Chapter 10 Ezra
EZRA
Isit in my chair by the fireplace, the mottling flames sending shadows pirouetting across the walls.
The scent of bourbon clings to the empty glass on the table beside me as I watch Avalynne sleep.
She's curled on a nest of blankets in front of the fire, her arms around her middle and her face as pale as I've ever seen it.
Damp tendrils of reddish-gold hair halo her face and plaster her water-slicked cheeks, but at least she's no longer shivering—thank God.
Her features stiffen for a moment, and she whimpers in her dreams. The pitiful sound sends a fresh torrent of anger charging through me.
What in God's name happened to her?
I don't need to wake her to know where she's been, though. Xade and her both reeked of incense, and there's only one place besides the church where it would be burned.
The baptismal chamber.
But that area of the convent hasn't been used in years, and it shouldn't have been in use today.
It's holy ground, reserved for rare ceremonies established over a hundred years ago by the Monastic Sisters of Saint Margaret's.
The old rituals are meant to cleanse, but whatever Georgina did to the girl is a perversion of everything holy.
The old woman unleashed hell on something meant for heaven.
The girl still wears her white nun's habit, but the attire is haphazard at best and a mockery of God at worst. Regardless of what her grandfather requires, she has no right to wear a habit and veil, even if it is only the apostate's uniform.
Avalynne didn't choose a life in service to our Lord.
She didn't take her vows or forgo all worldly possessions.
She shouldn't be here laying in my office dressed like that.
Every sister at Saint Margaret's is given a Benedictine black habit and veil upon taking their solemn vows.
As it has been since the founding of the convent, only apostates, those troubled souls who leave the order and later attempt to return, wear white.
That's because white is the antithesis of black and where a professed nun accepts God's light, an apostate rejects it.
The acrid burn of vespers clings to her like the smears of dirt dotting her pale shins. The collar lies crooked on her neck, and her skirt knots awkwardly around her knees.
The sight is … immoral. I reach for scripture.
Submit yourselves, then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.—James 4:7.
It doesn't help, and I try to distract myself, inspecting the mug of now cold tea sitting next to my empty liquor glass.
I've remade the tea twice while waiting for Avalynne to awake, and it's time to remake it again.
I figure it's the least I can do, though, after whatever Georgina put her through.
I watch her as her fingers comb across the blanket and onto the rug like she's searching for comfort in her sleep. My fingers curl into my palms as I fight the urge to reach down and grab hold of her hand.
What is wrong with me?
I have no business holding any part of her.
I thought I was hallucinating when Xade burst through the chapel doors this evening. Seeing her in his arms, soaked to the bone and unconscious—something withered inside me. I still feel it now, gasping for air in its death throes.
It feels like my conviction taking its last rites.
Guilt takes its place.
Guilt for the way the girl's been treated and the way she will continue to be, per her grandfather's instructions.
And guilt for not doing more to prevent whatever hell Georgina unleashed upon her.
But especially guilt for caring for her the way I do … the way I shouldn't.
She is a patron of this convent, entrusted to the care of Saint Margaret's, and I am a priest.
Her priest.
I took my vows. I chose to devote my life to God when I had every right to curse his name. I chose to accept his calling to better the world. Yet, a demon in my ear whispers that my calling is a noose cinching around my throat.
As a boy, I would kneel at the foot of my bed and pray for God's help. Back then, it wasn't faith that brought me to our Creator but desperation.
As I got older, though, my faith became my refuge.
In confession, I found absolution. In the Eucharist, I found belonging. And in ordination, I found purpose. Yet, cracks now splinter my pillars of belief.
It makes me … nervous. I find a measure of solace in another verse.
No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear … —1 Corinthians 10:13.
The girl stirs in her sleep, and her breath hitches.
My eyes linger on the delicate curve of her cheek and the primrose-colored pout of her lips.
I shouldn't let my gaze stray to the gentle rise and fall of her chest and the fragile way her hands curl around the blanket, but I can't seem to help myself.
