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He deludes himself into thinking he is witty.
“Evander, are you acquainted with Lord Dorian?”
“I have already had the pleasure.”
He lifts the corner of his mouth even further, in that mocking manner of his. “An immense pleasure, Richard. Viscount Rochefort was presented to me by the Duchess Durant.”
The sliding of footsteps along the aisle interrupts the conversation as Reverend Fallow and the deacon advance in procession, their white surplices and stoles pristine.
All those present kneel in symbiosis, as if they were a single, shapeless mass. I too bend my knees upon the scarlet cushion positioned on the floor, feeling the contact of the coarse wool beneath my legs. Beside me, Richard and the man who has improperly joined us follow the gesture. Lord Vasiliev Ashford barely bends his knee, maintaining a rigid posture.
From the corner of my eye, I see his brows knit for an instant before returning to his customary detachment.
“You seem to possess a certain... mastery in kneeling, Viscount,” he utters in a voice no louder than a whisper, his eyes remaining fixed ahead while the Reverend takes his place at the altar and begins to recite the Lord’s Prayer.
“It would seem you possess a certain skill in uttering unseemly words.”
“...forgive us our debts...”
“And in taking confidences that were never offered to you, Lord,” I add.
His sardonic smile returns.
I loathe that smile of his.
Reverend Fallow’s voice continues to intone: “Almighty God, unto Whom all hearts be open, all desires known, and from Whom no secrets are hid...”
No secrets are hidden. And yet...
My hand contracts in an involuntary gesture, nails digging into my skin.
“Do you perhaps have secrets to hide?”
Lord Presumption’s insinuating tone restores me to my usual composure. I release my clenched fingers and ignore him as though he had said nothing at all. This appears to amuse him, for I hear a low chuckle.
“...through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
I repeat the ‘Amen’ with a tone sharper than I intended.
“Please, be seated,” Reverend says, granting permission.
Everyone obeys without haste. I follow the movement with precision, feeling the contact of the cold wood beneath my legs as I settle upon the oak pew.
“The wood is cold, yet I find you strangely rigid. Can you find no comfort even in a sacred place?”
“I find it somewhat difficult when, in this sacred place, the profane dwells.”
He feigns a bewilderment that ill suits his person.
“You surely do not think, Viscount, that I am the devil?”
Worse.
“I assure you, Lord Vasiliev Ashford, that you are not present in my thoughts.”
“Is that so, then?” he murmurs faintly.
Richard unintentionally interrupts the exchange, adjusting himself on the pew and jutting his chin toward the choir.
