbing a water bottle and a Reese’s peanut butter cup pack, she flops down on the little couch (which she did figure out in the end) and grabs her laptop, looking to see if the house had any interested buyers. Day after day, there was virtually no activity surrounding the poor little wind-whipped shack at the edge of a desolate island. She worries her bottom lip at the realization that she now feels some attachment to the place, as well as a connection to her Great Grandfather she hadn’t experienced since she was tiny.

Parting from the house forever was going to be more complicated than she’d ever anticipated. The walls around her creak with age but stand strong, protecting her from the chaos brewing just outside the door; they’d done this for years, now. For her grandfather first and now her, as well.

The rain has started colliding noisily against the roof, and a deep rumble of thunder vibrates through the floorboards as she closes her laptop and nibbles on her Reese’s. She frowns and gazes out the window into the heavy rain as the unbidden thought occurs to her that the house wouldn’t be the only thing on the island she’d have difficulty parting with.

#midnight mass #father paul #father paul hill #father john pruitt #father paul x ofc #father john pruitt x ofc #father paul hill x ofc #father paul x oc #ofc: lilith rowan #john pruitt #paul hill #midnight mass fanfic #midnight mass fanfiction #mike flanagan #my writing #the dying of the light #father paul x lilith rowan

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Cornucopia | II — Castimonium III | Father Paul x Fem!Reader | Portuguese

SUMÁRIO | MASTERLIST

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Nota: As descrições de pele, cabelo e corpo foram propositalmente vagas para que todos os interessados pudessem ter sua vez.

Título do capítulo: Castimonium (/castīmōniae/; latim): abstinência; abstinência (sexual/de carne) para ritual; pureza moral; castidade.

Contagem de palavras: 12.7k (É, tá enorme eu sei)

N/A.:

Eu vou dizer algo que eu deveria ter dito no capítulo 1. Aqui está a coisa, eu fui criado como católico, mas apenas no nome, sabe? Honestamente, só fui à igreja cinco vezes em vinte anos, quatro cultos do sétimo dia e a abertura de uma capela fundada pela família. Dito isto, não é como se eu tivesse realmente sofrido com a religião, como sei que algumas pessoas sofreram.

Em geral, o catolicismo foi apenas um espinho na minha infância por várias razões, então se a forma como o OFC lida com sua fé parece vaga, é por isso que estou colocando meu ponto de vista no deles.

Tenho minha cota de traumas de infância ligados à religião, mas nada que me tenha feito abandonar completamente o sentimento de fé só o entorpeceu. O que quero dizer é que todas as partes em que descrevo as reações do OFC ao sermão do salmo de Paulo foram minhas, assistindo à série.

Dito isso, espero que gostem deste capítulo. O próximo pode demorar um pouco para sair, mas farei o que puder para evitar isso. MUITO OBRIGADO PELA PACIÊNCIA E GENTILEZA!!

AS MADEIRAS na entrada da Igreja de St. Patrick’s rangeram sob seus pés. O cheiro de incenso, parafina e verniz invadiu as narinas de Miriam assim que ela adentrou a nave da igreja.

Era, de certa forma, familiar. Tantas pessoas enchendo os bancos envernizados, compartilhando de sua fé à medida que aguardavam esperançosamente por uma resposta para suas orações. Harper se recordava de adentrar a pequena capela do St. Agnes semanalmente, obedientemente sentando-se no terceiro banco à esquerda, orando pela chegada do dia em que ela se livraria daquele lugar.

Não é a pior das memórias, ela racionalizou.

Miriam caminhou calmamente pela lateral da igreja, ela estava ligeiramente atrasada, mas era visível que a missa ainda não havia começado devido ao burburinho incessante. Vasculhando com os olhos as pessoas acomodadas nos bancos, a jovem mulher procurou por Erin Greene dentre os ilhéus. Assim que seus olhos pousaram na gestante ela sentiu um arrepio indesejado lhe correr pelas costas ao ouvir a voz da última pessoa com a qual ela desejava falar.

“Ora, certamente eu não esperava vê-la aqui srta. Harper.”, a voz esganiçada e afetadamente açucarada de Beverly Keane parecia fazer buracos nos ouvidos da contadora.

Lentamente, Miriam virou-se para encarar a diaconisa. Com um sorriso igualmente açucarado em seu rosto, a jovem mulher aproximou-se alguns passos. Seus olhos astutos tornaram para Bev, ela trajava uma espécie de cláusula cerimonial branca, tão longa que quase varria o chão. A luz solar que transpassava as janelas envidraçadas da igreja projetava uma sombra contra a diaconisa. Aquele detalhe estranho enervou mais um calafrio pelas costas de Miriam. Respirando profundamente a jovem mulher cumprimentou a devota.

“Bom dia, srta. Keane.”, cumprimentou a contadora, seu tom imitando o tom enjoativamente doce que a mulher de branco costumeiramente usava com ela, o timbre condescendente de alguém com a confiança na certeza de ser a favorita de Deus. “De fato, não me é comum vir as missas, mas fui tão gentilmente convidada pelo padre Paul. Que me vi na obrigação de vir presenciar uma de suas tão elogiadas homilias.”, Miriam pronunciou uma ênfase discreta ao mencionar o fato de ter sido convidada, uma ênfase que ela sabia que a diaconisa não deixaria passar despercebida.

“Entendo.”, o sorriso açucarado que Bev lhe dava esmaeceu-se e tornou-se azedo com a menção ao sacerdote de cabelos escuros. “Achei curioso que alguém que tão abertamente despreza os dogmas católicos, venha a se dignar a pisar em uma igreja por livre e espontânea vontade. Engraçado, não é?”, a diaconisa uniu as mãos finas a frente do corpo, um sorriso enviesado pintando as sardas de seu rosto.

“Eu lhe garanto, srta. Keane, que não senti nenhum queimor em minha pele pagã ao passar pelo arco de entrada.”, disse-lhe a jovem contadora, um olhar singelo pincelado nos orbes, como se inocentemente não notasse o sarcasmo nas palavras.

Miriam normalmente nutria uma tenacidade recatada em suas respostas à diaconisa, mas nesta manhã em particular ela se sentia especialmente astuta. Beverly Keane sorriu forçosamente, não achando graça no desaforo proferido, mas ainda assim ela não se deu por vencida e muito sutilmente inclinou o pescoço, analisando as vestes que a mulher defronte para ela trajava. Um ligeiro olhar de reprovação torcendo seu rosto.

Apesar de não querer, Miriam deixou que seu olhar se desviasse para as suas próprias roupas. Suas vestes não eram chamativas. Ela estava entrajando um vestido verde-folha liso que acabava pouco depois dos joelhos, — joelhos que estavam cobertos por uma longa meia-calça de cor escura, com o único propósito de proteger suas pernas da brisa gelada. O decote que possuía, imitava as roupas que as camponesas costumavam usar. Expunha o busto e os ombros, mas ela se lembrara de cobri-los com um xale de tricô na mesma cor, grosso o suficiente para o caso de o clima mudar. Ou mesmo para o caso de ganhar alguns olhares indesejados, tais como esse que a diaconisa lhe enviava.

Ela estava decente, nada que pudesse ser considerado vulgar, mas obviamente Bev a olhara como se ela estivesse usando as roupas de uma prostituta. Arqueando uma sobrancelha a jovem mulher esperou que a diaconisa proferisse o insulto que tão nitidamente queria. Beverly fingiu não compreender o olhar questionador que lhe foi enviado. O tripúdio óbvio pinicou a paciência de Miriam.

“Algum problema?”, ela perguntou, ainda usando o tom condescendente que a diaconisa empregava ao lhe dirigir a palavra. Entretanto, havia uma pitada de impaciência nas palavras que escaparam da jovem mulher. A diaconisa sorriu.

Com uma inalação profunda, Miriam enfiou as mãos nos bolsos frontais do vestido e olhou em direção ao organista quando ele começou a tocar um dos hinos do hinário vermelho. Os murmúrios e ruídos de cochichos que enchiam a igreja se silenciaram subitamente. Aquilo pareceu o suficiente para acordar Bev de seu julgamento silencioso.

“Nenhum. Bem, ao menos, vindo a igreja, quem sabe, a senhorita não repense sua fé. Afinal, a Quaresma é um momento de arrependimento.”, falou ela com um sorriso enviesado e um aceno de cabeça. A diaconisa começou a mover-se em direção ao seu lugar usual em frente ao altar, cada passo firme, uma petulância irritante na forma como se movia.

Havia um desprezo nítido na forma como pronunciara as palavras ‘arrependimento’ e ‘quaresma’, mas não um desprezo em si, direcionado as palavras, como se representassem algo repugnante, mas algo mais subjetivo, o nojo e olhar decadente eram direcionados a mulher com quem ela falava. Miriam, naquele momento, assumiu que, definitiva e terminantemente, não gostava de Beverly Keane. Ela também concluiu estar bem com o fato da diaconisa também não gostar dela. O desgostar mútuo era deveras mais simples de se lidar do que o desgosto unilateral.

“Certamente srta. Keane. Certamente…”, seu sussurro exasperado foi coberto pelo coro de vozes que entonavam o hino fervorosamente.

Não haviam pessoas o suficiente para encher todos os bancos, mas o bastante para permitir que Harper sentisse uma sensação levemente agoniante de claustrofobia. Com passadas contínuas, Miriam ocupou seu lugar ao lado de Erin com um suspiro. Um olhar conhecedor foi trocado entre elas, a mulher cacheada tendo avistado a pequena e desgostosa interação com a afrontosa guerreira de cristo. Manejando o pulso, a gestante virou o hinário de um vermelho vibrante entre elas para que ambas pudessem entonar o hino.

Miriam sentiu uma agonia enlaçar sua respiração como se não houvesse ar o suficiente naquela pequena nave, iluminada pelos raios dourados da manhã. A letra melancólica pesava na língua da mulher. Respirando fundo, ela capturou com a visão periférica um vulto púrpura ao seu lado. Uma voz funda e esfumaçada soando ao seu lado as mesmas palavras que ela entoava tão desapaixonadamente.

O sacerdote tinha o queixo apoiado nas pontas dos longos dedos, a fronte inclinada em mesura ao crucifixo central. Pé ante pé o clérigo subiu a curta escadaria que levava ao altar, mas não sem antes fazer uma reverência ao seu Senhor. A cláusula roxa lambeu o chão quando o sacerdote se curvou, e voltou a pairar rente ao assoalho uma vez que ele se ergueu em toda a sua altura.

Miriam sentiu o cheiro de capim-cidreira e da mirra do turíbulo que Warren tinha em mãos queimar seu caminho para o interior de seus pulmões. Todo o coro devotado de vozes se silenciou quando o bom padre posicionou-se em seu lugar atrás do púlpito, o organista tendo parado de tocar pouco antes de cada um tomar o lugar de seus assentos.

Um calor afetuoso se espalhou pelo peito de Paul assim que seus olhos pousaram na pequena figura feminina trajada em verde. De certa forma, sua visita desajeitada à morada da recém-chegada havia o inspirado a melhorar sua homilia. O pregador em sua mente esperou que ela apreciasse suas palavras.

Seus olhos escuros então partiram da contadora para o crescente amontoado de fiéis a sua frente, uma alegria honesta injetou-se em suas veias com a visão. Uma vez mais a palavra de Deus estava se tornando necessária e presente nas vidas pacatas de cada um daqueles indivíduos de fé que se prostraram diante dele, e uma vez mais ele seria o mensageiro de boas novas para o povo do Senhor.

“É ótimo ver tantos de vocês aqui hoje.”, começou ele, sua voz funda reverberando pela nave da igreja sem esforço. “Mas tenho que perguntar, por que não todos os domingos?”, a pergunta retórica tinha um ar gracioso em seus lábios. Seus grandes olhos castanhos transpassaram os rostos dos fiéis presentes, uma pequena dúvida em alguns dos que não costumavam aparecer semanalmente.

Harper prestou atenção às palavras dele, curiosa para ter a prova da validade dos elogios de Erin. Ainda assim, ela se perdeu por um momento na iluminação que advinha da janela ao lado do púlpito, a luz ligeiramente acinzentada adornava os cachos negros abundantes do sacerdote como uma espécie de halo. Um sorriso tolo curvou seus lábios sem sua percepção.

“Natal, Páscoa, eu entendo.”, continuou o homem de Deus. “Mas também há sempre um aumento no início da Quaresma.”, seus dedos longos brincaram brevemente com a fita rubra que demarcava as páginas da escritura sagrada. “Por que isso? O que há de tão especial hoje?”, suas mãos esqueceram o marcador e planaram no ar a sua frente momentaneamente.

