ALLOW ME TO INTRODUCE MYSELF
The girls hadn’t lied when they said they wanted to start attending Sunday Mass more regularly.
I’d had no reason to doubt them, not when their conviction made me feel like I was the one hesitating without cause.
Still, they hadn’t set foot inside St. Ann’s until a few weeks ago, and I wasn’t sure if the promise was meant to last or just said in passing.
And yet, there I was, making my way up the cathedral steps with a strange, unfamiliar eagerness.
Either way, I walked toward my usual pew with a flutter in my chest that felt dangerously close to hope.
Only . . . it was occupied. Three women sat there, immaculately dressed and draped in silk, perfume, and menace.
They looked like temptation stitched into flesh, and they were sitting in my spot.
A slow, wicked smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.
Oh, they weren’t just making good on their word, they were making a spectacle.
And if the congregation hadn’t noticed them before, they certainly did now.
The irony was as thick as the incense in the air: the same men who dropped folded bills into the collection tray every Sunday, now kneeling beside the very women they’d paid to sin with the night before.
I nearly laughed aloud. Three whores walk into a church, a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette.
I sauntered toward them, a sugary smile in place. “My darlings,” I sang, arms wide like I’d stumbled upon old friends in a foreign land. They rose to greet me with matching grins.
“Told you we’d keep our word,” Elona reminded me, her voice all confidence. “Regular Mass attendance. Starting today.”
Maeve flicked her fan in a way that could rival any duchess in Versailles and added, “Last time was such a treat, I do hope this morning offers similar delights.” She waved her fan toward me in a lazy, yet deliberate motion, sending a soft breeze past my cheek.
I settled beside Violet, her lace-trimmed gloves pristine and perfectly fitted.
She shifted gracefully, giving me room without needing to be asked.
I patted her hand, and she smiled; behind that composed expression, I caught the familiar glint, the quiet spark of devilry that always lingered just beneath the surface.
The opening chords of the piano swept through the cathedral, silencing idle chatter and curious whispers.
I welcomed the ritual of it, but the comfort was short-lived.
Because it wasn’t Father Cyrus at the altar .
. . it was a stranger. He was young, collar crisp, standing at the podium with a confidence that belonged more in a courtroom than a cathedral.
But beads of sweat dotted his brow, betraying the nerves he tried to hide.
“Brothers and sisters,” he boomed, far too loud for a room built on solemnity, “I am Father Frederick, and it is my great pleasure to lead you in Mass this fine Sunday.”
The shift in the room was immediate; a ripple of unease rolled through the pews. This congregation ran on tradition, and change, even in cassock form, did not go unnoticed.
Maeve leaned toward Violet, voice low and lethal. “Ah, the dramatics of men who think they’re the main act.”
Violet clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders trembling as she fought, and failed, to smother a laugh.
I bit the inside of my cheek, keeping my gaze fixed on the stranger as he recited his prayers in a practiced cadence, like a man who’d memorized them in a mirror and paused between verses just long enough to admire himself.
“I praise You for fresh starts and new beginnings,” he intoned. “Your mercies are new every day . . .”
Maeve rolled her eyes, her voice dropping just enough to slide beneath the noise of the room. “Save us from the theatrics,” she murmured, barely louder than a breath. “Fierce talk for a man who’d come undone at the first real touch, I’d wager.”
Another muffled laugh slipped from Violet, Elona quickly following suit, and my ribs ached with the strain of holding mine in. Where the hell was Father Cyrus?
The man continued, sounding heavy-handed and over-enunciated. A sermon dressed in costume. He spoke of redemption, hammering the word into every sentence like it might summon salvation through sheer repetition. Redemption through repentance. Redemption through discipline. Redemption through denial.
It was all very performative, every phrase neatly polished, delivered like a script he didn’t quite believe but desperately wanted us to.
I could feel Maeve practically vibrating beside me, her patience fraying with every pious proclamation.
Violet’s shoulders trembled again, this time not from laughter but from holding it all in.
Finally, as the congregation echoed a polite, restrained "amen", the church doors creaked open, and there he was: Father Cyrus.
He entered with the unbothered grace of a man who’d walked into hundreds of rooms filled with quiet chaos and claimed them as his own.
The tension melted at the edges of the congregation.
