Chapter Thirty-Three
Theodore
Ihad hoped by visiting Sainte-Falaise so late in the evening, that I might avoid any unwanted questions or interrogations.
It has only been a handful of weeks since Fitzwilliam’s death, but it is no secret around the village that we have never gotten along.
My father told me his body was found in the woods, eaten by wild animals, judging by the teeth and claw marks.
Even with that, and Mr. Allard’s assurances that the constable did not believe me responsible, I am sure there are rumors abound.
If not for my father, I’d be happy to never visit this blasted place again. I’d be happy to leave it behind entirely, nothing but a nightmare locked away behind dusty boxes and rusted doors.
But Sainte-Falaise will always be a scar, and no matter how hard I try to cover it up, the wound is carved down to my marrow. There is no escaping, not for sinners like me.
"Theodora, a word?"
The voice has me tensing immediately, a phantom pain flaring between my shoulder blades and in my throat.
For a moment I consider ignoring it, continuing down the path to where my horse awaits, and riding home without giving him an ounce of my attention.
But it feels cowardly, all too much like running away.
And I’m tired. I don’t want to run anymore.
I remind myself that I was born with a mouth full of teeth, and though they clench in fear as I turn to face the monster under my bed, they are sharp, and they are hungry.
"Father Thompson," I greet with a polite smile.
His lips turn down in self-righteous disappointment, and I swallow the bile swimming in the back of my throat as I adjust the garment boxes in my arms. "I am sorry, but I don't have time to talk. We have guests arriving tomorrow, and I need to return to the chateau with Lady Alilovi?’s gown for the evening and help the steward prepare a room—"
"You've not been to confession in quite some time," the father interrupts. His voice is an old, craggily thing that makes my fingers tense around my boxes on instinct, memories flooding my mind before I’ve a chance to fight them back.
Hands holding me down as holy water floods my throat. The scorching pain as he presses his crucifix between my shoulder blades. The scent of burning skin as the sound of his chanting is buried beneath the echo of my screams.
No. I close my eyes and take a breath. Shoving the memories down as far as they will go. I am not rotten. God has no say in how I live anymore. Father Thompson has no power over me.
"My apologies," I tell the father. "I've been rather busy with work, I'm afraid. I have taken counsel with the Lord in private when I'm able, but finding time to visit the church has been difficult."
It's not entirely a lie, as I do still find myself praying to the god I hope watches over me. The god I hope loves me. But I know now that I will not find that god in the church, nor in confessions.
Father Thompson does not look mollified, though he so rarely is. Sometimes I wonder which of us is hungrier: the beast in me that craves the taste of flesh and blood, or the beast in him that craves the violence of holy retribution.
"My girl, I'm worried about you. I've expressed my concerns with your father, and yet he has rebuffed me as well.
" The man takes a step forward, a twisted mockery of concern on his face.
I might have believed it once, but I can see the malice beneath it now.
"You were doing so well, and yet I fear you have lost your way completely now.
That woman on the mountain, she corrupts you.
You are blinded by her temptations, and I fear what she has made you do. "
He does not say so, but I cannot help thinking he means Fitzwilliam. If there is anyone in Sainte-Falaise who would remain steadfast in his belief that I am responsible, it would be Father Thompson.
I have no doubt that the father might think he means well. He may not be a kind man, or a generous one, but he does what he thinks is right for the souls of his parish. I cannot begrudge him that.
It’s only that I have never been considered one of his, nor someone to him that even had a soul. Father Thompson has always looked at me with the eyes of a cat set loose in a rodent-infested cellar, and he God’s righteous exterminator. Not as a soul to be saved, but a demon to be expelled.
"With respect, Father, I think both of us know I do not belong within your flock.
" I try to straighten my shoulders, try not to show how terribly my hands are shaking.
The day is dwindling, and while the streets are not busy, they are not empty either.
The people of this village may not like me, but Father Thompson cares entirely too much about his reputation to do something drastic in the public eye.
There is confidence to be drawn in that knowledge.