A jovem recém-chegada assistia com uma atenção inquestionável o entusiasmo sutil que pairava em cada palavra proferida pelo bom padre. O modo como o homem movia as mãos, gesticulando ao falar, e o brilho expectante que reluzia nas poças escuras de seus olhos era quase juvenil. Miriam viu um homem apaixonado por sua missão.

“Quarta-feira de Cinzas, início da Quaresma. Dificilmente é um prazer para o público.”, sua voz rica exibia um sorriso casto com o comentário. Ambas as mãos repousavam sobre o púlpito, uma inalação profunda se seguiu, uma pausa. “O início do arrependimento, da reparação dos nossos pecados.”, Paul desviou seus olhos minimamente de todos, seu olhar vagando brevemente para o livro Sagrado à sua frente.

Havia um peso em seu peito. Culpa.

“Pecado”, erguendo os olhos, a palavra escorreu pelos lábios do pregador no instante em que seus orbes inconvenientemente caíram em Miriam.

Harper captou o olhar contido que o bom padre lhe enviara, a contrição da palavra escorregando para dentro de sua mente como um fungo. Sua expressão serena foi ligeiramente perturbada por uma pequena ruga confusa entre suas sobrancelhas. Ela se perguntou se ele o fez intencionalmente, mas a semente da insegurança não deveria criar raízes, não sobre isso. Ela piscou algumas vezes para limpar a mente, enquanto continuava a ouvi-lo.

“Essa escuridão, essa escuridão que se derramou em nós.”, seu tom carrega uma sombra estranha, assim como seus olhos, um relance dos demônios guardados em sua mente, sua consciência pesada. “Essa escuridão, nós a usamos em nossa testa hoje.”, um manejo de sua mão em direção a própria testa, um olhar de relance para o local onde a querida Millie costumava ficar.

A sombra inquieta que se reflete momentaneamente nos olhos do sacerdote não escapa a percepção de Miriam. Um sentimento de familiaridade alojando-se em seu peito. Havia algo sobre Paul que a perturbava, algo que ainda não era capaz de nomear. As mais belas flores também tem seus espinhos, o ditado rasga sua mente. Talvez houvesse algo em sua alma que partilhasse dessa coisa em seus olhos castanhos, mas era cedo para dizer.

“Apenas uma mancha. Uh…”, Paul se interrompeu por instante, o arranhar de uma voz fúnebre ao fundo de sua mente, descarrilhando seus pensamentos.

Seus olhos buscam o foco no pequeno caderno avermelhado em que ele anotou seu sermão, as páginas amareladas e as palavras escritas nelas abafando os sussurros do anjo.

“Uma mancha de morte, de cinzas, de pecado que leva ao arrependimento.”, outro gesto de sua mão de pianista, que logo voltou a se firmar na madeira envernizada do púlpito. “Devido a onde tudo isso está nos levando, que é a Páscoa.”, há uma clareza no modo como ele pronuncia as palavras, uma sinceridade oportuna, que passa serenidade àqueles que ouvem. Tantos anos no ofício deviam deixá-lo exaurido, mas desde seu milagre, sua fé fora renovada, assim como ele.

As palavras são cristalinas, cada uma expressando um desígnio singular, uma intenção casta de revigorar a fé daquele povo que tantas vezes enfrentou a desgraça. Miriam se permitiu desviar o olhar do mensageiro e prestar atenção no modo como cada fiel absorvia o Verbo. A voz retumbante do sacerdote prossegue com seu sermão.

“Mesmo da escuridão, o amor ressurge.”, o mensageiro ressuscitado entoa as palavras com convicção, uma musicalidade bem-vinda salpicando uma camada extra de vigor em sua mensagem. “Mesmo do pecado. E esta ilha, ela se erguerá novamente.”, uma nova onda de puro contentamento é injetada em suas veias ao observar os rostos emocionados daqueles que ele conhece tão intimamente há tantos anos.

Harper sente um entusiamo breve instaurar-se em seu âmago, sua fé há muito esquecida, movendo-se levemente, uma esperança afável inflamada pelas palavras do sacerdote de cabelos negros.

“Mesmo do desastre, renascimento, restauração, vida eterna.”, ao proferir tais palavras uma vez mais, Paul quase rompe com a incerteza de que está certo em sua missão, o incender de sua própria fé se reacendendo lugubremente. Deus o escolheu, o presenteou, e o presente deveria ser compartilhado. “Jesus vê vocês.”, sua voz se enaltece, seus orbes cor-de-ébano estudando com carinho cada rosto levemente revigorado. “Vê vocês, o melhor de tudo, e ele vê vocês verdadeiramente.”, ele maneou o pulso novamente gesticulando para ninguém em especial.

Miriam, olhou atentamente para os rostos dos ilhéus. Ed Flynn que se sentava mais a frente, acenava convicto, o orgulho abrasador de sua fé refletido em seu olhar caído. Sua esposa, a doce Anne, tinha um lenço azulado rente às narinas, uma comoção fervorosa empurrando lágrimas em seus olhos claros. Havia uma paixão contida naquele sermão, perceber isso espalhou um calor acolhedor no peito da recém-chegada, as palavras moveram algo dentro dela. Ao que parece ainda tenho alguma chance de redenção, não é?, pensou ela, seu olhar astuto se desviando para o Jesus crucificado à frente do altar.

“Porque, não se esqueçam, quem ele procurou?”, seu tom subira uma oitava, o furor lírico gradativamente apossando-se dele. “A quem ele recorreu para construir sua igreja? Seus apóstolos.”, o bom clérigo já não mais podia conter seu próprio deleite em reconhecer o júbilo da crença nos olhos marejados daquelas pessoas. Suas pessoas. “Os primeiros discípulos de Jesus eram pescadores. Um de seus primeiros milagres, certo?”, suas mãos, antes contidas ao púlpito, agora gesticulavam expansivamente, como o fantasma de um maestro. As mangas da cláusula esvoaçando ao seu redor.

O coração de Harper bateu celeremente com a paixão das palavras proferidas. Ela refletiu sobre o peso que aquela homilia apaixonada tinha sobre os moradores da ilha. Decerto, era comovente assistir aquelas pessoas nutrirem sua crença tão belamente, mesmo para ela.

“As redes estavam vazias, os pescadores desesperados. Jesus disse: ‘Mergulhe em águas profundas e lance suas redes para pescar’, e quando eles puxaram as redes, abundância de peixes.”, o sorriso que lhe pintava o rosto e lhe cantava a voz era capaz de iluminar uma cidade inteira. “Ele vê vocês.”, em sua voz entoava uma convicção incansável, derrubando lágrimas dos olhos das crianças que ele vira crescer. “Ah, sim, ele vê vocês, irmãos e irmãs, e ressuscitará esta ilha e novamente encherá suas redes.”, a esperança reluzia nos olhos dos paroquianos. A expectativa de ter suas preces finalmente ouvidas.

Paul sentia-se nutrido. Nutrido pelo amor de Deus, e tinha, agora, seu coração aquecido pelo amor de sua paróquia.

“Que bom que vocês estão aqui hoje, mas, por favor, continuem voltando.”, o presbitério pediu com sua voz cadenciada, um apelo cortês para que eles não perdessem a fé. “Essas portas estão sempre abertas, como os portões estão sempre abertos. Você apenas traz a si mesmo. Deus fará o resto.”, o bom padre desejava que seus amados paroquianos se mantivessem resolutos. As bençãos viriam. “Como o Salmo 60 nos diz: ‘Deus, você nos rejeitou, você nos destruiu, você se irou. Restaure-nos novamente.’”, seus orbes ébanos ergueram-se para os céus, em ênfase à sua fala.

Eles precisarão de sua fé intacta para o que está por vir, uma voz semelhante à sua, — mas que não era dele —, sussurrou em sua mente. O escolhido de Deus precisa mostrar que a fé deve ser recompensada, outra voz um tanto mais taciturna encobriu seus próprios pensamentos por não menos que um instante. Um calafrio correu sua espinha e houve um peso em seu peito.

De repente, havia uma energia ligeiramente opressora na igreja. Miriam podia sentir o ar constrito em seus pulmões, o calor aconchegante que havia lhe coberto o peito evaporou em um sentimento de estranheza, um peso desconfortável, um que apenas ela parecia nutrir. Um arrepio serpenteou por suas costas e ela mexeu-se desconfortavelmente contra o velho banco de madeira. Ela desviou seus olhos para o hinário vermelho à sua frente, uma mão correndo involuntariamente pelas cotas alvas de seu rosário.

“Vocês sabem o que são salmos? São canções.”, Paul tornou seu olhar para os crentes que o ouviam, seus orbes refletindo um brilho agora esmaecido. “A palavra salmo vem do grego psalmoi. Significa ‘canção’.”, as mesuras que sua mão executava, agitava levemente sua cláusula, dando a impressão de ser o leque esbelto de um pássaro azulado. “Canções de oração. Canções de louvor.”, a musicalidade encontrara caminho de volta para sua voz. “Isso é quem somos. É isso quem devemos ser.”, como um verdadeiro e experiente pregador, Paul presidia a missa hipnoticamente, os olhos de todos fixos nele e em suas palavras persuasivas.

Cada pequena cota perolada, demarcava sua forma esférica nos dedos da jovem mulher. Uma respiração funda de olhos fechados e ela retornou os orbes para o homem do tecido no altar. Miriam não mais sentia a sensação de estranheza, tão subitamente como veio, se foi na musicalidade da voz de sacerdote, deixando em seu rastro um estranho sentimento de perturbação, do tipo que se tem logo após ouvir um barulho anormal em uma casa onde apenas você reside.

“É isso que significa ter fé,”, uma respiração profunda, e então seus olhos desceram para a figura de verde mais uma vez. “Que na escuridão, na pior, na ausência de luz e esperança, nós cantamos.”, um sorriso involuntário pinta seu rosto ao final da sentença. “‘Restaure-nos’, cantamos para o céu. E Ele irá, meus amigos. Ele irá.”, desviando o olhar da forma feminina encolhida ao fundo ele tornou sua visão para a Bíblia aberta, o brilho cintilante das folhas de bordas douradas acalmando sua mente, abafando a voz e o peso do presente. “Essa mesma mão que lhe causou dificuldades, essa mesma mão o tornará inteiro.”, e com a mesma serenidade com que começou, sua homilia se finalizou.

Houve um longo silêncio após o final do sermão. Cada paroquiano absorveu as palavras revigorantes do bom padre em silêncio. E pelo que pareceu a primeira vez em meses, a mente de Miriam ficou em completo e absoluto silêncio. Não havia papelada, não haviam cadáveres de gatos, não havia ansiedade, não havia luto. Apenas um silêncio sepulcral em sua consciência.

Ela se recordou desses momentos de estranha paz. Por mais que nutrisse um desprezo pela forma como passara seus anos em St. Agnes, Miriam tinha lembranças sombrias sobre seus momentos de solidão na pequena e escura capela do internato. Entretanto, desta vez, um sentimento de familiaridade floresceu. Sua mente avançando para os domingos em que sua mãe a levava para a igreja, seu eu juvenil pouco interessado nas palavras do velho abade. Ela se recordou com uma leve carranca, que na volta para casa, Lyanna fazia questão de explicá-la cada parábola citada pelo abade durante o sermão.

As notas soturnas do órgão a puxaram subitamente de seus devaneios tristonhos, juntamente à voz harmoniosa de Erin murmurando seu nome. Ao erguer os olhos, — tendo piscando algumas lágrimas lamuriosas para longe —, Miriam prestou atenção ao seu redor. Uma fila de paroquianos havia se formado rapidamente, mais a frente, no início da fila estava o padre Paul. A cláusula púrpura demarcando sua presença. Ele pacientemente abençoava com uma cruz enegrecida a testa de cada elo naquela corrente de fé.

“Você está bem?”, Erin indagou com as sobrancelhas unidas em sua típica preocupação materna. Harper sorriu fracamente, e acenou com a cabeça, afagando a mão da gestante que tocava seu antebraço.

“Sim, apenas,”, a mulher considerou suas palavras, não seria adequado encher a jovem gestante de olhos esperançosos com sua melancolia. Ela balançou a cabeça mais uma vez, expurgando alguns pensamentos indesejados. “… Absorvendo tudo. Você tinha razão em lhe cantar elogios.”, um sorriso singelo curva seus lábios cheios e Erin lhe dá um olhar que diz: “Eu te disse.”

Ambas as mulheres se levantaram de seus lugares e se posicionaram na fileira de pecadores. Por instinto, Miriam se enrola mais firmemente em seu xale. A voz esfumaçada do sacerdote de cabelos negros se infiltra sorrateiramente em seus ouvidos, reverberando pelas madeiras inchadas de umidade da igreja e voltando, em um eco fantasmagórico.

“Ben, lembre-se que você é pó e ao pó você retornará.”

