Verum (The Nocte Trilogy, #2)(39)

A curtain in the very top of Whitley falls closed, as though someone had been standing there.

As though someone had been watching me.

I swallow hard, and turn back around.

I’m in a car. No one can hurt me here.

That’s what I tell myself as we drive into town.

“Where to, Miss Price?” Jones ask me when we reach the outskirts.

I don’t know.

“Can you take me somewhere my mother used to go?” I ask hesitantly. Because I miss her. I want to feel close to her, even it’s just an illusion.

Jones meets my eyes in the mirror, and his are sympathetic.

“Of course,” he tells me, his gruff voice softening just a bit. “I know just the place.”

The car weaves among the streets, and eventually comes to a stop outside of a church.

With a plain brick Gothic Revival exterior, the church looms against the cloudy sky, sort of severe and imposing.

I’m hesitant as I peer out the glass.

“It’s the Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury,” Jones tells me. “Your mother used to come here frequently.”

That’s a bit hard to believe, seeing how she wasn’t catholic. I tell him so politely.

“She was catholic, miss,” he insists. “And she did used to come here. I drove her myself.”

I’ll have to take him at his word, and I open the car door, stepping outside.

“I’ll wait, miss,’ he tells me, settling into the seat. I nod, and with my shoulders back, I walk straight to the doors.

Once inside, the demeanor of the church changes, from severe gothic, to lavishly decorated, firmly in line with Catholic tradition.

It feels reverent in here, holy and serene. And even if I’m not a religious person, I enjoy it.

The statues of saints and angels hanging on the walls are gilded and full of detail, including the crucifix of Christ at the front.

His face is pained, His hands and feet are bleeding.

I look away, because even still, it’s hard for me to imagine such a sacrifice.

“Are you here for confession, child?”

A low voice comes from behind and I turn to find a priest watching me. His eyes are kind above his white collar, and it’s the first real, sincere kindness I’ve seen since I’ve been in England.

Dare is kind, but our relationship is complicated.

Eleanor is severe, Sabine is mysterious, Jones is perfunctory. They all want something from me.

This man, this priest, is kind simply to be kind.

I swallow.

“I’m not catholic,” I tell him, trying to keep my words soft in this grand place. He smiles.

“I’ll try not to hold that against you,” he confides, and he holds his hand out. I take it, and it’s warm.

“I’m Father Thomas,” he introduces himself. “And this is my parish. Welcome.”

Even his hands are kind as he grasps mine, and I find myself instantly at ease for the first time in weeks.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

“Would you like a tour?” he suggests, and I nod.

“I’d love one.”

He doesn’t ask why I’m here or what I want, he just leads me around, pointing out this artifact and that, this architecture detail or that stained glass window. He chats with me for a long time, and makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world, and that he has no place else to be.

Finally, when he’s finished, he turns to me. “Would you like to sit?”

I do.

So he sits with me, and we’re quiet for a long time.

“My mother used to come here, I’m told,” I finally confide. “And I just wanted to feel like I’m near her.”

The priest studies me. “And do you?”

My shoulders slump. “Not really.”

“I’ve been here for a long time,” he says kindly. “And I think I know your mother. Laura Savage?”

I’m surprised and he laughs.

“Child, you could be her mirror image,” he chuckles. “It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

“You knew her?” I breathe, and somehow, I do feel closer to her, simply because he was.

He nods and looks towards Mary. “Laura is a beautiful soul,” he says gently. “And I can see her in your eyes. Why didn’t she come with you today?”

“She’s gone,” I say simply. “She died recently.”

I don’t mention that I killed her with a phone call, that it’s my fault.

He blinks. “I’m so sorry. She’s with the Lord now, though. She’s at peace. Did she receive Last Rites, child?”

My breath leaves me. “I don’t know. She couldn’t have, I guess. She died in a car accident. Is that bad?”

Father Thomas rushes to reassure me. “No. In that circumstance, it is understandable. Don’t fear, child. God in His merciful love isn’t bound by sacraments. He blesses his children and forgives them, and bestows everlasting life to the faithful. Your mother was faithful.”

I don’t want to tell him that she wasn’t a practicing Catholic, that I’d never even seen her attend a mass. Although now, the fact that she’d given Finn a St. Michael’s medallion makes sense. I feel it now, chilling the skin on my chest.