Aleys tries to command the man. “Leave!” she repeats, but her voice is a hoarse whisper. She can hear his breath, louder, faster. He bangs again. Then the man exits, slamming the parlor door behind him. The shutter fades black into the wall. He’s gone. She blesses the bolt. She swallows, licks her lips, finds them dry. Her terror ebbs, her breath resumes. Kat’s eyes glow in the dark, following outside, around the corner, into the road. Kat senses something Aleys cannot.
Torchlight flickers across the horn window. A silhouette is framed, ghoulish, swelling as the man peers into her cell, receding as he pulls back to look up the street. Kat gives a low throaty growl. The light licks the panes and the shadow pulses in and out of focus. Aleys backs against the opposite wall, pressing herself into the narrow strip between the door and the squint. The man can’t see her, she knows, but she senses his eyes raking over her body.Go to the devil, she thinks, and the thought stops her. What if the devil has come to her? It is Midsummer’s night—anything could happen. Uncertainty grips her gut. She edges toward her altar, touches the crucifix.Protect me. She lifts the cross from its nail and hugs it to her chest and it jerks with her heartbeat. She presses herself back against the wall, eyes glued to the window.
Then the creature steps away. The flames on the horn panes fade. All falls dark again. Aleys listens to the receding steps, then peels herself from the wall. Light, she needs light. She gropes for a piece of straw, her hand shaking as she lifts a shuddering flame from the banked hearth to her candle. She is not ready to let go of the cross, so she fumbles with one hand, must try twice before the wick catches.
“There. Better. Right, Kat?” Her familiar room jumps from the darkness, the comfort of her four walls like old friends. “Nothing to fear. No demons. Just us.”
But Kat is in a crouch, ears pricked. Aleys listens, alert. Then she hears it, a small noise, the creak of the cathedral doors. No. A demon cannot enter a church. She moves toward her squint but knows she won’t be able to see down the aisle. The thought of the devil’s face, his leering red eyes appearing suddenly in the squint scares her, and she steps back, pressing the cross to her lips.
Footsteps approach. She cannot remember what the aisle looks like; she can only picture the diamond tiles of her home church, and she wishes she were there in her blue dress and brown braid, on the portal of the village church, full of love, safe. Sheissafe, she tells herself. These walls are my fortress, God is my keeper. But fear lights up her veins. The steps draw closer. She prays,Exi ergo, transgressor.Give way, thou most horrible, give way, thou most wicked, give way.
The steps stop outside her door that is no door. Her heartbeat runs shallow and fast and she tries to swallow her own breath so she can hear. The creature is fiddling with the latch. She can only clutch the cross tighter. Sulfur seeps through the squint; its open arms blink with fire. She looks down to see an orange cross pulsing on her shift. She tries to wipe it away, desperate, but she feels pinned in place. She is trapped within her sanctuary.
Then she hears the impossible, the click of a lock turning. It is quiet, subtle, but the sound inserts a key in her chest, slides between her ribs, as if someone spins a poker into her flesh.
“Go away!” she shouts, and this time, her voice is loud. “Leave me, Satan!”
A scraping of iron on iron, as the bolt slides away. The door swings outward, slowly. The hinges moan. No, she thinks. No.
The light of the torch casts an orange path into her cell. There is no one outside the door. Beyond looms an enormous space, an emptiness that rushes away and away into the blue-black cathedral. Leagues of air stream in, forcing her lungs open. She claps her hand over her mouth to keep from drowning. The altar recedes like a boat blown back in a gale. She feels lifted to her feet toward the gaping space beyond, abyss and tower, unfathomable. It is as if a devil’s current would pull her from the hold, dragging her from God. Excommunication lies beyond the open door, and the devil knows that. He is tempting her to step out.
Aleys braces herself against the frame, digging her nails into the wooden jamb to keep from being sucked into the incomprehensible maw of the church. One step. One step and she would be out. The space unfolds like a map. The vaulted ribs of the cathedral are impossibly far. The crucifix above the altar shrinks. Christ is so small in the vast church.
She concentrates on her vow of enclosure, her small safe anchor. She shoves off to the back of the hold.
A hooded silhouette enters the doorway. Aleys’s heart seizes. She raises the cross. “Get from me, Satan!”
The figure shakes its head. “I come in the name of God.”
She knows the voice. It’s Lukas. Her voice is a low growl. “You have no business here.”
“I come in celebration.”
“Go to the bonfire, then. I have nothing for you. Go to the bishop.”
“We don’t need the bishop.” He steps inside. She can see his face now. There’s something strange in his eyes.
“I beg you. Leave me in peace.”
“Aleys,” Lukas says soothingly. “Aleys, Aleys. Do not be afraid. We must celebrate. It is Midsummer and the groom is in the antechamber.”
What? She is still dazed by the enormity of the space behind him. What is he saying? His eyes are frantic, at odds with his smile. As he lowers his hood, she can smell spirits on his breath. He tosses the torch into her hearth, where it smolders. He opens his arms to her. She steps back until she feels the stone wall brace her spine.
“For the glory of God, in his name, let us join in communion.” He raises his hand in benediction.
“No.” She is shaking her head.
He keeps talking. “Aleys, we will form a trinity.” His eyes glisten with tears. “Sister, in his name, we will make a God between us.”
“You’re mad.”
His head jerks back in shock. “Aleys, are we not wed to Christ? This is the path he has shown me.”
“Leave, now.” She has to talk sense into him. “Your vows,” she says. “Lukas, you would never break your pledge to God.” As she says it, she wonders if thisisLukas. He’s like a man possessed.
“Don’t you see? We’ve mastered our vows.” He steps toward her, takes her forearms. She flinches. His touch is hot, scaled. “It’s time we discard the servant.”
“Lukas, no.” She attempts a voice of authority.