A cada passo mais próximo de sua bênção, um aperto desconcertante se intercorria dentro de seu peito. Desde a visita que o bom padre lhe fizera, Miriam não o encontrara nos dias seguintes, a tensão não-falada que havia se formado no dia em questão nunca tendo sido desfeita. Além de que, contrariando seu melhor julgamento e seu autocontrole, sua mente inquieta começou a perturbá-la com imagens no mínimo, profanas, acerca do sacerdote de cabelos negros.

“Fiona, lembre-se de que você é pó e ao pó retornará.”

Pensamentos impuros na casa de Deus? Você queimará se ele tocar em você. Uma voz cruel e infantil arranhou seu cérebro. Ter o principal agente de tais pensamentos tão próximo de si, decerto, poderia provocar nela uma reação inconsciente, algo que a denunciaria. Esta linha particular de raciocínio enviou um estremecimento envergonhado por seu corpo. Acalme-se, é apenas uma benção, não é como se você fosse entrar em combustão. Uma voz irritante sussurrou em sua mente lhe dando um pouco de razão. Seus ombros tensos provocavam uma latência dormente em seu pescoço.

O passo seguinte foi dado, Erin prostrou-se defronte para o pároco, suas mãos delicadas unidas sob o queixo em reverência. Respirando profundamente e aprumando a postura, Miriam sentiu a voz do sacerdote vibrar dentro de seus ossos.

“Erin, lembre-se de que você é pó e ao pó retornará.”

Uma vez que a gestante deu um passo para o lado, benzendo-se, e tornou pelos bancos para seu lugar entre os paroquianos. Miriam inalou profundamente, dando um passo à frente. A mulher vestida de verde mantinha os olhos baixos em suas botas pretas, as mesmas com manchas de lama que ela adquiriu no primeiro dia em que pôs os pés naquela ilha. O assoalho de madeira parecia gasto e malcuidado abaixo de seus pequenos saltos. A distância de menos de um passo entre ela e o padre.

“Miriam, lembre-se que você é pó…”, sua voz ressonante pausou. Ele tinha o punho erguido na altura de sua fronte, contudo, ele parou, o polegar mergulhado em cinzas escuras rente a pele de sua testa, mas sem nunca tocar. Paul queria olhá-la nos olhos quando a abençoasse.

Uma dúvida riscou a superfície de sua mente. Por que ele parou? Um rubor inconveniente subiu pelas bochechas da recém-chegada, quando ela relutantemente ergueu o olhar acanhado do chão emadeirado para as calorosas íris cor-de-ébano do sacerdote, ela rezou para que seus olhos não a denunciassem.

Paul a encarava ternamente, uma mecha teimosa de sua cabeleira negra pendendo desobedientemente à frente daqueles olhos enormes. Harper inalou profundamente quando o encarou, uma sensação vertiginosa lambendo sua pele. O cheiro amadeirado do sândalo, da mirra e de algo mentolado que lembrava hortelã invadiu abundantemente seus pulmões, o perfume se intensificando à medida que o homem do tecido movia-se, traçando o polegar em sua testa, manchando-a com a marca do pecado.

“E ao pó voltarás.”, um calor cobria as palavras que escorriam pelos lábios bem desenhados do sacerdote. Ele abaixou o punho, seus orbes castanhos prestes a engolir a mulher à sua frente. Paul estudou o rosto dela, querendo guardar para si a visão do rubor adorável que lhe cobria as maçãs. “Abençoada seja, filha.”, ele proferiu em um tom sutilmente conhecedor, após um instante de silêncio.

Seus olhares se sustentaram por alguns instantes a mais do que seria considerado apropriado. Miriam abaixou os olhos, uma mão trêmula benzendo-se, o rosto tão quente que parecia queimar. O coração em seu peito se assemelhava a um pardal enjaulado, uma respiração pesada depois, ela encontrou sua voz.

“Amém.”

A missa não tardou a terminar após a benção. De certo modo, havia uma ansiedade generalizada de todos os presentes de adiantarem-se ao final do culto para poderem aproveitar o evento comunitário por mais tempo.

Miriam sentiu as mãos úmidas dentro dos bolsos. Alguns minutos já haviam se passado, seus batimentos se acalmaram e ao se levantar para sair ela torceu para que Erin não houvesse notado o modo como o mísero toque em sua testa a havia desconcertado. Com uma respiração profunda ela se recompôs, ansiosa para deixar o ambiente opressivo em que estava. Antes de conseguir pôr os pés fora da igreja, Harper sentiu o peso de uma mão em seu ombro.

“Oh, que coisa boa vê-la aqui srta. Harper!”, falou Wade com um sorriso no rosto. Miriam se virou, a tensão em seus ombros provocando uma pequena e fugaz cãibra em seu pescoço.

Houve um momento de estranhamento quando os olhos de Miriam pousaram no prefeito. Ele parecia ligeiramente mais jovem do que ela se lembrava, parecia que até mesmo alguns dos fios grisalhos que brotavam em suas têmporas e coloriam seu bigode, haviam desaparecido. A contadora piscou algumas vezes. Não, é coisa de sua cabeça, ou talvez ele apenas tenha descoberto com pintá-los de forma natural. De qualquer forma, aquele não era o único motivo pelo qual ela se sentia desconfortável na presença do político.

Sua investigação sobre os problemas financeiros da Ilha Crockett acabaram por não se limitar apenas ao ‘Centro de Lavagem de dinheiro de Bev Keane’, — como Joe tinha gentilmente apelidado. Na verdade, segundo suas mais recentes informações havia uma fraude fiduciária de anos ocorrendo na Ilha, e não coincidentemente, tal fraude havia começado nos registros do ano que datava a primeira eleição de Wade Scarborough como prefeito. Era ridícula a frequência com que esse tipo de coisa ocorria em pequenas cidades. Afinal, se não há opositores sempre se tem a certeza de ser eleito, então não há motivos para se preocupar em ter suas atividades ilícitas descobertas.

O olhar de Miriam saiu do prefeito para as duas figuras que estavam logo atrás: Dolly e Leeza. Ela se perguntou se a primeira dama sabia que seu marido era corrupto. Ela teve pena de Leeza, afinal ela seria a mais prejudicada se Dolly soubesse e ambos fossem presos.

“Bom dia, Prefeito Scarborough. Sra. Scarborough, Leeza.”, Miriam disfarçou sua preocupação com seu melhor tom amistoso e cumprimentou a todos. A jovem na cadeira de rodas tinha um sorriso brilhante no rosto quando acenou para a contadora.

O cintilar juvenil nos olhos de Leeza tornou para Dolly, para quem ela sussurrou algo indistinto e expectante. A mulher de óculos assentiu, vendo a filha fazer seu caminho alegremente na direção dos coroinhas e do jovem Ali. Todos eles sorriam em uma empolgação que apenas a juventude provém.

Harper voltou a olhar para o prefeito um instante depois, seus orbes tendo acompanhado Leeza.

“É uma coisa ótima tê-la aqui.”, disse Dolly aproximando-se alguns passos, os dedos finos empurrando a haste transparente dos óculos de volta para o lugar de onde escorregaram. Miriam manteve um sorriso fino nos lábios, não querendo permitir que seu desprezo pelas ações do prefeito despontasse em seu rosto.

“Foi uma bela homilia de fato, não ouvia nada tão revigorante desde o Natal.”, a voz de Wade parecia levemente embargada, como se ele tivesse chorado com as palavras do sacerdote, não muito antes de se dirigir a ela.

“Sim…”, um rubor quase imperceptível manchou a pele da jovem mulher com a lembrança inoportuna do toque leve deixado em sua testa. “O padre Paul tem um dom com as palavras.”, sua voz estava serena, mas havia um afeto que lhe atingiu apenas os olhos. Ela admirava o quão eloquente o homem era, disso não havia dúvidas.

“Me alegra ouvir isso.”, a voz retumbante do sacerdote soou, como se fosse evocado com a mera menção ao nome, Paul surgiu por trás de Dolly, Erin o acompanhava e em seu belo rosto ela nutria um olhar perspicaz para Miriam.

A gestante virou-se para sua inquilina com um sorriso, dando um olhar sugestivo entre ela e o homem do tecido, Erin se despediu do bom padre, de Dolly e do prefeito, caminhando com um sorriso ainda mais sugestivo para longe do grupo. O casal também não tardou a partir, ambos com as mãos dadas em passadas calmas na direção de onde sua prole havia ido.

Harper sentia as bochechas quentes, mas não deixou que o sentimento de acanhamento se apoderasse de sua racionalidade desta vez. Mantendo as costas retas ela andou os passos que faltavam para sair do interior da igreja. Uma lufada fresca de ar enchendo seus pulmões com o cheiro de maresia e de capim-cidreira queimado. Ela fechou os olhos e apreciou a calma por um momento, o calor de um corpo ao seu lado fazendo-a voltar ao presente.

“Então você veio.”, havia um sorriso curvando os lábios do sacerdote, um calor gentil uma vez mais se espalhou por seu ser ao vê-la.

Paul mantinha as mãos cruzadas à frente do corpo e estudou com atenção o modo como o rosto da contadora se suavizara, seus cabelos presos nas laterais por grampos libertaram alguns poucos fios que acariciaram a face da jovem mulher. Ele desviou o olhar para baixo momentaneamente com receio de ser pego encarando, quando ela tornou os olhos para ele. Ele se repreendeu pelo comportamento infantil e subiu o olhar para a feira que se iniciava mais a frente, ao redor do monumento de fundação da cidade.

“Eu disse que viria.”, ela responde com um sorriso tímido, tirando uma das mãos dos bolsos para ajustar alguns fios rebeldes de seu cabelo que haviam lhe escapado dos grampos. “Não digo isso apenas para lhe agradar, já que mentir não faz muito do meu feitio, mas…”, Miriam ponderou suas palavras e virou-se totalmente para o padre, um olhar absolutamente sério nos olhos. “Foi o melhor sermão que já ouvi.”, ela declara seriamente. A contadora sorri quando o vê sufocar uma risada, uma cor rosada cobrindo-lhe as bochechas.

“Ficarei mal-acostumado se isso continuar.”, Paul acena com a cabeça, rindo do tom ridiculamente sério que ela deu à sentença. Por um momento ele realmente temeu tê-la desapontado. O próprio sorriso dele se amplia quando a vê sorrindo de sua tolice.

“Estou falando sério,” uma mão feminina se ergue dramaticamente em direção ao peito para enfatizar a fala. “Você quase me converteu.”, ela contém um sorriso vendo-o morder o lábio e balançar a cabeça um pouco com a afirmação. “Quase. Faltou bem pouco.”, sua doce voz tem um tom bem-humorado e ela simboliza com as mãos o pouco que faltava para sua dita ‘conversão’.

“É uma pena que meu plano para trazer de volta essa ovelha ao rebanho tenha falhado.”, há uma sutileza na pronúncia das palavras, um sarcasmo delicado junto ao modo desprovido de convicção de como foi falado.

“Mais sorte na próxima vez, padre.”, ela murmura com um meio sorriso. Há um timbre mordaz em sua voz, um sarcasmo ligeiro. Respirando profundamente, ela enfia as mãos nos bolsos novamente. Uma brisa gelada fazendo-a tremer.

Ele abaixa os olhos por um instante com um leve sorriso, voltando a encará-la pouco depois. Havia uma beleza incomum na jovem mulher, uma melancolia que se desenhava oculta em suas feições, como se houvesse uma dor estranha que a mantivesse sempre afastada, sua mente sobrecarregada levando-a para um lugar sombrio, para longe do presente, longe dele.

Ela parecia bem mais saudável desde a última vez que a viu. As madeixas de seus cabelos mais brilhosos e esvoaçantes, a pele tinha um tom mais saudável e seus lábios pareciam mais corados e macios do que nunca. Uma lembrança herética rastejou pelos meandros de sua mente e ele se encolheu minimamente. Luxúria é sua nova virtude? Envergonhará a Deus rompendo com seus votos, padre?, Paul estremece com o sussurro sombrio que lhe polui a mente.

Miriam deu um passo descendo os degraus de St. Patrick e o vislumbre do movimento foi o suficiente para que ele se forçasse a desviar dessa linha de pensamento.

Seus olhos atentos, então, capturam um pouco distante a figura distinta do Xerife Hassan, ele está se aproximando vagarosamente, uma mão alisando a nuca morena como se para expurgar a tensão dos ombros, a outra enfiada no bolso. Harper parece notá-lo também, já que dá mais um passo, aproximando-se do homem da lei.

Espalhe a palavra… Ainda possuis um rebanho, Paul, te esquece da ovelha desgarrada, a voz do mensageiro enviado pelo senhor arranhou em sua mente. O bom padre piscou uma única vez com força e observou enquanto Hassan se aproximava. Os sussurros ficando mais revoltados em sua mente.

