Jace clarified, “The big stone chair up front?”
“Yes.” My shoulders straightened automatically when I said it. “I sit there, and the members come one by one. They kneel, and they tell me their sins. Or… not only sins. Sometimes just burdens. Fears. Things that make it hard for them to feel the Light.”
“And you… listen?” he asked, voice a touch lower.
“Yes. I listen.” I glanced toward the chapel even though we were nowhere near it. “And I take on whatever’s weighing on their spirit.”
A soft breeze brushed past us. I didn’t see Jace’s reaction right away, but when I looked up, his expression was strangely unreadable.
“How long does it usually last?” he asked, calm as ever.
“Hours,” I said. “Sometimes three or four. But it’s important. Father says confession keeps the congregation healthy and united.”
Jace nodded slowly. “And everyone participates?”
“Everyone,” I said with certainty. “Even Father, sometimes. Though usually he confesses privately to the Inner Circle.”
“And me?” Jace asked lightly, but with that same deep attention he always had. “What should I expect?”
“Oh.” I blinked at him, suddenly bashful. “Well—if there’s anything in your heart that feels heavy, or anything that makes it hard for you to feel the Light, you can tell me. But you don’t have to if you’re not ready. It’s usually hard for new arrivals.”
He watched me for a long moment. Not unkindly. Just… intently. “So I come to you,” he said slowly, “sit in front of you, and tell you things no one else knows.”
“That’s the purpose,” I said, relieved he understood. “It helps people feel clean. Lighter. Closer to the Light.”
He hummed thoughtfully. “And tonight’s the night?”
“Yes.” I clasped my hands, feeling a tiny spark of nerves. “I hope I can help everyone. Sometimes people come with very heavy things.”
“And you listen to all of it.”
“All of it,” I said quietly. “It’s my duty.”
Jace looked at me for another long moment, his gaze dipping down my face, lingering on my mouth before returning to my eyes.
Then he smiled in a way that made my stomach flip.
“Then I guess I’ll see you tonight,” he said softly.
The way he said it made my heart skip a beat. I nodded, unable to hide the warm flush in my cheeks. “Yes,” I whispered. “Tonight.”
* * *
By the time the door creaked open again, my legs were numb.
The chapel was lit only by candles now—dozens of them—their flames flickering in the draft that slipped under the old wooden doors. The air was warm from all the bodies that had come and gone, from the incense Father had burned earlier, from how long I’d been sitting in the Seat of Light without moving.
My back ached. My knees ached. My head felt strangely light, fuzzy at the edges. But I stayed still. I always did. Stillness was part of the duty.
The woman kneeling before me—Sister Abigail—finished her confession with a shuddery breath.
“…Please forgive me,” she whispered. Tears shone in her eyes as she bowed low, touching her forehead to the stone at my feet.
I wanted to tell her it would be all right. As I had many times before, I wished I were allowed to speak with them, to offer them comfort. Her heart was clearly hurting, and I hated it.
She rose slowly, murmuring thanks before walking with her head down to the chapel door. It shut with a muffled thump, leaving me alone.
I exhaled, blinking slowly as the silence settled around me. My fingers tingled from how long they’d been resting on my knees. My throat felt itchy from hours of holding back my voice.
