A Whisper of Bells and Prayers

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Mirela

Every day, Mirela rang the cathedral’s bells, fulfilling her duty to a God she secretly despised.

From her high tower, she bore witness to His negligence.

She watched the devout kneel until their knees bruised against the cold stone, their tears glimmering in the church’s candlelight, their prayers rising in trembling tongues.

They begged for miracle cures, for fertile fields, for mercy upon their children and their dead.

Some sought forgiveness for sins they whispered only to Him, crimes against others, against themselves.

And though they prayed, He never listened.

But she did.

From her perch among the bells, Mirela saw it all. She saw the doors open and close like a mouth swallowing sorrow. She saw trembling hands caress the marble saints she scrubbed clean by night. She saw faith crack beneath desperation.

They believed He was watching.

They were wrong.

It was her eyes that followed them, her heart that tightened with every sob. The grief that climbed the walls of the cathedral settled inside her chest, choking her until she had to turn away.

Mirela buried the need to descend, to gather the mourners into her arms, to give them the solace they prayed for. Instead, she clung to the rafters in silence until the last cry faded, then crept back to her tower cell, barefoot against the cold stones.

The air was thick with incense and dust. Pigeons roosted in the beams, and their droppings stained her skirts no matter how often she scrubbed. She was used to the stink of devotion and the heaviness of the holy.

Her chamber was a narrow tomb of straw and candle stubs. The walls were littered with drawings of the perishers, the saints, the townsfolk she saw from the bell tower.

She waited there for him. Judge Claude Ferron… Her master, her keeper. She waited for the sound of his steps on the creak of the stairs.

When Master Ferron arrived, he brought food, water, candles, and clothes. He called her his child, his little miracle. All he asked of her was that she stay in the bell tower.

Sometimes he came angry, his voice thick with the weight of sin and sleeplessness. He never struck her, but his hands were more rough than gentle when he spoke to her. Other times, he was tender, brushing a hand over her hair, pressing a kiss to her brow, speaking of God’s grace.

Mirela never knew which man would climb those steps each visit. Both terrified her.

Still, she told herself he was a good man. The only one she knew. When her father had thrown her into the night, Ferron had taken her in. He fed her, clothed her, gave her a home when no one else would. Even a creature as ruined as she had been given purpose.

What more could she ask for?

She tolled the bells. She cleaned the floors. She stayed hidden. That was all he required, and all she knew in her twenty years of life. She had tried to obey, but loneliness hurt her inside far worse than hunger.

Today, as the wood floor creaked, Mirela hoped that it was one of those good days.

As the steps got closer, Mirela’s entire body froze.

The steps were subtle, but she knew them instantly as she had grown used to hearing their approach.

Her spine straightened, breath catching in her throat as she turned toward the door.

She wiped her hands on her pants, though they were already clean and stood where she knew he preferred her to be.

The door opened without a warning and Judge Claude Ferron entered the chamber as if the entire cathedral belonged to him.

He was tall with broad shoulders. His dark robes were always immaculate. His hair was threaded with silver at the temples, giving him a false softness of old age and wisdom. His eyes were sharp and restless as they scanned the room, as if looking for flaws.

In the quietness of it all, his gaze landed on the walls. Taking in Mirela’s drawings, Ferron released a disapproving sigh.

“How many times have I told you not to waste your time like this,” Ferron said, his voice cold, yet not angered. Maybe today was a good day after all.

“I—“ She swallowed. “I finished my duties, Master. The bells rang on time. The floors are clean.”

He approached the wall, lifting the sheet of charcoal from its nail. He grabbed a specific one of a pigeon she had seen the other day. She had liked how that one drawing turned out. She was thinking of gifting it to him in the hopes he would accept it.

Just as she was about to stand up straight and take the drawing form the wall he turned once more to the side and noticed another drawing, this one was of a couple dancing.

His entire demeanor changed. A growl surfaced from his chest and Mirela lowered herself back to the ground, making herself small.

Ferron took the drawing, studied it in silence for a beat or two and then tore it in half.

Mirela flinched away.

“This,” he said, dropping the ruined paper at her feet, “is indulgence. You look down upon the world too long, and you begin to crave it.”

“I do not crave it,” she whispered quickly, shaking her head, trying not to lock eyes with him.

But she noticed when Ferron turned on her. She raised her gaze only to find that his expression shifted from anger to disappointment.

“Do not lie to me,” he said. “I rescued you from fire. And this is how you repay God’s mercy?”

Her chest tightened. “I am grateful,” she said at once.

“I pray every night. I thank Him. I thank you.” She lied.

She didn’t pray. She couldn’t bring herself to thank a God that kept her locked in, that kept her at the mercy of a man, that didn’t give her the emotional strength to leave… to walk out… to live.

Ferron was pleased with her words. The change was both immediate and terrifying.

He stepped closer, his hand lifting to smooth her hair back from her face. His touch lingered a little too long as his fingers brushed the edge of her scarred skin.

“My little miracle,” he murmured. “You are so easily led astray.” He got closer, close enough to press a kiss to her brow.

Mirela stood perfectly still, eyes fixed on the stone floor.

“You must remember your place,” he continued gently. “The world below is not meant for you. You were spared for a reason.”

His grip tightened on her shoulder, just enough to remind her that mercy was conditional.

“You belong here,” he said. “With me. Watching. Repenting. Being useful.”

“Yes, Master,” she breathed.

Ferron released her and turned away, ignoring the fact that she had once more, frozen in fear of even breathing. He paused at the door, glancing back once more.

“You are safe because I allow it,” he said. “Never forget that.”

Mirela nodded as the door closed. She sank slowly to the floor, her knees giving out beneath her.

When he left, silence claimed her again. It pressed against her ribs until she whispered to the stones just to hear a voice. She spoke to herself, to the saints, the pigeons, the gargoyles…

From the rafters, she listened to the prayers of others and learned their words. She mimicked the priests’ readings, the nuns’ lessons to the children. Her voice became an echo of the world she’d never touched, only saw from the edges of the outside of the bell tower.

Sometimes she dreamed of stepping beyond the cathedral doors. She imagined sunlight not filtered through stained glass, wind not tainted by incense, faces not twisted by pity. But she never dared.

Ferron said the world would judge her, mock her, recoil at her scars. The right side of her body bore the marks of fire, the cruel baptism that had stolen her mother and half her sight. He told her to stay in the tower where no one would harm her, and she believed him.

Until belief began to crack.

Until the ache to see the world outweighed the fear of it.

Her only comfort in the growing loneliness was the choir. Their hymns rose like the doves through the rafters, filling the hollow air with something beautiful. She would close her eyes and let the voices carry her where her feet could not go.

One morning, as sunlight touched the spires and her stomach knotted from hunger, Mirela heard a new voice among them.

It was defiant, and heartbreakingly human.

It was the sound of her.