“Bom dia, padre Paul.”, cumprimentou o policial com um aceno contido, seus olhos negros virando na direção de contadora. “Miriam.”

Harper acenou de volta para ele, um sorriso paciente e subitamente cansado, curvando seus lábios. Com as mãos ainda nos bolsos, ela se virou para o sacerdote, o olhar caindo antes de encará-lo, um rubor quase imperceptível mancha suas bochechas.

“Bom, eu-”, repentinamente, Miriam é interrompida pela voz esganiçada de uma Bev Keane muito empertigada, advinda de dentro da igreja. Ela não mais trajava suas vestes cerimoniais e parecia enérgica para introduzir seu pastor aos costumes locais.

“Ah! Padre, finalmente.”, seu rosto sardento exibe um sorriso de doer as bochechas para Paul, mas assim que seus olhos verdes caem na recém-chegada e no xerife ela enrijece.

“Bem, há algum problema, xerife?”, ela pergunta, dando um passo à frente do sacerdote, pondo-se no caminho entre ele e o policial moreno como se fosse um escudo contra os dois impuros à frente.

“Nenhum, Bev. Estou aqui para ver o evento. Vi a srta. Harper, e aproveitei para falar com ela. Temos algumas coisas para conversar.”, Hassan falou com um tom calmo, trocando um olhar conhecedor com a contadora, as mãos nos quadris com a aparição súbita da diaconisa.

“Exato.”, começou Miriam, emendando a fala do bom xerife. “E eu estava conversando com o padre Paul, mas não quero roubá-lo de seus afazeres. Bom…”, ela lança um olhar na direção do clérigo trajado em púrpura. “Até mais, padre. Srta. Keane.”, um aceno contido para ambos e ela caminha em direção ao festival, vendo Hassan segui-la com um olhar por cima do ombro. “Se divertindo?”, ela indagou com um sorriso ao homem da lei. Ele bufou brevemente.

“A comida não parece ruim.”, ele começa, tirando as mãos dos quadris e enfiando-as nos bolsos dos jeans azul, dando de ombros. “As quitandas não têm nada de muito diferente, sabe, antiguidades, flores, velas artesanais… Ali me fez comprar algo em cada uma delas. Ele até me obrigou a comprar uma barra de sabão de chá-verde para acne.”, ele tira de um bolso da jaqueta uma embalagem de papel pardo e mostra brevemente antes de guardá-la de volta.

“Ali parece um bom garoto. Dê um desconto, ele só está querendo participar.”, Miriam fala com um sorriso curvando os lábios. Ela ergue os olhos do gramado mal cuidado para olhar ao redor, analisando o ambiente a sua volta.

O sol não está mais encoberto por nuvens pesadas de chuva, seus raios dourados brilhando minimamente, reluzindo nas tendas alvas das pequenas quitandas organizadas ao redor do monumento da cidade. Flores, sabonetes, velas artesanais e antiguidades se espalham por cada uma delas. Os residentes devotos daquela pequena ilha se acumulavam aos montes dentre as barracas, sorrindo, bebendo e comendo ao som de uma banda local de música folk, chamada ‘Timmy & The Whack Shack’.

Miriam reconheceu o vocalista, ele estava na missa logo atrás dela. Uma risada escapou por seu nariz. Hassan olhou interrogativamente para ela por um instante enquanto se dirigiam à quitanda de bebidas. Ele acompanhou o olhar dela e sorriu fracamente.

“Sem carros, ou arquivos digitais, ou qualquer tecnologia que não tenha ficado obsoleta na década de noventa, mas ainda assim… eles têm uma banda folk. A porra de uma banda folk vivendo bem aqui, em Crockett. Isso é incrível. Estou presa em um livro do David Pinner!”, Harper exclamou erguendo as sobrancelhas com um riso incrédulo, recebendo os olhares de algumas poucas pessoas que ouviram sua indignação.

“As maravilhas nunca cessam.”, murmurou o xerife, exasperadamente.

Sem demora, ao se aproximarem do pequeno balcão de madeira improvisado, — onde um grande barril de alumínio descansava —, bilhetes azuis de bebida lhe foram estendidos, cumprimentos contidos foram dirigidos ao xerife. Com educação, Hassan declinou de seus bilhetes e Miriam aceitou os dela, mesmo que não tivesse a intenção de usá-los.

Sua visão periférica capturou a figura atarracada e desengonçada de Joe Collie, debruçada sobre uma extremidade do balcão, a barba desgrenhada e o bigode mesclado de grisalho afogado no interior de um copo de cerveja. Hassan e Harper trocaram um olhar preocupado. Enquanto o xerife se afastou para trocar algumas palavras com Joe, Miriam estava mais interessada no diligente animal que brincava com algo na grama.

Ao chegar perto o suficiente, Miriam franziu a testa ao ver Pike empurrar com o focinho um pedaço de pão. A linguiça rolara para longe na grama, e o cão tentava ainda deitado alcançar o naco rosado de carne. Abaixando-se na grama, a contadora ganhou a atenção alegre do animal. Ela acariciou suas bochechas e o meio de suas orelhas com uma mão enquanto com a outra recolhia o pedaço intacto de pão e a linguiça. Antes que o cachorro pudesse abocanhar sua mão, ela se dirigiu a uma lata de lixo próxima a um banco e jogou fora a coisa.

Miriam tivera um cão há alguns anos. Um enorme Bernese de pelo tricolor chamado Bento. Harper o amava loucamente e adorava acariciar seu pelo longo e brilhoso, mas como qualquer um que acabara de ter seu primeiro cão, ela não tinha tanta noção do que ele deveria ou não comer. Com frequência lhe dava parte de seu macarrão durante o almoço, afinal Bento parecia gostar tanto que parecia cruel não dividir sua comida com seu melhor amigo. Com o tempo, obviamente, o pelo tão sedoso do animal passou a perder o brilho e a maciez, e o pobre Bento passou a ter caspa e urticária devido sua dieta imprópria.

Pouco depois Lenz informou a jovem Miriam que ela nunca deveria dar trigo para seu cachorro. O hábito de evitar esse tipo de alimento perto de cães agiu naturalmente nela, para convencer Pike a não comer aquilo.

Harper fez uma careta, limpando a mão da saliva do cão no avesso da barra do vestido. Uma vez que ela se aproximou do cachorro ele balançou o rabo tendo levantado de seu lugar confortável na grama fresca apenas para quase derrubar a mulher ao saltar alegremente sobre ela.

“Olá, Pike.”, ela sorriu amplamente se equilibrando novamente sobre os pequenos saltos e afagando avidamente a cabeçorra do animal. “Você não deveria comer trigo, rapaz, fará esse seu pelo lindo cair.”, sua voz nutria um tom doce, como se Pike fosse, na verdade, uma criança travessa e não um cachorro.

Bento era bem diferente de Pike, ao invés de ser tão desengonçado e brincalhão, o Bernese era quieto e sonolento, mas ela decidiu gostar tanto de Pike quanto gostava de Bento.

Ela correu os dedos pela pelagem grossa e brilhosa da criatura, arranhando com as unhas, o queixo e as orelhas. Quando se levantou, Miriam se aproximou alguns passos de Joe e Hassan, ambos observavam a interação sem muito interesse.

“O que ele tinha?”, perguntou Joe, a voz ainda ligeiramente embargada, mas desta vez, pelo álcool. O cão aproximou-se feliz de seu dono, sentando-se orgulhoso e diligente ao lado dele, e recebendo um carinho no queixo.

“Alguém deve ter deixado cair um cachorro-quente. Ele estava xeretando, mas consegui jogar fora antes que ele comesse.”, ela gesticulou brevemente na direção da lixeira.

Hassan olhava para o animal alegremente prostrado perto dele, sua grande língua rosada pendurada, gotejando saliva, quase em um sorriso.

“Não deixe ele comer nada que tenha trigo ou açúcar, vai adoecê-lo.”, vendo Joe unir as sobrancelhas ela decidiu completar. “Meu cunhado é veterinário, ele já me disse o mesmo quando eu tinha cachorro.”, ela apontou e enfiou a mão no bolso novamente.

“Vou me lembrar disso.”, sussurrou o dono do animal. Com essa nova informação, o velho homem atarracado voltou sua atenção para seu copo quase vazio de cerveja com um aceno.

Gesticulando para a criatura coberta de pelos escuros, Miriam se sentou no banco próximo. Pike trotou interessado em sua direção, as orelhas em pé, atento, quando se sentou nos pés da contadora, a língua longa disparando para lamber o próprio focinho, uma vez que a mulher começou a arranhar as unhas atrás de sua orelha.

Tendo terminado sua conversação com Joe Collie, Hassan caminhou na direção da recém-chegada e se sentou ao seu lado.

“Você não tem cunhado.”, ele murmurou-lhe em sua voz funda e rouca. Ela sorriu, os olhos perspicazes muito atentos ao animal entre suas coxas.

“Não, mas considero Abel meu irmão, o que por consequência faz do marido dele meu cunhado.”, ela explicou, concisamente, sem nunca tirar os olhos de Pike. “Não importa.”, concluiu a contadora, finalmente se recostando no banco, ombro a ombro com o xerife.

“Justo.”, houve uma pausa, o ar suave que havia nos olhos escuros do policial se esvaindo. “O quê Abel disse sobre os arquivos?”, indagou ele, cruzando os braços e se recostando mais próximo de Miriam. Seus orbes negros observando as pessoas mais ao longe, certificando-se de que ninguém além deles estava ouvindo.

Miriam respirou fundo, era óbvio que sua paz duraria pouco tempo, afinal os problemas simplesmente não se resolvem sozinhos.

No dia seguinte à visita inesperada do padre, Miriam encontrou parte da documentação que implicava em fraude fiduciária, a fraude que surgira durante a gestão do atual prefeito de Crockett. Essa nova informação adicionou uma dor de cabeça a mais na contadora e ela acabou por enviar um e-mail a seu primo com os digitais da documentação. Abel, como o bom advogado que era, perguntou se havia algum agente da lei confiável na ilha com quem ela pudesse falar. Dessa forma, Hassan acabou sendo bruscamente introduzido nesta situação.

Já não bastasse Bev perseguir-lhe e a sua fé, agora ele tinha a confirmação de que ela se aproveitara da situação do pobre e demente Pruitt, para afanar dinheiro da construção do Centro de Recreação, superfaturando os materiais. Além disso, a menos de um dia ele descobrira que não só Bev, mas o prefeito saqueava recursos da ilha.

“São o suficiente para intimá-los, mas eu não tenho o poderio legal para fazer isso.”, Miriam diz com um suspiro, piscando lentamente na direção de Hassan. Ela olhou-o fixamente por um momento, esperando que ele entendesse o que ela estava lhe pedindo.

“O que exatamente você está me pedindo?”, o bom xerife indagou, um olhar severo no rosto, as sobrancelhas escuras fortemente unidas.

“Estou pedindo para você investigar. Ver se há mais algo que deixamos passar. Há um limite para o que posso fazer, e já cheguei nele.”, ela o olha nos olhos pesadamente, há uma honestidade crua na voz de Miriam. Ela não parece feliz em pedir-lhe para se colocar na linha de fogo, mas mesmo assim ela o faz.

“Investigar, exatamente o quê? Bev? O Centro de Recreação? A prefeitura e o prefeito? Meu Deus, Miriam. Até a St. Patrick?”, Hassan se move desconfortavelmente contra as tábuas inchadas de umidade do banco, sua voz está baixa, contida, enquanto ele novamente transpassa a área ao seu redor.

Nenhum enxerido a vista.

Ele respira fundo vendo o olhar desgostoso traçado no rosto de sua companhia.

“Já te contei por que me mudei para cá?”, ele pergunta, voltando o olhar de soslaio para a mancha enegrecida aos pés da contadora.

“Não, acredito que não.”, a voz de Miriam se arrasta na resposta, cansaço cavando suas palavras. Ela passa os dedos pelos cabelos e puxa o xale para mais perto do corpo, uma sensação de incômodo brotando em seu peito.

“Não contei a ninguém, agora que penso nisso.”, um amargor contemplativo cobre a voz rouca do xerife. Ele continua, seu timbre adquirindo um tom seco. “É quase como se ninguém tivesse perguntado.”, ele gesticula com uma mão forte brevemente, logo voltando a enrolá-la em seu bíceps.

Subitamente, Miriam percebe que essa não será uma conversa fácil.