His presence didn’t demand calm, it invited it.
He made his way to the front, nodding to Father Frederick with a warmth that felt like a curtain being drawn open.
“My dear brothers and sisters,” he said, his tone rich, “forgive my absence. I thought it fitting to let Father Frederick introduce himself and lead this morning.”
A nervous chuckle slipped from somewhere in the back—whether at the performance, or the quiet relief of Father Cyrus’s presence, I couldn’t tell.
Father Cyrus raised his hand gently, and the murmurs fell away. “Change, even when well-meaning, often arrives before we’re ready to receive it,” he said, his voice even but unmistakably resonant. “And yet, what is faith, if not a daily practice of welcoming the unknown with grace?”
His gaze swept over the congregation. “We gather here each week, not because we are already whole, but because we are trying to be. Trying to do better, to be better, for ourselves, for our neighbors, and for the God who sees us as we are, not as we pretend to be. We are not perfect, but we are present.”
A pause, a breath, not one soul shifted in their seat.
“Let us be patient with newcomers, let us be kind with change, and let us never forget that even those who wander the farthest are not beyond the reach of mercy.” He offered a final, quiet nod.
“Peace be with you all.” And then he stepped back, letting the quiet reclaim the space with no fanfare or flourish.
Just truth, spoken plainly. As the congregation began to disperse, the girls and I lingered.
“Bernadette.” I heard my name, spoken by a familiar voice.
I turned, my smile starting to form before fully facing him. “Father Cyrus,” I replied, his name a quiet joy on my tongue.
He gestured toward the younger man beside him. “I’d like you to meet Father Frederick.”
I extended my hand. “Lovely to meet you, Father.”
He took it, firm and practiced. “The pleasure is mine . . . Bernadette, was it?” His gaze swept to the others, lingering an extra beat on Violet.
I saw it, the admiration, that spark of curiosity men get when they see something they want but know they shouldn’t.
Typical. Still, he masked it well, and when Father Cyrus asked if we’d enjoyed the sermon, I smiled sweetly. “Oh, it was quite . . . memorable.”
Maeve made a noise in her throat. “Bit much, if you ask me.”
I gave her a look, somewhere between warning and affection, and held it a moment longer, as if to remind her just how serious I was.
She met it without flinching, unbothered, maybe even a little amused.
Father Cyrus laughed, clearly entertained, but poor Father Frederick looked like a boy who’d wandered into the wrong saloon.
Elona, bless her, chose that moment to drop the match into the tinder.
“Well, at least the good Father gave the town something new to whisper about besides the whores in the back pew.”
Violet added, her smile sugar and sin, “Who’d have thought we’d ever get this far?”
I turned back to Father Frederick and decided to twist the knife, just a little. “You’ll have to forgive us, Father. We joke about being whores because, well . . . we are. I own a brothel.”
His eyes widened, disbelief momentarily breaking through.
His jaw didn’t quite drop, but it twitched, a subtle betrayal of the shock he tried hard to mask.
Father Cyrus stepped in, gentle as ever, and explained my history and my so-called “community contributions.” I gave him a silent 'thank-you'. No need to push the poor new priest off the edge. Still, I wasn’t done with him. “So,” I asked, changing gears, “what brings you to Butte, Father Frederick? I assume it’s more than just shadowing our dear Father Cyrus.”
He glanced away, brushing over it quickly. “Think of it like an internship,” he voiced. “Father Cyrus is letting me learn from him before I move on to St. Patrick’s in Arizona.”
“You’re not staying, then?” I asked, a note of sincerity slipping in beneath the curiosity.
“No, ma’am. But I’m grateful for the time here.”
I gave a small nod. That was enough for now.
“Well,” I chimed, turning to the girls with a subtle flick of my wrist, “it was lovely to meet you, Father Frederick. Father Cyrus, I look forward to your next sermon.” We swept past them, the soft rustle of skirts and quickened steps echoing off the polished floorboards as we made our way down the aisle.
The voices of the few remaining parishioners faded behind us, swallowed by the heavy wooden doors just ahead.
“Until next time, Birdie,” Father Cyrus called out.
“Try not to miss me too much, old man,” I called back over my shoulder, just loud enough for him to hear. He chuckled, low and genuine, the sound following me as the doors closed.