Flann goes through

The door of Saint Margaret’s chapel was heavy, and it hung slightly crooked on its hinges. If one did not pay attention, it would swing shut on its own with a bang and a rattle of its glass panes.

Flann did not pay attention.

She crossed herself and genuflected in the aisle. The great red lantern on the tabernacle was lit to indicate the presence of the host, but her eyes were fixed on the tiny, green-​​glazed lantern on the floor before it.

She rose and shook out her skirts, then tiptoed past the stoup to sit in the last pew on the left, nearest the aisle. A pillar was directly behind her, and behind that an archway that led to a dark and empty anteroom.

There was such a silence in the chapel that she thought she could hear the echo of her breathing – perhaps even the pounding of her heart.

She bowed her head and began to pray silently. The voice of her father, who had taught her to pray, echoed in her head.

“Ar n-​​Athair a tha air nèamh…”

The carved figures of saints glared at her, accusing her, judging her. But what did saints know of human frailty? They had never been weak. They had done nothing to forgive.

There was another ill-​​hung door in the chapel. This one, smaller, was in the darkened anteroom, opposite the arch. It could only be opened silently if one pushed down on the handle as the door swung in, forcing the pin deep into the hinge so that it would only scrape and not squeak.

Before Flann had finished her silent prayer, the door squeaked slowly open.

She was breathing rapidly by the time she whispered an “Amen”. She looked left and right, and then she rose and quickly walked back into the anteroom and through the open door.