Chapter 19 Avalynne
AVALYNNE
Isit in the chapel beneath straight rows of pendant lights hanging from the arched ceiling, casting elongated shadows that dance across the stone floor.
Stained-glass windows stretch tall on either side of the pews, their colors muted by the dim light.
As always, the air hangs thick with wisps of white smoke from the candles near the altar.
I sit alone, silence enveloping the space, and I close my eyes and let the stillness wash over me.
True to his word, Father Ezra made sure I wasn't punished for my tardiness earlier in the week, but I still feel like I'm bound to the guillotine, waiting for the executioner's blade to drop at any moment.
Clad in an austere black shirt and matching pants, Father enters from the rear of the church, the door closing heavily behind him. At the sound, I open my eyes and watch from the first pew as he prepares the communion for tonight's service.
As has become our custom, I sit in the chapel as he completes his pastoral duties. Sometimes, we speak. Often, we don't. When he asks for my help, I assist him, handing him the items he needs and ensuring everything is in its proper place.
"Avalynne, would you get a pall from the aumbry in the back?" He looks up from the altar at me.
What did he just say? I blink.
"The pall is the square cloth used to cover the chalice," he explains patiently. "The aumbry is the recessed cupboard in the left corner. It's used by a church to store items related to the Eucharist."
"Gotcha," I say, pressing my hands to my knees and standing.
I start out of the pew and pass the altar, veering to the left to a closed wooden door at the back of the chapel.
"No!" he nearly shouts behind me.
I freeze and turn toward him. He's stopped his preparations at the altar.
"That door leads to the crypt," he explains. "It is strictly off-limits. The aumbry is the other way, in the rectory." He cocks his head to a door in the opposite direction.
"Oops. Sorry," I say, starting that way.
"It's okay." He holds up a piece of linen. "I found one anyway."
I sit back down on the front pew and watch him work.
He moves from one task to the next, focused on preparations for Communion.
He picks up the silver paten, the metal gleaming under the light, and carefully sets it down on the altar, meticulously arranging thin wafers, the body of Christ. Then, lifting the paten, he recites the Eucharist.
"Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation," he says, his eyes closing with his words, "for through your goodness we have received the bread we offer you: fruit of the earth and work of human hands, it will become for us the bread of life."
I listen as his voice, deep and low, rumbles through the sanctuary. He sets the wafers to the side, the faint clink of the paten against the wood sounding musical in the quiet. Next, he prepares the wine, pouring it into the metal chalice and adding holy water.
"Blessed are you, Lord God of all creation," he continues, "for through your goodness we have received the wine we offer you: fruit of the vine and work of human hands, it will become our spiritual drink."
The sweet aroma of the mixture wafts over me as he covers the chalice with a Lavabo towel, the white fabric embroidered with a golden cross.
"Avalynne," Father Ezra's voice breaks our silence as he looks down from the altar at me, his eyes turning dark in the shadows. "Would you like communion now? It might bring you peace."
I hesitate.
"I don't know if anything will bring me peace," I say, half-joking.
His blank expression tells me he doesn't think it's funny.
"Come here," he encourages, reaching to the pulpit for his white-and-gold chasuble and matching stole. He dons both quickly.
"Approach the altar," he tells me.
"Do I have to?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Do you wish to be allowed to hide in my chapel from Reverend Mother?"
I'm pretty sure he's teasing me—that he wouldn't actually kick me out—but I rise to my feet just in case. Communion is a small price to pay for my slice of freedom when I'm in the church. Father smiles as I approach the altar, and it does things it shouldn't to my fickle heart.
He's a priest, Avalynne!
Rain begins to fall outside, dinging against the windows as I stride forward, my habit skirting the floor, and stop in front of him.
I bow my head as I'm supposed to, but I think even if it wasn't required, I would anyway.
At this angle and with him still standing behind the altar, he's nearly a foot above me, and the sight of him, the large crucifix suspended high on the wall behind him, demands respect.
The son of God looks down at us both and bleeds painted sanguine droplets across its carved face. Candlelight gleams across its beady eyes and weaves around Father Ezra, bathing him in a halo of gold and turning him ethereal.
My fickle heart trips in its rhythm. He's imposing, breathtaking … perfectly transcendent.
Isabella would laugh and say I am so spectacularly screwed. I worry she'd be right.
Stepping around the altar, Father murmurs blessings before signing the cross over my forehead, the pad of his thumb so close it nearly brushes across my skin. He doesn't even have to touch me to ignite a kindling across my flesh.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," he intones, his words edged with something dark and rough, like they scraped their way out of his throat.
Something shifts between us, and my quickening breaths sound in a short staccato.
He has to hear it, too. It's all I can hear as the thing tying an invisible string between us singes the air and scorches my skin.
He must feel it, that inexplicable force drawing us closer together, because when I lift my gaze back to him, his lips part, letting candlelight gleam across his teeth.
He swallows as rain falls even heavier outside. Then he turns and carefully picks up the plate of wafers from the altar. He lifts his hand, offering a wafer to me.
"The body of Christ," Father Ezra intones.
I open my mouth, and his gaze dips from my eyes to my tongue. His white collar moves with another swallow as he places the wafer in my mouth, his fingers grazing my lips. His skin tastes of soap and sweat, and his gaze darkens as he stares down at me.
"Amen," I whisper around the wafer as it dissolves, leaving behind the faint taste of him and unleavened bread.
He stares at me, shadows obscuring half of his face, splitting him between light and darkness.
My heart thrashes inside my chest, and it's so loud in the quiet, trying to break free of its cage.
I watch him through hooded eyes, breathing him in, petrichor and incense, as he turns back to the altar, discarding the paten and grabbing the chalice.
He raises it to the heavens before he lowers the metal cup between us.
"The blood of Christ," he says, his eyes dropping from the chalice and locking on mine.
Pa-pum, pa-pum, pa-pum throbs my heart.
I sip from the offered chalice, the wine coating my tongue and spilling down my throat and into my belly. All the while, Father watches me, his jaw falling open, parting his lips as his brow furrows.
Can he feel it too?
The string that pulls taut?
The devil tempting us?
We are so close, too close even for communion, and my heart hammers faster, stealing my breath with it.
Up close, the black buttons on his dress shirt glint beneath the scattered candlelight.
The shadow of a beard darkens his face, and I don't care that God could strike me down for my thoughts right now.
I catch my bottom lip beneath my teeth as we stare at each other.
His gaze dips to my mouth and slowly scrolls back to mine again.
Something dark and needy flashes across his face.
I can't move.
I can't think.
All of me smolders.
Maybe I'm going to Hell, but I don't care if it means spending eternity with him.
His breath falters, and he tips closer. Time stops the moment before the door to the cathedral opens, and I startle away from him, nearly tripping over my feet. I turn as Sister Cecilia's heels click rhythmically against the stone floor, and lightning splits the sky outside.
The older nun's face is etched with concern as she approaches us, sending a chill speeding down my spine. Goosebumps prickle my skin, and anxiety ripples through me, tightening my chest in one quick blow.
"Reverend Mother has asked that I escort Apostate Immorier to her room," Sister Cecilia says, her voice barely audible over the heavy rain outside.
Father frowns before he clears his expression.
"Of course," he says, tipping his chin to her before turning to me. "Thank you for your help this evening, Avalynne."
The thing beneath us screams in agony. I want to scream, too.
"Always," I manage, though I haven't helped at all. If anything, I feel like I'm on the precipice of damning us both.