“Sabe, eu tinha 21 anos quando as Torres caíram.”, Hassan fala, seu tom de voz ficando mais baixo e pesaroso. “Assisti na TV no meu dormitório, chorando.”, ele continua, olhando para os rostos radiantes das crianças. “Quando eu era criança, eu não era nada religioso, na verdade. Mas fui à mesquita naquele dia, porque eles tinham uma coleta de sangue, e a fila andava por quarteirões.”, um manejo de seu pulso forte ilustrou sua fala.

Harper sentiu aquele constrangimento inicial crescer em seu peito.

“Eu queria ajudar. Eu queria proteger este país.”, outro olhar atento ao redor e o xerife continuou, sua decepção refletida na forma como suas sobrancelhas grossas se uniam. “Então me mudei para Nova York e me matriculei no treinamento da NYPD. Agora, alguns dos meus amigos, eles não estavam felizes.”, uma carranca se formou em seus lábios quando Hassan moveu-se incomodado no banco, olhando perifericamente para a mulher que o ouvia.

“‘A polícia de Nova York está contra nós’, diziam. Mas eu diria-lhes: ‘Não. Vocês estão errados.'”, uma pausa, um suspiro e a próxima lufada de ar traz com ela o cheiro de lavanda e cedro. “‘Vou mostrar-lhes que não precisam ter medo de nós. Vou mostrar-lhes quem somos.’”, descruzando os braços, Hassan senta-se mais adequadamente, agora encarando Miriam.

Harper não conseguia olhar para ele fixamente, então encarou a pequena falha que ele tinha em uma das sobrancelhas. Ela deveria ter considerado melhor como seria pedir algo desse escopo para o bom homem que cooperava tanto com ela. Ela deveria ter considerado sua posição naquele antro de intolerâncias.

“Então trabalhei meu caminho.”, o xerife gesticulou, sua respiração estável, mas quase imperceptivelmente ofegante, exausta. “Você sabe, tráfego, traduzindo e transcrevendo escutas telefônicas, depois Vice.”, ele está gesticulando com as mãos morenas, pontuando suas palavras até que ele para, desviando olhar dela para seu filho.

“Eu me caso. Ali nasce e eu sou promovido novamente. Detetive agora.”, Hassan volta seus olhos pesados de cansaço para a figura encolhida ao seu lado e suspira. “Autorização de segurança ultra-secreta para a força-tarefa conjunta de terrorismo. Estou ajudando o FBI a combater terroristas.”, com outro manejo de seu pulso ele gesticula, convicção no gesto e nas palavras.

“Estamos pegando coleiras. Você sabe, coisas mesquinhas, maconha, multas de estacionamento e se apoiar neles se forem muçulmanos.”, há desgosto em sua voz quando ele se reclina de volta no banco. “‘Você sabe, vamos retirar a acusação, ajudá-lo. Você vai à mesquita e ouve.’”, um sorriso de escárnio brota em seus lábios com as seguintes palavras.

“Achei que deveríamos estar lutando contra terroristas.”, outro suspiro, dessa vez um de desapontamento. “Não enganando um estudante maconheiro no Queens para espionar os americanos.”, Hassan pigarreia e respira fundo, seus orbes escuros transpassando ao redor novamente, enquanto uma garota de tranças loiras e flores nas mãos passa por eles.

Miriam sente a necessidade de dizer algo, mas morde a língua, movendo-se desconfortavelmente no banco, por que ela não saberia o que dizer. Então ela só respira fundo e se enrola mais firmemente em seu xale, uma mão serpenteando para as cotas do maldito rosário. Ela tira o olhar que observava uma Erin risonha conversando com um Riley retraído para um homem da lei exaurido a seu lado.

“Então eu reclamo. Gentilmente…”, uma mão masculina ergue um único indicador, em um gesto representativo, antes da voz funda do xerife completar. “Uma vez.”, Hassan tem uma decepção palpável marcada nas feições. “Tudo mudou.”, houve outra pausa, um silêncio indignado. “Fui vigiado por outros policiais. Quero dizer, eles até tinham um arquivo oficial sobre mim.”, Hassan respirou fundo, uma mão passando pelos cabelos pretos que começavam a ficar grisalhos de maneira cansada.

“E não só eu. Veja, tipo, depois das Torres, oficiais muçulmanos foram promovidos rapidamente. Principalmente se a gente conhecesse a língua, tipo, conhecimento linguístico, conhecimento cultural. Éramos muito desejáveis para isso.”, o olhar exaurido do homem focou em algum ponto fixo desinteressante logo aos pés da contadora. “Mas começou a ocorrer-lhes, com tantos de nós na força, elevados a posições de autoridade real, e se esse tivesse sido nosso plano o tempo todo?”, sua expressão normalmente serena se torce em uma carranca.

“E se fôssemos intrusos? E se fôssemos infiltrados? E se fôssemos agentes duplos? E eles entraram em pânico para caralho.”, o xingamento correu com ênfase pelos lábios barbudos do policial. “Os Assuntos Internos de repente estavam em cima de nós. Estávamos sendo seguidos. Estamos sendo gravados. Civis também. Vigiados em mesquitas, cafés.”

Toda a situação descrita levou o amargor da bile sobre a língua da contadora, e um arrepio de desconforto enervou sua espinha. Pike se levantou, sentando-se e encostando a cabeçorra sobre o joelho coberto da mulher. Miriam correu os dedos pelas orelhas do animal, desviando seu olhar fixamente para a frente.

“E de repente estou sem roupas comuns e estou de volta ao uniforme. Turno da noite, batida de rua.”, havia uma indignação que nunca deixava suas palavras, a dor cravada em seu tom. “E cada vez mais, percebo que perdi a confiança deles.”, Hassan dá de ombros, cansado. “Eu lido com isso. Mantenho minha cabeça erguida.”, Harper observa o queixo barbudo do xerife se erguer com orgulho.

“Dignidade.”, a voz de Hassan está crua, amarga. Miriam tira os olhos do cão ofegante á seus pés para olhar nos olhos negros do bom xerife. Havia algo refletido neles, uma dor, uma agonia, mas também algo que ela mesma conhecia muito bem, luto.

“Dignidade é uma palavra que minha esposa usa.”, o olhar do bom policial cai, por um momento ele apenas encara as próprias mãos cruzadas no colo. “‘Mostre-lhes dignidade.’”, a dor da perda pontua suas palavras e Harper sente algo apertar em seu peito. “E então ela é diagnosticada.”, a voz de Hassan baixa, quase falha e Miriam não consegue olhá-lo nos olhos.

“E ela é roubada de sua dignidade tão rápido.”, suas palavras escapam na forma de um sussurro dolorido. “E então ela se foi. E não consegui…”, seu tom controlado quebra em algo embargado, embalado pelo luto. “Ali e eu vamos o mais longe que podemos. E eu encontro este show. Esta pequena ilha.”, Hassan respira fundo, erguendo os olhos escuros de volta para Miriam e ele percebe que ela finalmente está olhando para ele, um sulco triste marcando sua testa.

“Tão sonolenta que poderia estar morta. Sem eleições, sem funcionários. Apenas uma pequena sala nos fundos de uma mercearia e um bando de pescadores sem um incidente notável de violência intencional em quase um século, e eu imploro pelo posto.”, ele se inclina contra o encosto, os olhos subindo em direção aos céus para enfatizar a fala. “Dignidade.”, ele pontua a palavra com a voz firme. “Ali está entediado até às lágrimas. Mas ele está seguro.”, olhando ao redor ele faz um pequeno gesto com a cabeça na direção do garoto sorridente ao lado de Ooker.

Harper endireita a postura e olha na direção do jovem Ali Hassan. O garoto era doce e dedicado, carregava sempre um sorriso brilhante e uma infinita vontade de ajudar e cooperar. Ele queria pertencer àquela pequena comunidade sem ter noção do quão mal isso o faria, o quanto aquilo o contaminaria. A contadora suspira, baixando os olhos e voltando os orbes melancólicos para o xerife.

“E ainda acho que talvez pudesse mover o mundo um milímetro. Sabe, talvez seja aqui que fazemos a diferença. Não na cidade grande, mas nesta pequena vila.”, o policial gesticula ao redor, o tom baixo e controlado para evitar ser ouvido acima da música. “Conquiste a porra da PTA e chame isso de vitória para o Islã.”, impetuosamente ele joga as mãos para cima enfaticamente.

“Então eu não intimido. Eu não compartilho demais ou ultrapasso, ou me intrometo de forma alguma.”, Hassan tem um tom cauteloso e Miriam sabe não haver o que discutir. Então ela se resigna a coçar a cabeça de Pike e acalmar a ansiedade. “Miriam, eu nem carrego uma arma.”, ele faz um gesto vago para o coldre vazio em seu cinto, sua expressão se suavizando por um ligeiro segundo.

“E ainda…”, ele olha ao redor, seu tom ainda mais baixo antes de continuar. “Ainda… Beverly Keane e alguns outros olham para mim como se eu fosse a porra do Osama bin-Laden.”, Miriam desvia o olhar uma vez mais e sente as bochechas queimarem com a desgraça de seu pedido. “E você gostaria que eu os investigasse?”, é uma pergunta retórica, ela sabe, e com culpa ela baixa o olhar para o chão, virando-se assim como ele, ambos, ombro a ombro.

Miriam morde o interior da bochecha e considera as palavras do amigo.

“Eu sinto muito.”, ela fala em um sussurro baixo, não olhando nos olhos, os dedos brincando com a pelugem preta do cachorro que a encarava. “Não vou insistir que você faça isso. Mas peço que apenas considere indicar alguém que confie para fazer isso por você. Por favor.”, ela ouve um suspiro exaurido ao seu lado e decide acrescentar. “Se mesmo assim for complicado, é só manter a distância e se alguém perguntar, dizer que fui eu que contratei a pessoa e que você não sabia de nada, sabe, jogar a culpa na contadora recém-chegada e enxerida.”, há uma risada fraca que escapa do policial enlutado. “Garanto que todos acreditariam.”, Miriam dá de ombros, deixando os olhos correrem pelos rostos das pessoas ao redor.

Hassan se vira para ela em seu lugar no banco, o olhar incisivo fixo no perfil sério da contadora. Quando percebe que ele a está encarando ela faz o mesmo com ele, pura e absoluta convicção em seus traços. O xerife respira fundo, em uma concordância silenciosa.

“Acredito que posso conhecer alguém, mas preciso verificar se ela ainda está disponível.”, Hassan murmurou, cruzando as mãos no colo. “Do contrário, não há mais nada que eu possa fazer.”, o xerife completa entre uma respiração e outra, os olhos escuros focando na figura embriagada de Joe.

“Obrigada.”, ela murmurou com um tom gentil, estapeando de forma reconfortante a coxa do policial.

Por um momento quase toda a tensão dos ombros de Miriam se esvai, e ambos os amigos compartilham de um silêncio confortável.

O cheiro açucarado de algodão-doce, lavanda, cedro e maresia invade as narinas da jovem mulher e ela se sente acalmar por um momento. Ela fecha os olhos e absorve o baixo longínquo da música da pequena banda. Um ronco alto de Pike a recordou abruptamente de onde estava, e despertou em conjunto outra coisa.

“E os gatos? Alguma notícia?”, Miriam perguntou subitamente, virando a cabeça no encosto do banco e encarando o perfil cansado de Hassan enquanto ele suspirava.

“O veterinário mencionou algo sobre uma coisa incomum na necrópsia.”, ele une as sobrancelhas em um esforço para se lembrar exatamente o que era. “Segundo ele não foi só a laceração que causou a morte de todos aqueles gatos, parece que algo drenou o sangue dos corpos completamente.”, o homem de barba escura faz uma careta de estranhamento ao falar aquelas palavras, quase como se não fizesse sentido colocá-las juntas em uma frase.

Um par de olhos brilhantes pisca na mente de Harper. Com um aceno de cabeça ela empurra a lembrança tenebrosa para um canto de sua mente. Respirando profundamente ela ignora um calafrio que se enerva por sua espinha e volta a deitar a cabeça sobre o encosto, os olhos virados para a imensidão mesclada de celeste acima.

“Bom, pelo menos isso explica porque não havia sangue na praia apesar da quantidade bíblica de corpos.”, ela murmura com uma carranca, gesticulando minimamente ao redor. A mera lembrança do cheiro pútrido dos corpos fazendo seu estômago se revirar.

“Falando em bíblia…”, Hassan aponta com os olhos por um momento para o clérigo esguio que se aproximava deles. O xerife se diverte em silêncio ao assistir à postura de sua companhia endurecer com a percepção.

Harper respira profundamente e observa o homem da batina se aproximar ao longe, ele não mais trajava a cláusula púrpura, mas sim o seu típico conjunto de botas, calças jeans, camisa preta de botões e cardigã. O mero vislumbre de sua exuberante juba encaracolada enervou uma onda de borboletas sob sua pele.

