Verum (The Nocte Trilogy 2)

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?”