Chapter 7 Dreamweed #2
“What can we do against such hatred as the terror attack? Against such vitriol that is thrown at us from these secularists? I know it may seem hopeless at times. But fear not. You have more power than you think.” The archbishop’s words, meant to rouse this congregation, seemed to blast a hole in me.
“Our dear brother, Deacon Erik, has bought out several locations that are the most grievous perpetrators of the secular agenda. And he will continue to do so until all those establishments have shuttered their doors.”
Well. That explained what he was doing at Montmartre. Aside from drinking like a fish and enjoying the company of women who were decidedly not his wife. Hypocrite.
“Parents—mothers, fathers,” the archbishop continued, looking into the congregation as he targeted those with young children, “you have the most important job of all. For it is you who will shape the minds of the next generation.”
There was another murmur of agreement from the pews.
“With your guidance, your faith and your absolute authority over your children, you have the power to decide the future of our people. Will you allow your children to become corrupted by the Demon Queen of Hell? Will you stand idly by as they descend into secularism and homosexuality? Would you allow your neighbours to get away with performing witchcraft?”
Murmurs of “no” “not a chance” and “never!” rose up from the crowd.
“So I say, go forth from this church today with renewed fire in your belly, for you are the dagger in the night. You are the arrow of our almighty God. And through you, we can—no, we must—restore the One True Faith to this city of heresy before we fall like a modern-day Sodom. In our Lord’s name, I say, la verita. ”
The crowd murmured back “la verita,” perhaps a little louder now than they had for the call and response songs. He had stirred them. This archbishop with his fiery sermon.
And I wasn’t sure what to think. I knew, with certainty, that the viscount agreed with everything that had been said here today.
He was in absolute alignment with Scion, and his not-so-secret plans had been revealed: he was buying up clubs in the city in order to shut them down.
I wasn’t sure what kind of financial sense that made, but that was between him and his God.
Seff’s true thoughts were more of a mystery to me.
He had never said anything so outwardly venomous.
Well. That wasn’t exactly true, was it? That strange encounter with the tattooed woman on the street—he had said similar things.
We hadn’t exactly had a lot of conversations about the subject at hand.
And I was always so good at changing the subject any time something awkward or uncomfortable came up.
Always steering the conversation away from something that would spark an argument between us.
I had not made my own feelings known either.
But then there was the way he looked at me: like I was worthy of being at his side.
Like I deserved to be loved by someone like him.
Like I belonged somewhere. Our history together.
I had loved the idea of Seff for so long.
I could get along with some differences in beliefs if he would keep looking at me like that, couldn’t I?
Later that evening I found myself walking along a well-worn haunt along the Sequana.
A tempest of thoughts swirled and tumbled through my mind.
From the moment I had unknowingly broken my oath to my mother on the rooftop of Montmartre, to that supremely uncomfortable Mass this morning.
Everything with Seff. Too many things had happened too quickly and I couldn’t process them all.
I had no intended destination, but my feet carried me to the edge of the river, overlooking the north side of the city.
I had a perfect view of that monstrosity of a cathedral as the sun sank below the skyline of the city.
The vast canopy above the buildings exploded into shades of brilliant vermillion, deepening into magenta and cerulean before slipping into an expanse of indigo.
And the wind was chilly but I was wrapped tightly in my heavy wool coat, guarding against its bite.
I leaned on the stone barrier, lost in my swirling thoughts.
“Seraphina, thinking of everything or nothing?” A voice from my right jolted me from my daze. I was pleasantly surprised to see Maren.
“Hello, lovely. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting to see anyone here.
” The tumult of thoughts slipped away as I shook my head, kissing my friend on both cheeks.
I settled back against the barrier. It was good to have Maren here.
She was someone I could confide in—the only person other than Carlotta who could see through my carefully crafted walls.
“What’s on your mind, Fifi?” Maren leaned against the barrier beside me.
She took a small packet from an inner pocket of her coat and began to roll a measured amount of dreamweed into a sepia-coloured paper.
