Flann finds a fondness

During the day the light was blue like the sky, like Heaven, but at night the interior of Saint Margaret’s chapel was red like Hell. From where Flann stood, the great glass lantern was hidden behind a pillar, and the tabernacle itself seemed to glow with an unholy light.

Or perhaps it was only that the little green lamp did not stand on the altar steps as it always had before.

Flann carefully closed the door behind her so that it would not slam. The rain streamed down the glass panes and reflected the red light in wavering ribbons, obscuring the view of the outside world as its rumbling on the high roof muffled the sounds.

She had not counted on the effect of the rain, but it only added to the loneliness she sought. She had been merry all the day for the sake of her sister, but midnight had sounded, and now she wanted to be alone, be sad, and dream of the wedding she would likely never have.

Always before she had sat in the pew closest to the entry so that she could most subtly slip into the priest’s office when he opened the door. Now she strode boldly up to the first pew and sat where she would not suffer the glare of the lamp.

She stared at the tabernacle, crossing her eyes until the row of unsmiling saints blurred and doubled, until the light arced over their heads like half-​​haloes, until their faces wavered behind a veil of tears.

What were saints but living reproaches sent from God? Saint Margaret had so valued her virginity that she had preferred martyrdom to marriage. Flann had so loved a man that she had given him her virginity without marriage.

Nevertheless Saint Margaret was the helper of pregnant women. Proud Flann told herself that she would not stoop to pray to her when her time came. Margaret would have looked down on her, and Flann’s response to such treatment was to hold her head higher. These days her neck ached with the strain.

The office door opened with the familiar creak. For an instant her blood coursed hot through her body – for an instant, until her eyes uncrossed and she saw only red light. It passed, leaving her swept barer than before. Her joy had been but a cold wind blowing through ruins.

Nevertheless it was not the wind that had opened the door. She heard the soft footsteps of a man who has spent years in places where unnecessary noise was forbidden.

She did not turn her head, though he came to stand at her side. Her heart began to pound. He genuflected in the aisle, and then he laid his left hand on the pew to help him rise. Only then did she look at him, and only at his hand. It was not the broad, freckled hand she had hoped by some second miracle to see. It was the bony, nervous hand of the Abbot.

“May I sit beside you?” he asked.

She looked up. “Of course. It’s your church.”

“It is yours as much as mine.”

Flann straightened her cloak out over her lap. She decided she did not want to pursue that subject and raised another. “How did you ever know I was here?” she smiled. “I thought I was quiet as a cat on the prowl.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I had a feeling there was someone here in need, and I knew I would not be tranquil in my mind until I had seen.”

“You had better be seeing whether there’s a man hiding in the vestry, then, for it’s only a good night’s sleep I’m needing.”

He raised his eyebrows and appeared to wish to differ, but Flann did not want to pursue this subject either.

“It’s sorry I am to be bothering you, Father,” she said. “I didn’t know you were here at all. I didn’t see a light in the window.”

“I had only a candle. For writing…” he added softly and looked away.

She supposed he could see the lantern from where he sat, for the red light was bright on his face. She saw now that his hair was darker than usual, and where the light struck it his head glistened like half a halo.

“For that matter, your hair’s looking wet,” she said slyly. “One would say you’ve been a-​​prowling as well.”

“I have only been to the home of your cousins Aengus and Maire,” he frowned.

“In the middle of the night?” she teased. “In the rain?”

“I wished to purify that chamber.”

Flann’s devilment shrank away from the intensity of his stare. “In the middle of the night?” she murmured.

“I saw no reason to wait.”

“You don’t suppose there was something…” She waved her own brown hands, hoping he would guess, but he sat staring patiently at her. “…unholy?” she whispered.

His eyes drifted away from her face, as if he was looking inward for a reply. But Flann could not wait.

“Because it was an elf we knew, Father,” she blurted. “It must have been elf magic. Vash knows that elf very well. He was his prisoner for a time. Surely it was only elf magic. Cat’s not…”

This time she did not complete her phrase. She dared not speak the words.

The Abbot said, “Paul told me that even Vash could not disappear as this elf did. He believed it more than elf magic.”

“Aye, but perhaps he’s being helped by another sort of elf. When Vash was prisoner, there was another elf who had a tattoo on his face, and he had more powerful magic than Vash himself, it seemed. But still an elf.”

“What sort of tattoo?” he begged.

Flann was briefly speechless. Abbot Aelfden had a number of striking facial expressions, but helplessness was not, so far as she had known, one of them. She had always believed he reigned over his emotions like a despot.

But although Brude was the younger of the two, he had a fondness for the Abbot that bordered on the paternal. Flann supposed there was a reason for it. If Brude was fond of him, then Flann decided she would be fond of him too, and she would help him all she could.

He noticed her stare and turned his face into the glare of the lamp.

Flann said hurriedly, “I didn’t get a good look at the tattoo of the elf that attacked us last night. It was on his left cheek, and it was all stripes and points. Not a picture of something. He didn’t have a tattoo when Vash saw him last, and Cat doesn’t remember one.”

“But the other elf…” Aelfden murmured.

She inclined her head. “As for the other elf, Vash knows that tattoo very well. He remembers it because that tattoo had eight points. And, you see, that elf’s name is Dre. In their language it means ‘spider’, but it is also the word for ‘eight’. The other elf is named Lar, and he – Father?”

The priest was hunched over and shuddering, and he had run his hands up into his sleeves to rub his arms, as if he had taken a sudden chill.

“Are you cold?” she asked gently. “It’s tired you must be. You must hardly have slept at all.”

“You’re not – the only one in need of sleep,” he spluttered.

“You work too hard, Father.”

“The Lord’s work – is never done.”

“I wish… I only wish Father Brude were here to help you with it,” she blurted.

“So do I!” he cried. He sounded as full of despair as she.