"And I am not your girl. Please refrain from calling me such. "
I turn to leave before he can say anything else, but a surprisingly strong grip wraps around my wrist and pulls me to a stop.
I just barely manage to keep the stack of boxes in my arms from tumbling to the ground, and when bile swims in my throat again, I have half a mind to expel it upon him in the hopes of staining his robes.
"You are the Devil's child," he says when I try to pull away. His grip bruises my skin, the beads of the rosary wrapped around his frail hand dig into the bones of my wrist. "God can see your sins, even if others do not. God sees them, and you will burn for them."
Which sins? I want to ask him, but I bite my lip to hold the question back.
Already, I know he has won. The simple pain of his touch is enough to send my mind reeling, pitching and swirling back into the despair of my childhood where that same hand caused so much damage. To my skin. To my mind. To my soul.
"Theo? Are you alright?"
A shock of blonde hair appears at my side, a familiar weight settling on my shoulder. I do not have to look to recognize the voice, but I do anyway, drawing strength from the genuine concern I find in those sea-green eyes.
Louis.
Father Thompson does not sneer at the younger man, but it is a close thing. His grip tightens as if worried I might slip away with the distraction. "This is none of your concern, Louis Fortue. I am simply giving the young Miss Villin some counsel."
Louis smiles, and for a moment I fear he'll leave me here, too trusting and sweet and kind for his own good.
But he doesn't. Instead, he pulls me back by the shoulder and slowly dislodges the father's hand from my wrist. "I think perhaps Mister Villin has had enough of your counsel for the time being. Have a good day, Father."
The older man blinks at him in surprise, unused to Louis speaking against anyone, especially on my behalf. “You would forsake the Church to protect a sinner such as her?”
“We are all born with sin, Father,” Louis tells him seriously, tugging me behind him like a shield.
“Theo has been paying for that sin his entire life. I think if anyone could earn God’s love and respect, it would be the person who fights so hard for it, despite the difficulties thrown at him over and over again. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“You are making a mistake,” he says, his gaze falling on me once more. “You cannot escape your sins, child. God will always find you.”
Louis doesn't respond before turning and leading me away. Father Thompson does not reach for me again.
"That was a foolish thing to do," I scold him once we've reached my horse. Louis takes the packages from me and begins to tuck them into the saddlebags, the ones too big, he ties to the side. "Father Thompson will make an enemy of you to the others. You shouldn't have done that, not for me."
I'm not worth it, remained unsaid between us. I can't love you like you want.
He turns that pretty smile to me, but it's smaller than usual. Weaker. Like a fragile thing he's broken and stitched back together.
"Then a fool I will be, because I cannot look at you and see the monster he tells us you are.
We are all sinners in the eyes of God. We must all repent.
Yet you have been made to do so for so long.
.." He pauses, swallows. The setting sun shines across his sharp jaw in a way I find myself jealous of.
"You are different, Theo, but that does not make you wrong.
I am sorry it took me so long to realize that.
I am sorry that I still... that I still don't understand, but I know that you do not deserve what this village has put you through. "
He raises a hand to brush across the scar on my cheek that his friends left there.
His touch doesn't make me recoil like Father Thompson’s did, but neither do I lean into it anymore.
We are no longer the young, silly boys we once were.
We have grown, and it is a colder, bloodier touch that I crave now, no matter how terrible that thought should be.
"I'm leaving Sainte-Falaise," he says finally, dropping his hand back to his side as he shuffles on work-worn boots. "I've been accepted into a university in the north on scholarship and will be leaving come the end of the month."
That shocks me. Louis has always had the air of someone who loved his home, of someone who was perfectly content to live here for the rest of his life, to die here even. He and his mother have always felt connected to this village in a way I never have.
Still, I tell him I am happy for him, because I am. People say this village is a cursed one that breeds madness. I have not seen proof of that outside of myself and Kolfina, but nevertheless, I am happy to see him go.
"I think it would do well for me to see what the rest of the world has to offer," he continues with a knowing grin, something unspoken between us that we both can hear and yet have never acknowledged. "Perhaps I will meet more people like you, or like... like, us."