“Vai ficar aqui?”, ela indaga ao xerife moreno com a voz baixa, sua postura ereta, seus olhos nunca deixando a figura alta que se destacava entre os ilhéus. Ela piscou após um momento e o viu assentir na direção do velho Joe Collie e seu copo que nunca parecia estar vazio.

“Apenas mais um pouco. Quero me certificar que ele não veja nenhum albatroz-gigante o perseguindo de novo.”, ele murmurou cruzando os braços em uma postura mais fechada com a proximidade do clérigo.

Miriam reagiu ao seu comentário com um ruído próximo a uma risada e assentiu em concordância ao levantar-se. Um olhar conhecedor foi tudo que correu entre os dois antes que a voz melódica do pastor se infiltrasse em seus ouvidos. Enfiando as mãos nos bolsos ela observou os dois homens.

“Olá, de novo.”, o padre acenou brevemente com uma mão para ambos enquanto a outra pendia oculta atrás das costas. Seus olhos cor-de-ébano lampejam brevemente para a mulher com um sorriso ligeiramente embaraçado.

Miriam absorveu o silêncio embaraçoso entre os três, mordendo o interior da bochecha para conter o constrangimento. O bom padre pareceu perceber o silêncio desconfortável que causara sem intenção, e prontificou-se a corrigi-lo.

“Me desculpe interromper, eu-”, ele começou dando meio passo para trás. Seu tom rico foi interrompido abruptamente pelo discurso sereno de Miriam.

“Oh, não. Não está interrompendo, nós já terminamos.”, ela se virou para Hassan e acenou com a fronte. “Me dê notícias sobre a sua amiga.”, Miriam usou seu tom mais preocupado, apenas para o caso de precisar despistar algum questionamento do pároco.

O xerife de cabelos negro assentiu e correu uma mão forte por dentre as orelhas peludas de Pike, brevemente, perdendo interesse na interação entre o sacerdote e a contadora.

“Quer caminhar um pouco?”, Paul perguntou, virando-se para a jovem mulher, um brilho esperançoso nas poças escuras de seus olhos. Ela deu de ombros e sussurrou um ‘claro’, contido, uma onda de calor subindo pelo pescoço.

Dando alguns passos para mais perto do homem atarracado que focava atentamente em sua bebida, Harper perguntou:

“Joe, você se importa se eu levar Pike para caminhar um pouco? Ele parece entediado.”, ela acrescentou com um sorriso, lançando um olhar gentil para o animal, que prontamente lhe olhou ao ouvir seu nome. Joe a olhou dos pés à cabeça por menos do que um instante e assente.

“Fique à vontade, ele já se acostumou com você.”, Joe deu de ombros, vendo seu amigo canino trotar na direção da mulher com uma alegria infantil uma vez que ela o chamou.

“Vamos, Pike.”, ela chamou o grande cão, que alegremente trotou ao seu encontro. Levantando-se de sua posição abaixada, Miriam lança um olhar para os que ficaram e acena com a cabeça para o padre que a assistia com as mãos atrás das costas.

Logo eles começaram a caminhar ombro a ombro. Pike abanou o rabo e fez sua patrulha diligente alguns passos à frente.

Paul observa as feições de sua companhia por um longo momento antes de respirar superficialmente e estender a mão que ocultava atrás das costas na direção dela, despretensiosamente, levou um minuto para que ela registrasse o gesto. Por entre os dedos longos do pregador está uma flor. Mas não qualquer flor, era uma gardênia. Miriam perguntou-se, se ele sabia o que cada pétala branca daquelas significava. Amor secreto, que apropriado. Ela mordeu o lábio para conter o riso.

Ela corre os dedos pelas pétalas alvas e a apanha como se fosse feita de vidro, um rubor efervescente corre para suas bochechas quando seus dedos roçam minimamente contra as pontas dos dele.

“Por que a flor?”, ela indaga o olhando de relance antes que possa conter a língua. Paul tem ambas as mãos enfiados nos bolsos daquele maldito jeans apertado quando dá de ombros e olha ao redor, um semblante sereno nas feições. Há uma ternura em seus olhos escuros que sopra um calor terno em seu peito palpitante quando ele a olha.

“Eu não sei…”, ele diz, um sorriso singelo curvando seu arco do cupido bem desenhado. “Um agradecimento. Talvez eu só queira que você se sinta confortável comigo.”, ele fala casualmente, como se o gesto em si não fosse aquém dos modos de um padre.

Miriam sorri ligeiramente com a resposta, mas não pode deixar de provocá-lo com isso.

“Ah, e por que isso, padre?”, ela indaga, girando o caule curto e peludo da flor entre os dedos. Paul pode sentir o sorriso em suas palavras, a ligeira provocação ao usar de seu título. O presbítero demora um momento para encontrar suas palavras.

“É que… você costuma parecer tão nervosa, tão sobrecarregada…”, perto de mim. Ele prende as palavras em sua língua antes que saiam de sua boca, um calor teimoso lhe cobre o rosto. Paul gesticula singelamente com uma mão para nada em especial e volta a esconder as mãos nos bolsos. “Eu só quero consertar isso.”, ele a olha brevemente, um olhar expectante bem escondido nos olhos.

Um ruído de compreensão anasalado escapa da mulher e ela deixa seus olhos vagarem pelos arredores antes de responder de maneira contida.

“Você é muito gentil. Obrigada.”, seu tom é doce e suave, como o cantarolar de um pássaro e nutre uma afabilidade indiscutível.

Um sorriso singelo curva os cantos dos lábios de Paul quando eles se encaram por um curto momento, um estudando o outro. Para logo em seguida virarem os olhos para o caminho à sua frente.

O estalar da grama ainda gelada sob seus pés é continuamente abafado pelas risadas e vozes entusiasmadas ao redor. Miriam se afunda no cheiro doce do botão de flor em suas mãos, um perfume quase tão inebriante quanto o dele próprio. Pensar nisso a carrega para o momento perturbante em que seus corpos ficaram pressionados em sua cozinha. O modo como ela pôde sentir o calor de sua pele mesmo sob as roupas. A forma firme como ele enlaçou sua cintura para lhe impedir de desabar, como parecia um pouco firme demais para ser algo não intencional. Harper se sentiu quase estremecer ao lembrar-se de como seus grossos cílios negros escureceram tão sedutoramente aqueles olhos gentis semicerrados.

Sua mente foi puxada de sua espiral blasfema, pelo tom rico do padre quando ele cumprimentou com um aceno Melinda em sua quitanda de flores. Paul voltou novamente sua atenção para ela.

“… então, como você está se sentindo no seu primeiro crock pot luck?", ele pergunta, um sorriso casto pintando os lábios, uma sobrancelha escura arqueada de curiosidade. O bom padre a observa bufar um riso fraco ao erguer a cabeça e olhar ao redor.

“Bem, é o seu primeiro também. Acredito que nós dois temos que responder a isso. No entanto, suponho que sua resposta será muito mais entusiasmada do que a minha.”, desta vez havia uma vaga exaustão borbulhando sob cada palavra, mas ainda assim ela lhe lançou um sorriso fraco.

“Oh... tendo um dia ruim?”, ele pergunta em um tom compassivo, as feições empáticas para a dificuldade anunciada. Quando Miriam o olha de relance por um segundo, ele tem as sobrancelhas unidas e o olhar semicerrado com o sol, sua mente rasteja com imagens novamente e ela quase ofega.

“Não exatamente, mas recebi notícias que não vão facilitar minha semana.”, a jovem mulher deixa escapar em um murmúrio cansado. Ela sente um borbulhar incômodo perfurando seu cérebro quando seu olhar repousa na figura rígida e impertinente de Bev à alguns passos.

“Sinto muito por ouvir isso”, Paul murmura, sua mão afagando levemente as costas de Miriam em uma forma de conforto. O clérigo sente sua companhia estremecer sob as pontas de seus dedos.

“Ócios do ofício, suponho.”, ela sussurra, corrigindo a respiração superficial com um suspiro. Seus olhos perspicazes caindo no olhar julgador de Beverly Keane, que encarou repulsivamente o animal diligente trotando entre Paul e Harper. “Diga-me, padre Paul, você notou algo errado com seus livros?”, a pergunta corre pelos lábios da mulher uma vez que a diaconisa está fora de alcance.

Paul a encara confuso por um instante, e corre uma mão por seus cachos quando se prega ao chão. Miriam percebe e para seus passos logo em seguida, ficando de frente para ele.

“O que você quer dizer?”, o homem do tecido indaga, inclinando a cabeça levemente e observa a contadora se aproximar alguns passos, para que ela não necessite falar acima de um sussurro.

“Desculpe, eu deveria ter sido mais específica.”, ela para o encarando por um momento. Miriam deixa que sua mão livre corra por sua nuca, as pontas das unhas arranhando a pele fracamente enquanto ela se repreende por não ser mais clara. “Quero dizer, você notou algo de errado ou estranho com as contas da igreja desde que você chegou?", a jovem mulher reformula sua pergunta, olhando ligeiramente ao redor apenas para o caso de Bev estar à espreita.

“Para ser sincero, não tenho como saber, Bev sempre faz as contas…”, o padre se emudece com a percepção da sugestão leviana da pergunta. Paul se pergunta que artimanhas Bev tramou enquanto ele se afogava no escuro. Certamente nada de bom.

“Se me permite, padre, acredito que você deveria procurar por si mesmo, apenas por uma questão de consciência. Se você encontrar algo errado, ficarei muito grata se me informar.”, Harper observa com a visão periférica Pike rodear uma planta qualquer próxima ao cemitério e se aliviar nela. Ela torna o olhar para ele. “Estou enfrentando alguns problemas como contadora. Tantas coisas erradas em uma ilha tão pequena…”, ela divaga, girando a gardênia nos dedos como se fosse um círculo hipnótico.

“Ficarei mais atento, eu prometo.”, o homem de cabelos negros aforma, tocando brevemente o antebraço da mulher com as pontas dos dedos, desencadeando um suspiro trêmulo dela. Forçando-se a não se prender nesse detalhe, Paul encara o chão de grama por um momento ou dois. “Mas, porque não perguntar à Sra. Keane?”, o bom padre indaga, o olhar ainda semicerrado diante do brilho ofuscante do sol.

“Ah...”, ela ri dando um passo para o lado, fazendo seu caminho em direção à Pike. Uma risada quase amarga lhe escapa enquanto punha uma mecha de seu cabelo esvoaçante atrás da orelha. “Tenho certeza que já ouviu a opinião dela sobre mim em suas confissões.”, ela comenta quando ele se coloca novamente lado a lado com ela. Agora foi a vez dele rir.

“Não sei dizer, sigilo entre padre-confessor.”, há um ar de riso que cobre suas palavras quando ele responde, um sorriso sardônico nos lábios. Paul observa Miriam assentir severamente com uma seriedade dramática e isso só o faz sorrir mais.

“Hum... claro…”, a jovem mulher murmura, se divertindo com a singela intimidade confortável entre eles.

Quisesse ela ou não, o recorte de jornal que vira na reitoria vez ou outra se infiltrava em sua mente, estando ela na presença do bom clérigo ou sozinha. Obviamente, ela já havia ouvido aquele rumor ridículo de que cada pessoa tem pelo menos sete sósias espalhados pelo mundo, mas bom Deus! Ela nunca havia visto uma semelhança tão gritante antes. Cada pequena marca, ou ruga de suas feições a remetia ao velho Monsenhor. Quanto mais Harper o estudava, mais ela tinha uma certeza quase estonteante de que os dois homens estavam de alguma forma ligados, quase como uma intuição.

“Continua com o hábito estranho de encarar as pessoas, não é?”, Paul a pegara encarando-o com sua visão periférica. Novamente ela nutria aquele olhar clínico e analisante sobre ele. Ela sabe, livre-se dela. A voz do mensageiro sussurrou em sua mente, mas ele abafou o ruído focando-se apenas nela.

“Você realmente se parece com ele”, a mulher sussurra, seus olhos atentos estudando as feições do padre. Ele sentiu um calafrio com o tom intrigado que ela usou.

“Quem?”, o sacerdote fingiu não saber a quem ela se referia, os cabelos de sua nuca se arrepiando com a mera possibilidade dela cogitar quem ele realmente era. Entretanto, ele sempre se policiava para que esse temor não aparecesse em suas feições.

“Pruitt.”, ela diz como se fosse absolutamente óbvio. Há uma pausa. “Se não tivessem me dito que ele tem uns 100 anos, eu diria que são gêmeos.”, Miriam balança a cabeça enquanto lê sem muito interesse os escritos na entrada do cemitério. “Às vezes suponho que ele poderia ser seu pai.”, ela ri de sua besteira, negativando com a cabeça e ele sente um arrepio se enervar por sua espinha. “São ridiculamente parecidos.”, Harper olha para o bom padre por um longo instante após isso. Paul está subitamente interessado em uma epígrafe de lápide.