Something is wrong with me. I know it's not lust—not entirely.
This is something … different, something more insidious to my faith.
There's a need growing inside of me, and it wants to protect her, to hold her close, to shield her.
It makes me wonder if I mistook the strength of my conviction for certainty.
This insanity has to stop.
You are losing yourself, Ezra!
The girl stirs again, a faint sound escaping her lips, and I move without thinking, leaning down to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. Her skin is cool beneath my fingertips and impossibly soft, and for a moment, I forget myself.
The world narrows to the singular point of contact and her mesmerizing flesh.
It's intoxicating, the way she draws me in, and I lean closer before I pull my hand back quickly.
My mind returns to the words I spoke at my ordination, the promises I made before God. I swore my life to Him, to forgo all earthly attachments, to serve and not be served.
My unbreakable vows threaten to crumble.
How did I let this happen?
This girl unravels something within me.
She has become the fault line in the foundation of my faith.
Damn the Devil and his temptation.
I hear the soft thud of the front door of the church closing, and reluctantly, I pull away from the angel asleep on the floor and walk to the door. It's probably Xade back from murdering Georgina—he certainly looked like he was going to earlier.
Part of me hopes he does it, but then again, priests aren't supposed to hope holy mothers are put to death.
I slip out into the hallway, closing the door behind me and walk through the cavernous rectory and, finally, into the cathedral.
It's not Xade who waits for me, though. In front of the expanse of pews, I find Georgina, her back to me as she lights a candle at the altar.
She turns toward me, candlelight carving her wrinkles deeper into her flesh.
She blows out the lighting stick she used to light the candle and discards it before clasping her hands in front of her middle.
"Father …" she begins with a tight-lipped smile.
"What did you do to the girl, Georgina?" The question comes out sharper than I intended. I nearly wince.
How very unlike me. I don't lose my cool.
Sad.
Mad.
Disappointed.
It makes no difference. I always maintain my composure, except now when Georgina harmed … my little dove.
Damn it all.
Georgina raises an eyebrow, clearly as surprised at my tone as I am.
"Only what needed to be done, Father," she remarks smoothly. "Ms. Immorier has an unbridled spirit. We have a duty as the patrons of this convent …"
"Spare me the sanctimony, Georgina," I snap.
"That girl attempted to reach her grandfather," she chides. "She must fall in line. She must be set on the path of righteousness. Marcus Immorier has made it explicitly clear that he will close the doors to Saint Margaret's if we fail in redeeming his granddaughter."
"For God's sake, stop with the excuses! You almost killed her!" I bellow, aching helplessness gnawing at my ribs.
A flicker of something crosses Georgina's face—irritation, perhaps. Her mask slips just a little, revealing the anger hidden beneath her composure.
"I am only performing my godly duties, Father," she insists. "Those entrusted to me as the matriarch of this convent."
"Godly duties?" I spit the words. "You're blinded by revenge in your old age."
"If she would conform, if she would simply comply, then her grandfather would be appeased, and these measures would not be necessary. I take no pleasure in baptizing the—"
The restraint I usually carry implodes.
"You should be baptized yourself for what you've done!"
Georgina's expression tightens, her lips thinning, and I realize I've struck a nerve.
"I only do what is necessary to protect everything we have worked for! Or have you so easily forgotten those who rely on us?"
Her words twist my guts into knots.
"That's enough!" I never raise my voice—not like this. But Georgina has crossed a line, and I can't let it go unanswered. "You will not touch her again, Georgina. You will not lay a finger on that girl. You believe you guard the gates of heaven, but you build the damned walls to hell!"
"Until we can have a conversation about the girl," she remarks, her words icy, "I will bid you goodnight, Father Damienne."
Then she turns and walks out of the chapel. As I watch her disappear, I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose, trying to quell the headache that has taken root there.
It doesn't matter what Georgina says or how she justifies it.
I won't let her touch Avalynne again.