She held the expertly rolled joint between pinched fingers as she struck a match, lit the end and took a deep drag. She offered it to me.
Maren was wound even tighter than I was.
Her nerves had been so bad back in ballet school that they almost prevented her from getting on stage in the final showcase.
When she found that smoking a small amount of dreamweed could help calm those nerves, she became a completely different person.
Confident in a way that I envied—relaxed and settled in her body.
Dreamweed made me into an entirely different person as well, its effects breaking down even my most carefully crafted walls and barriers.
It wasn’t something I was comfortable with most of the time.
I liked my walls and barriers. They kept me safe and secured—to not have control?
To admit thoughts and feelings that I usually kept so close to my chest?
That was terrifying on most days. But tonight, I obliged.
Tonight I could use something to get me out of my mind for once.
I thought of the viscount too. What his reaction would be to finding out I was here smoking the mind-altering substance.
It made my decision that much easier as I grabbed the joint.
“Nothing. Everything. It has been an… interesting couple of days,” I said, letting the dreamweed smoke fill my mouth.
It sharply bit the back of my throat as I took it deep into my lungs, holding it for a beat and letting it billow out into the crisp dusk air.
The herbal taste of the smoke lingered on my tongue.
And even though I couldn’t talk to Maren about the rooftop, even though I couldn’t quite explain the strange swirl of emotion I had felt since singing that night, I could at least talk to her about some of what was bothering me.
“Is it Seff?” Maren cocked her head to the side, looking me over. “Are we feeling conflicted about him?” She took the joint back from me, taking another puff.
“Hmm…” She was perceptive. I hadn’t told her about our fight at Montmartre, but she had picked up on it anyway. I grabbed the dreamweed from Maren and took another long drag.
“Don’t change the subject, Fifi.”
Alas. Maren knew me well. I could feel the effects of the drug take place as my shoulders dropped a bit, and my muscles felt heavier and lighter all at once. I couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped me.
“I’m not changing the subject.” I sighed heavily.
“I don’t know, Maren. I was sure he was the one for me.
But now, I don’t know. Does that make me an awful person?
” The admission slipped out of me as easily as the smoke had, the tight leash I usually kept on my emotions floating away with the smoke on the breeze.
“Why would that make you an awful person?” Maren cocked her head to one side, her short blonde hair flipping over her shoulder.
“Because. Things have… progressed… and… I’m not sure what that means,” I stuttered, beating around the truth of it.
“So does that mean you two finally…?” She raised her eyebrows suggestively.
“We did,” I confirmed, trying not to wince. The barriers were really breaking down now.
“And?”
And indeed. I still hadn’t smoked nearly enough to have that conversation. “I don’t know what you’re asking me.” I giggled.
“Okay, fine. Prude.” Maren elbowed me playfully, taking one more pull and putting out the joint. We stood in silence for a moment, staring out over the Sequana.
“He brought me to church this morning. After,” I admitted to the darkening sky, not daring a glance at my friend.
Maren blew out a cloud of smoke. “That is a… bold choice,” she said diplomatically. Maren of all people would understand my ambivalence about the Church. Her brothers had both fought on the side of the resistance.
“His father hates me.” It was another admission—the things I would never usually say out loud—borne on the winds of the dreamweed smoke.
“I’ve heard his father hates everything. And everyone,” Maren offered, “but I can see how that would make things complicated.”
“Do you think I’m crazy for even thinking about pursuing this? With Seff?” My mind was pleasantly numb, all the buzzing thoughts quieted down as the dreamweed took effect.
“I think we can’t always choose what our hearts want. If this is what your heart wants, then no, I don’t think you’re crazy,” Maren said wisely. “Is it? What your heart wants?”
“I don’t know.”
It was the most truthful I’d been in days.
“Well, then I think you need to figure that out. Sooner than later, Fifi.” Maren smiled her warm smile and put an arm around my shoulders. I just giggled in response, I couldn’t help it.