“A mesma pessoa em fases diferentes da vida talvez.”, ele deixa escapar, sua própria mente um pouco longe demais ao ler o nome ‘Alice Mary Pruitt’ quase apagado no concreto coberto de líquens. Miriam o olha confusa enquanto ele desliza os longos dedos sobre a lápide. Coisa estranha de se dizer.

Subitamente, Paul parece acordar de um sonho. Com as costas retas ele enfia as mãos grandes nos bolsos e começa a caminhar para fora do cemitério mórbido e melancólico que ele tão bem conhecia. Uma vez que Miriam estava perto o suficiente ele perguntou, tentando soar sem interesse.

“Vejo que é próxima de Joe Collie.”, há uma sugestão sutil por baixo das palavras que ele sabe que ela não deixará passar. O bom padre a olha de relance quando a vê suspirar.

“Eu não diria isso, mas acredito que somos amigos, de alguma forma.”, ela sugere dando de ombros. O olhar astuto da contadora o olhou dos pés à cabeça em uma tentativa de desenterrar suas intenções.

“Acho que deve saber que o filho mais velho dos Flynn, Riley, teve problemas com álcool.”, o padre começa, seus passos calculados para ela ficar próxima, como se contasse um segredo.

“Sim, soube de algo do gênero.”, a mulher afirma. É claro que ela sabia dos problemas alcoólicos de Riley, por Deus, ela dividia uma casa com Erin, seria impossível para ela não saber sobre o que aconteceu com o pobre e retraído Riley Flynn. Contudo, ela não deixaria tão claro que sabia, não sem antes saber da agenda do padre.

“Pois bem, para que ele não tenha de perder um dia inteiro em uma viagem ao continente. Eu me voluntariei para liderar um AA aqui em Crockett.”, a voz rica do sacerdote de cabelos negros começa. Mesmo antes de todas as palavras correrem de seus lábios, Harper já sabe o que ele pedirá. Ela suspira. “Sei que posso estar sendo invasivo pedindo isso a você, mas você sabe que faria bem a ele ir. Não estou pedindo que o amarre e o jogue lá comigo. Só que sugira a ele.”

Paul é sutil em seu pedido. Há um tom casto e compassivo em suas palavras, um que esquentaria as bochechas de Miriam se ela não estivesse ponderando o significado de suas palavras.

“Você mesmo poderia fazer isso…”, a contadora contrapõe, olhando para o homem à frente com um olhar cansado. Ela realmente não se importaria, mas nas circunstâncias atuais ela está exausta demais para ter essa conversa com Joe.

“Ele não me conhece, além disso, Joe Collie nutre um desprezo agudo por boa parte da congregação. Mas não por você. Por favor, apenas tente.”, ele argumenta, aqueles malditos olhos de cachorrinho implorando tão gentilmente. Ela libera um suspiro derrotado.

“Está bem…”, há uma pausa longa em que ambos se encaram, o clérigo a olha expectante. “Posso fazer isso.”, a contadora confirma, passando os dedos finos pelos cabelos ligeiramente bagunçados do vento e começa a andar em direção a feira. Antes que ela dê mais um passo, ele envolve uma mão quente ao redor do pulso dela.

“Há mais uma coisa que gostaria de pedir.”, desta vez Miriam não demonstra relutância, seu cérebro racional demasiado paralisado com o toque em seu pulso para argumentar, ela assente. “Gostaria de saber se você não gostaria de aparecer na reitoria de vez em quando. Apenas para conversarmos.”

De todas as coisas que Paul Hill pudesse dizer a ela nesse momento, esta certamente não era a que ela esperava. Com um olhar confuso e sobrancelhas unidas em incerteza, ela dá um passo mais próximo do padre. A ponta dos dedos de pianista fazendo cócegas quase imperceptíveis contra a pele de seu pulso quase a faz ofegar. Com o que resta de seu autocontrole, Miriam estabiliza sua respiração superficial.

“Sinto que há algo incomodando você.”, ele começou com sua voz rica e retumbante, fazendo-a estremecer em seus ossos ao dar um passo mais próximo dela. “Só quero que saiba que pode contar comigo se precisar conversar. Aprecio muito nossas conversas e acredito que seria bom para você descarregar um pouco o que te incomoda tanto. Não pense que estou oferecendo redenção católica, não estou pedindo que venha se confessar, não é isso.”, o homem emudece por um instante, sua mente trabalhando para lhe dar as palavras adequadas.

Ele ainda não lhe soltou o pulso. Paul pode sentir o palpitar dos batimentos da mulher contra as pontas dos dedos, perceber isso espalha um calor inconveniente na base de sua espinha. Miriam sentia o sangue ferver sob as bochechas, ela quase podia sentir cada sopro de sua respiração contra os cílios.

“Apenas penso que está sobrecarregada. E quero que saiba que pode contar com um amigo para desabafar sempre que as coisas parecerem muito… Opressivas.”, há uma pausa longa. O bom padre corre os dedos do pulso acelerado da mulher para a palma de sua mão trêmula, lhe dando um aperto reconfortante. “O que estou oferecendo é apenas uma xícara de chá e alguém com quem conversar…”, pela primeira vez ela realmente o olha profundamente nos olhos, se perdendo naquelas poças de chocolate.

Ele tem olhos tão gentis, ela se lembra de pensar quando o vira pela primeira vez na igreja, há quase uma semana. Ainda era verdade, mas agora, após algum convívio, ela conseguia ver além da gentileza. Havia uma escuridão naqueles olhos, dor, culpa, luto, e tantas outras coisas que ela ainda não era capaz de nomear. Miriam quis tocá-lo, tocar seu rosto, sentir a pele quente sob os dedos e segurá-lo, até se afogar naqueles olhos e descobrir cada mínimo segredo escondido neles.

“Padre Paul!”

Antes que ela pudesse pensar em respondê-lo, uma voz chamou-o ao longe e ele sorriu-lhe uma última vez, esperançosamente. Soltando sua mão lentamente. As marcas ao redor de seus olhos tornaram aquele sorriso afável em algo que a fez tremer os joelhos.

“Não precisa responder agora. Apenas, mantenha-o em mente. Vejo-a em breve, Miriam.”, padre Paul despediu-se e a forma como o nome dela soou melódica em sua voz desmoronou cada pequeno nervo resiliente de seu corpo, se fosse humanamente possível ela teria se tornado uma poça, bem ali à frente de seus pés.

Harper ficou em silêncio por um longo momento e sentiu suas bochechas queimarem.

O latido choroso de Pike trouxe de volta seu olhar fixo.

“Vamos, garoto, vamos levá-lo de volta para o seu pai.”, gentilmente ela estalou os dedos algumas vezes e considerou fazer seu caminho para a barraca de bebidas onde um Joe Collie provavelmente bêbado aguardava. Entretanto, ela não se moveu, o escrutínio fixo na figura esguia do clérigo enquanto sua mente só conseguia lhe questionar: quem é esse homem?

#father john pruitt x reader #father paul x reader #midnight mass fanfic #john pruitt x reader #monsignor pruitt x reader #pruitt x reader #father paul hill x reader #hamish linklater x reader #monsignor john pruitt x reader #paul hill x reader #ofc - miriam harper

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eddiemetalheadmunson · 2 years

Text

i think i'm finally satisfied with this chapter. kinda. i think. 😬

possible tw: some inner dialogue from main character regarding addiction (alcoholism) in this chapter.

no other warnings that i can see. as always, please let me know if there's a trigger you need specified. i want you to feel safe and informed of what you're going to read.

hope you enjoy, darlings.

you showed up just how i had seen it /

in my dreams, speaking words i needed /

a violent crashing from the ceiling /

you reached out and caught me from the demons

listen to altar by machineheart here.

chapter III: running up to the altar

A warm ray of sunlight upon Lilith’s face wakes her the next morning. She cracks an eye open and surveys her surroundings, momentarily forgetting where she is, still trapped in that hazy world between asleep and awake. She sits up slowly with a long, drawn-out yawn, and pieces of the puzzle start slowly coming together.

Fuck. That’s right. I’m in Crockett. Got here yesterday and met Ms. Keane, and met –

Her inner dialogue chokes for a moment at the memory of Father Paul who, in hindsight, now seems like a bit of a fever dream in the early hours of morning.

A tingling jolt gently rattles through her body the moment her mind thinks of him and his sweet smile, accompanied by the mop of unruly hair on his head that practically begged to have a hand running through it. The way he spoke to her. The way he looked. The way he cared about her safety. The way he –

Stop. Stop it. This is a ridiculous, stupid, pointless situation.

She very well knows it. She’d hoped that after a full night’s rest, this jittery, disturbingly unbalanced feeling that the soft-spoken man had evoked within her would run its course and die upon the sunrise of a new day, like so many other things in her life that became more rational with the rising sun.

If anything, that trepidatious feeling had only grown stronger. She’d dreamed about him. Fucking dreamed about this man she’d exchanged only a few sentences with the night before. It wasn’t sexual in any way, but it set her aflame inside all the same, remembering being held in two strong arms and smelling a scent of forest and spice and warmth. Something inherently created in her mind for him, and him only.

She lets out a small whine of frustration and roughly shoves her long hair into a messy bun atop her head with a hair tie that basically lives on her wrist at this point. She walks over to her suitcase on the far edge of the room and lays it down, unzipping it to search for a new pair of clothes. A very strange, fleeting thought dances through her mind without her approval.

Look nice for him.

She blanches, ripping out a pair of leggings to wear under her big hoodie and an old pair of dirty, white converse shoes just to spite her own treacherous thoughts. She had a few things to do this morning before the service, which apparently, she was now resigned to attend. She’s not sure when she decided this – you know exactly when you decided this, you priest loving harlot – but apparently her mind had made itself up for her. She snorts and shakes her head at herself before grabbing her little coffin-shaped backpack and stepping out into the chilly morning air.

She began walking in the direction one of the ferrymen had pointed out to her the day before as to where she could find the Sheriff’s office and a store. She was starving and needed some groceries, at least to tide her over for the next couple days. Most of her things would arrive today that she’d ordered in advance; a blow-up bed, a little couch that she’d need to assemble, and an odd assortment of other essentials. There were plates and mugs, even some silverware, still residing in the kitchen. That much she felt she could handle seeing, as it wasn’t overly personal.

By the time she’d made it to the little general store, she’d passed by several friendly islanders that had made a point to introduce themselves and welcome her to the town. A ridiculously pretty woman named Erin, who was sitting on her porch, wrapped up in a cozy blanket with a book in her hands, a woman with a very sweet, cheery disposition named Mrs. Flynn, and a young boy riding his bike who had skidded to a halt when he saw her to say hello. He was a Flynn as well, Warren Flynn. Meeting them left a little pep in her step. She hoped that everyone would be this nice.

She finds the general store and as she makes her way to the door, she notices an adorable dog with a brindle coat and big brown eyes patiently waiting for his owner. She can’t restrain herself from crouching down next to him to give him some pets.

“Hi baby! You are so fuckin’ cute. And look at your pretty coat. I’ll have to pick up some doggie snacks so I can give you a treat the next time we run into each other because you seem like suchagoodboy – “

A light cough from behind her startles her, and when she whips her head around to see who it is, two men are staring down at her with barely suppressed grins.

She jokingly winces. “The baby-talk voice came out, didn’t it?”

The man with a beard and a friendly smile barks out a laugh at that, and the man next to him chuckles. She sees the little badge on his coat and realizes he must be the Sheriff.

“Maybe a little bit. We won’t tell anyone, though,” the Sheriff says with a smile, reaching out a hand to help her up. She’s momentarily distracted by how ridiculously good-looking he is – what’s up with this town and all the gorgeous men in it? – before taking his hand and standing up.

“I’ll hold you to that, Sheriff,” she replies with a light laugh. “I’m Lilith, by the way, but you can just call me Lily. Here to take care of some real estate on the island,” she says to them both, shoving her hands into her hoodie pocket.

As they exchanged names – which were Sheriff Hassan, Joe, and his dog Pike – the stern woman from the previous night comes strolling past them. Pike lets out a thunderous bark at her arrival that makes her jump rather comically, then turn to scowl at the men.

“You see? He snapped at me. Snapped right at me, just passing by.”

Joe reaches down to pet his faithful companion. “Pike doesn’t snap. Sometimes barks, mostly just to say hello. He’s just big, is all – sounds bigger than he means to.”

“Snapped. Thought he might have a go at my hand if I reached out. I’m telling you, Sheriff, it’s a menace,” she says indignantly, glaring at the dog peacefully resting by Joe.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Keane, he was just waiting for his dad,” Sheriff Hassan responds, trying to gently defuse the situation.

