"Saint Lorcan, deliver me," she echoes.
"Saint Lorcan, guide me."
"Saint Lorcan, guide me."
"Saint Lorcan, hold me."
"Saint Lorcan, hold me." This time there's wetness on her lashes—tears gatherin' but not quite fallin'.
"Saint Lorcan, free me."
"Saint Lorcan, free me."
The prayer hangs in the air between us, and I realize with sudden, uncomfortable clarity that she means every fuckin' word. She's not performin'. She actually believes—or wants to believe—that I can deliver her, guide her, hold her, free her.
You can't even free yerself, mah boy.
I stand, steppin' away from the prie-dieu before the weight of her faith fully lands. "Again," I tell her. "From the top. Keep goin' until I tell ya to stop."
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me," she begins. "Saint Lorcan, guide me. Saint Lorcan, hold—Saint Lorcan, hold me. Saint Lorcan... free me?"
She's questionin' the last line, like maybe she got it wrong, and I move back to her, lettin' my hand settle on her head again.
"Aye, that's right. You've got it." I stroke her hair once, twice, the gesture more instinctive than calculated. "Free me. Now again, from the start. Slower this time."
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me. Saint Lorcan, guide me. Saint Lorcan, hold me. Saint Lorcan, free me."
Better. Smoother. The words findin' their rhythm.
"Good girl. Keep goin'."
She continues, voice softening into a chant, and I step away, crossin' the stone floor toward the far wall where the chandelier hangs twelve feet off the ground. It's made of wrought iron, circular, and fitted with sixteen unlit pillar candles.
I reach for the rope, and the chains rattle as I release the mechanism.
The sound is medieval. Visceral. Metal against metal, echoin' off stone walls and vaulted ceiling like we're in some castle dungeon instead of my converted warehouse chapel.
Because that's not theatrical at all, is it?
The chandelier descends slowly, pulley creakin', until it hangs at chest height. I pull a box of long wooden matches froman alcove, strike one against the stone—sulfur flares, sharp and acrid—and light the first wick.
Light blooms.
I move around the circle, lightin' each candle methodically. Two. Three. Four… sixteen flames castin' warm, flickerin' shadows that dance across the walls, and across Emmaleen's kneelin' form, and across the altar behind her.
When they're all lit, I return to the rope and pull. Hand over hand. With a steady rhythm, the chandelier rises, chains slidin' through the pulley mechanism with that distinctive creak-and-settle sound that's somehow both gratin' and satisfyin'.
Higher. Higher. Until it hangs suspended above the chapel center, sixteen flames castin' cathedral light through the space.
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me. Saint Lorcan, guide me. Saint Lorcan, hold me. Saint Lorcan, free me."
Emmaleen's still prayin', voice steady now, fully lost in the repetition.
I secure the rope and turn toward the alcove where I keep the robe.
My hands go to my belt. The leather slides through loops, then the buckle hits the floor with a soft thud. I unbutton my jeans, shove them down my thighs along with my boxers, and step out of both.
Naked now except for the tension crawlin' beneath my skin.
