The older man chuckled, "Not necessarily. People come here seeking calm, but that doesn't mean they arrive with it." His gentle gaze observed the bitter twist to her mouth before she nodded politely. He swept a hand toward the pews. "Would you like to sit for a moment?"
Eyeing the hard, wooden pews as the bruises on her bottom throbbed ominously, Lauren sighed. "Yeah, not today, thank you." She was intrigued by the fact that the priest had to know Chuck was with her, but he seemed to ignore the bodyguard's existence. Not rudely, more as if Chuck was simply part of the scenery.
"All right," he nodded. "Are you interested in Gothic era architecture?"
Lauren's mood lifted slightly. The man was so kind but so quirky. "Actually Father, yes, I think I am."
So they circled the little chapel, the priest narrating, "You'll notice the ogival, always in threes... You look a bit unwell today, my child."
Shrugging awkwardly, Lauren mumbled, "Oh, I didn't get much sleep last night."
"Ah. And the flying buttress, a classic element from this era. You'll see that the stone setting denotes..."
Chuck, sitting in the precise center of the chapel so he could watch them at any angle, smothered a yawn with one battered fist.
Head cocked, Lauren was trying to determine the identity of the subject of a brilliantly colored stained glass window. "Who is this, Father?"
"One of the more cunning female saints," he was beaming as if she'd complimented his cooking or the color he'd selected to paint the dining room. "Saint Margaret of Antioch. Her singular beauty attracted the attention of a Roman noble who pursued her relentlessly. She refused his godlessness and fled."
"What happened to her?"
The priest smiled, almost apologetically. "She was eventually caught and tortured to death."
"That seemed to happen a lot with the female saints," Lauren observed sourly, still enjoying the sound as he burst into laughter.
"When I speak of the saints," he mused, "I suggest that instead of thinking of their inevitable and often grisly deaths, think perhaps of the characteristics one might share with them." The priest smiled slightly at her skeptical expression. "For instance..." he gestured at the stained glass window, a magnificent image of a female saint battling a dragon. "Saint Margaret. The story is familiar; abandoned by her parents, but as she refused the suit of the Roman Governor, her story grew. Various miracles occurring through her efforts to evade the evil that followed her, bringing more and more people to Christ from her example. At the height of her struggle, we are told she is swallowed whole by Satan in the form of a massive dragon- who was forced to spit her out because the cross she carried irritated its insides dreadfully."
Lauren looked at the stained-glass image again. "The girl was hardcore, Father."
He laughed delightedly. "Indeed. While it is easy to assume a magic cross was responsible for her victory over Evil, I choose to interpret the cross as her unflinching belief that what she was doing was right. And that in the end, it would save the countrymen she loved."
The sun shone through the pale blues and greens of the window, lighting Lauren's eyes. "I don't have that," she said sadly.
The priest shrugged, straightening his collar. "While I know this is only our second meeting," he observed, "I would disagree."
Eyeing Chuck, shifting in the uncomfortable wooden pew, she said, "Thank you for your time, Father. I..." Lauren laughed a little, "I actually feel really... good, right now?"
He chuckled, eyes brightening approvingly. "Excellent. May I offer a blessing?"
"Thank you," she bowed her head, appreciating the gentle weight of his hand on her hair as he spoke soft Latin phrases. As she was walking out, Chuck at her shoulder, the girl turned for a moment. "I'm sorry my memory is so faulty on my saints. What was St. Margaret of Antioch the patron saint of?"
Somehow, she was not surprised when he answered almost gleefully, "The patron saint of impossible cases."
Lauren was standing in the doorway of the Fun Dungeon, a room she no longer characterized as "fun" at all. She was staring at the long, low bench where her dark and confusing husband had imprisoned her the night before. Of everything Thomas had done to her as "correction," that was the worst. It was cruel. Even for her husband at his most enraged and terrifying, it was unnecessarily cruel. Degrading. Thomas enjoyed her obedience. Her submission. But he'd never humiliated her for pleasure.
"So eager for another round, darling? I suppose I could clear my schedule."
Her eyes closed. Of course, that smooth bastard would sneak up on her. He probably didn't even try to. "How was your day, dear?" Smooth over fear and hurt with sarcasm. Thomas leaned in to lightly kiss her cheek, not missing her flinch when his lips touched her skin.
"Oh, business is such boring talk," her husband's voice was still so damnably beautiful, deep, almost purring as he leaned in again. "And what has my sweet wife been doing all day?"
She couldn't stand it, couldn't bear him standing so close to her so Lauren pushed off the doorway and stepped around Thomas. "I'm sure Chuck and your various surveillance systems will have a full report for you." Thomas stiffened slightly, eyes narrowing. But her tone wasn't angry, just flat, resigned. "I'll go start dinner."
"Don't bother," Lauren stopped as he spoke from behind her. "I have a business dinner tonight." Thomas turned and walked into their bedroom.
Playing furiously on her cello, then her bass guitar, moving to her piano, and finally rotating back to the cello, Lauren sawed mechanically through her practice session, her conversation with the priest at the little stone church going round and round in her head. She was no saint, that was certain. Lauren snorted a little at the idea. She'd developed a mouth that could make a sailor blush. She knew that clever, kindly priest was trying to guide her into some kind of heroics, some genius move that would perhaps save Thomas from committing more evil, prevent his inevitable transformation into the murderous, repellant Number One. The priest couldn't know exactly what kind of evil she was battling against, but he somehow knew she was in the middle of something dark.
Her bow slowed to a stop on the strings as she thought it through.