Ms. Keane begins to mumble something that sounds a lot like "speaking of menace" and sharply glares at Joe, but Lily cuts her off mid-insult.

“He.”

Ms. Keane looks up at her in mild confusion, followed by Sheriff Hassan and Joe.

“I’m sorry? ‘He’, what?” She enquires condescendingly, turning to face Lily now.

“A ‘he’. The dog. You called him ‘it’. I just assumed you didn’t know,” Lily says in a level voice that doesn’t even remotely match the annoyance stirring in the pit of her stomach.

Everyone goes quiet. Ms. Keane opens her mouth and closes it, not sure how to respond, as it wasn’t an outwardly aggressive comment on Lily’s part, but it definitely held an undercurrent of spite.

“Pike works, too. That’s his name,” Lily says with little smile, filling the silence. Ms. Keane’s face turns into something twisted and cruel, her true self rising to the surface rapidly, and then looks to the Sheriff again.

“A menace,” she hisses, then turns on her heel with her nose in the air and takes her leave.

Lily watches her in mild disgust as she walks down the road at a clipped pace, and when she turns to the men, they’re both staring at her with raised eyebrows. Joe has a wide grin on his face, and Sheriff Hassan looks at her in what she can only place as pleasant surprise.

“What? She’s a good Christian woman; she’d never call one of god’s creatures an ‘it’– she just didn’t know. So, I told her,” Lily replies, giving Pike another scritch on his head as he looks up at her with his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth adorably.

“Y’know, dogs can sense evil. That’s what they say, anyway. Kinda’ funny that he doesn’t bark at anyone else, isn’t it?” She says with a chuckle, almost to herself, before remembering the whole reason she was there. “Oh! Sheriff Hassan, I actually came to talk to you. I was told you have a key for me? For the house that’s up for sale?”

Sheriff Hassan looks at her with mild amusement and curiosity, but nods and makes his way down the steps. “Follow me. I’ve got them in the office.”

“Awesome. It’s really nice to meet you, Joe. And you, big boy,” she says, giving Pike a gentle pat upon his head before departing with a smile and a wave. Joe is still looking at her with an openly humored expression, and waves back to her as she follows the Sheriff.

Sheriff Hassan enters a small building next to the general store, ushering her inside, and digs a little key from his pocket to unlock a drawer in his desk.

“Aha, there it is. Easy to remember this one,” he says, handing her a pair of keys that look like they belong to a dungeon door or some haunted castle. She takes them in her hand to study them, and all at once, she feels her heart being squeezed, thinking about how many times her grandfather's hands must’ve used these throughout his life to open that creaking door to that tiny house. Thousands of times. It looked like a skeleton key in a way, unique and old-fashioned, but sturdy and strong. Tears prick the corners of her eyes as she closes the keys in a tight fist. She instantly knows that these will be what she keeps to remember him by. She’ll have new ones made for a new lock before she sells the property.

“I’m – I know how hard it is to lose someone. I’m sorry for what you’re going through right now. I didn’t know him well, but he was always nice to everyone, including me. Never seemed to give a damn what others thought of him, either,” Sheriff Hassan says, smiling at her and resting his hands on his hips.

“They…. well, the people here, they didn’t like him very much, did they? He wasn’t religious. Spiritual without a doubt, but not religious,” She asks, calming herself down and looking up at the Sheriff. He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, averting his eyes, and his expression tells her everything she needs to know.

“Bastards. All of them. ‘God-loving Christians’, my ass,” she mumbles, sniffling a bit to stop her nose from running. “I bet you were nice to him. I’d put money on it. So, thank you for that. It means a lot,” she finishes, her voice cracking on the last few words. She cringes in humiliation, but before she can think too much on it, a warm hand comes to rest upon her shoulder.

When she looks up, she sees the compassion in the man’s eyes. She sees the pain. The loss. A tiny glimpse of the story that is Sheriff Hassan’s life and all that’s lead up to him settling on this isolated little island tucked away from the world.

“It never gets easier. When we lose someone, I mean. We just…get stronger. We have to. You’ll get there, too,” he says kindly, and the way he says it feels so genuine that she can’t help but believe him. She smiles up at him, and he smiles back. An understanding.

“Well, I should probably get going. Have to pick up some food and get ready for the church thingy,” she says while pocketing the keys.

He looks rather surprised but doesn’t say anything. Lily grins at his reaction. “It’s…it’s a long story. Well, not really. I got roped in by the Priest,” she chuckles, feeling her cheeks warm by merely bringing him up in conversation.

“All right. Well, be good, don’t start any brawls or you might end up in jail with only me for company,” he teases with an admittedly beautiful smile.

“We’ll see!” she replies with a laugh as she walks out the door and heads back to the little store beside them.

9 AM comes swiftly and sets her nerves on edge as she quickly realizes she has nothing even remotely appropriate to wear for a church service. She packed for comfort, so most of her shirts have either band names on them or something ironically satanic.

Yeah, that’ll go over smoothly.

She finally unearths a completely plain (hallelujah!) long sleeve black shirt that she’s had since high school that somehow survived the test of time, and a black pleated skirt that falls just above her knees. She yanks a pair of tights on and is relieved to see that they have no holes in them, then throws on her chunky black boots adorned with multiple silver buckles, almost losing her balance and falling in the process.

She runs to the bathroom mirror, swipes on some mascara, tidies up her brows and applies some blush on her rather corpse-like complexion. After a quick spritz of her favorite perfume, she’s raking a brush through her tangled hair and stumbling her way to the front door, her heart beating out of her chest.

This is so stupid. It’s just a church. It’s not a big deal.

She calms herself enough to put her hair in a quick, messy half-up, half-down look. She runs to check on it in the bathroom. Her hair is past her hipbones at this point and she grimaces at how damaged it looks from going so long without a trim, but shrugs and grabs her bag, rushing out the door.

To her horror, she sees that there’s no one left outside of the church, meaning the service had already begun. Meaning she was late. Meaning she’d have to direct every person’s attention towards her when she opened the doors to the tiny church.

Goddammit.

She was about to turn around and head back to her humble abode before the fleeting memory of Father Paul’s delighted smile stops her in her tracks. She might not have agreed to go, but he seemed so excited when she was considering it. He was kind. She could make it through one service, as a ‘thanks’ for his warm welcome.

Fuck it. They’re all just people. Like you. You’ve opened the door to scarier things.

She squares her shoulders and gently opens one of the doors, slipping her way inside without drawing any attention. They’re singing a pretty psalm; one she could swear she’d heard before in her childhood church long ago. There’s a two-person pew to her left, the furthest seats in the house, and she quietly slips her bag off of her shoulders and sits, a rush of relief coursing through her veins.

She grabs a hymnal book from its place in the back of the pew sitting in front of her and begins flipping through the pages. It would feel awkward to be the only person not singing along.

The song finishes and Father Paul takes front and center. Somehow the man has made one of those ridiculous blanket-like Catholic robes look…quite nice, actually. Regal, almost, the rich blue color bringing out his brown eyes and raven hair. If he hadn’t presented himself as such a nice guy, she would be annoyed. It’s hardly fair if he looks good in everything.

It takes him all of 60 seconds to place her in the crowd as he scans the room, almost as if he’s looking for her. He stumbles over a few words from his impassioned sermon when their eyes meet and it makes her heart stutter pleasantly in her chest. She offers him her signature, slightly crooked grin and a discreet nod. He responds with a little smile that warms her from head to toe before jumping back into his sermon with ease.

The end of the service comes quicker than she’d anticipated; it was rather easy to listen to him speak. He had a way of saying things that made even her feel a little spark of inspiration, which was quite a feat considering the topic. One more hymnal is announced before the end, several minutes after Father Paul has taken his leave through the back. As she frantically flips through the pages as the piano begins, a hand gently intervenes from her right and flips to the right page almost instantly.

She startles with a small squeak, barely restraining herself from flinging the book into the rafters, and turns to see Father Paul doing a very poor job of suppressing his amusement.

She tries to glare at him, she really does, but all she can manage to do is clap her hand over her own mouth so she doesn’t burst into laughter during the intro of the song. It’s an actual blessing when the congregation starts singing, giving her the opportunity to duck her head and let out a genuine string of giggles. She pulls it together quickly, taking a deep breath and smashing her lips together to disallow anymore maniac laughter from slipping through.

Father Paul is still singing along with a neutral expression, the only indicator of his own struggle not to lose it himself shown in the very obvious tension of his neck. He must've taken the little book before she'd had the chance to drop it in her laughter, so she gently takes hold of his wrist and guides the hand holding it a bit closer to her so she can sing along.

Her heart just about exits her body when he gently slides it towards her, his right hand completely enveloping hers beneath the book as he secures it in her grasp. He doesn’t instantly pull away and she pretends not to notice. So does he.

He probably doesn’t notice, you wanker.

When he pulls away, his fingertips gently brush across her knuckles, making her clench her jaw in an effort to not react. She scrambles to find where they’re at in the song, and joins in rather ungracefully, hoping her face isn’t reflecting the rush of feelings currently overwhelming her inside.

His singing voice is calm and soothing, much like his personality, but when she joins in, he abruptly stops. It takes her a moment to notice, but when she turns to look up at him in question, she meets him eye to eye. A look of gentle wonder shines within his gaze, momentarily knocking the breath from her lungs. He smiles kindly and nods his head towards the book, encouraging her to keep singing. So she does, despite her cheeks blushing red and her mouth going dry.

Her voice is a bit wobbly at first and her eyebrows crease in the effort to slip back into the song echoing across the little church. She manages to do so, but her hands shake every so often as she sings. She can feel his eyes on her now and again, and it takes an enormous amount of restraint not to drop the book and run. Run from his openly captivated gaze as he listens to her sing. Run from the feeling of pride that fills her at the thought of him liking her voice.

The song comes to a close and she, monumentally relieved it’s over, slaps the book shut crisply, sliding it back into the little shelf on the pew before her. When she turns to attempt a normal conversation with Father Paul, she finds that he’s gone. A wave of relief washes over her, but riding on its coattails is a small jab of betrayal as some members of the church stand and do a double take upon seeing her. She averts her eyes and sits down, feeling smaller and smaller by the minute.

Why did he have to ditch me now of all times?!

As she's debating whether or not to make a break for it while he's gone, he returns with a reassuring smile on his face. He extends his hand to help her up, then reaches behind her to softly press his large hand upon the small of her back, guiding her forward. The warmth of his touch and all of its tenderness, she quickly decides, is worth the glaring awkwardness of the entire situation.

He ushers them both gently to the stairs beneath the altar, as others follow suit without question or fuss. When he leaves her side and takes his place above her, she feels the absence of his touch like a ship's anchor being cut loose. He speaks of Ash Wednesday. She sees Ms. Keane appear to his left, offering him a small trinket containing what he will mark his congregation with. Then she sees a golden goblet, passed reverently into Beverly’s hands.

Panic seizes her heart in a vice grip as she puts two-and-two together.

Wine. It’s fucking wine. How could I forget this part?

Father Paul is already dipping both his pointer and middle finger lightly into the onyx powder, but faulters for a moment when he sees the visceral fear reflected in her green eyes. He gives her a reassuring smile, probably assuming that it’s just nerves causing her to clam up, and places a finger upon her forehead, gently making the sign of the cross.

“Lilith – remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering upon her skin a beat too long as she stares up at him, eyes pleading for him to understand. Beverly holds the drink up and nods her head, summoning Lily to come forward, her lips pursed in obvious disapproval of an outsider taking part in this sacred ritual.

She looks Father Paul dead in the eye, glancing from him to the golden chalice holding a poison more lethal to her than any other, and desperately mouths two words:

I can’t.

He gives her a look of confusion, and it feels as if the church walls are beginning to close in on her. At a complete loss, she lowers her eyes apologetically, shaking her head in defeat.

"Sorry", she whispers so only he can hear her, not bothering to wait for a reply before side-stepping out of the line and making her way down the isle.

She pretends not to notice all of the eyes studying her as she passes by, and desperately hopes no one noticed the odd exchange that's just taken place. Tears tingle behind her eyelids and she, for what feels like the millionth time in her life, feels a stab of jealousy at just how easy it is for everyone else. How harmless.

She pushes the doors open, momentarily blinded by the sunlight illuminating the island, and jogs home, feeling anything but saved.

#midnight mass #father paul #father paul hill #father paul x ofc #father paul hill x ofc #father john pruitt #father john pruitt x ofc #crockett island #ofc: lilith rowan #lilith rowan #ofc #beverly keane #erin greene #joe callie #sheriff hassan #warren flynn #annie flynn #mike flanagan #my writing

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