Benedict bends down slightly, his lips near my ear, and I close my eyes as his thumb brushes my palm again, scraping my delicate skin, causing me to tremble slightly.
“Technically, with a no answer, the priest is supposed to check for Satan worshippers among the crowd,” Benedict whispers into my ear, his breath hot on the curve of my neck. His voice sends shivers through me, and his warmth cracks me open in ways I’ve never experienced—like a cavern opening up somewhere deep inside of me, desperate for his lips to touch my skin. I lean into him a little as he continues. “I’m not sure he’d approve of our extracurricular activities,” he purrs, his voice softer. I think of the writhing bodies at the Brotherhood.No, he definitely would not approve of that.The warmth radiating from him loosens the muscles in my legs. My stomach drops down somewhere deep, and an ache between my legs causes me to shift my weight a bit. I don’t know if it’s his playfulness, or the fact that we’re sharing a secret—something between only us. Something Lily and Salem don’t know about. The thrill of what else they don’t have to know rushes through me, the possibilities endless.
I pull away suddenly, dropping his hand a bit too abruptly, uncomfortable with the way my body is reacting to his. It’s purely physical—some primal desperation because it’s been so long for me. He was trustworthy at one point in my life, and my body senses that, so some deep, vital part of me is reacting to the physical closeness. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something pass over his face. Some kind of internal battle, likely similar to my own. And then, nothing.
He doesn’t look at me for the rest of the baptismal.
After Delilah is officially baptized, she’s held over the basin while the priest pours water over her head three times.
“Delilah Catriona Tempest, I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Everyone claps, and I give Delilah a quick kiss before retreating to the pews amid the applause. It’s colder now that I’m away from the heat of Benedict’s hand and presence. Everyone is grouped together, so instead of waiting around, I walk to the front of the cathedral—where I find an unlocked door. Since the church is closed to the public right now, there are no security guards to deter me. During normal visiting hours, someone is always standing here to make sure no one snoops around the clerical offices.
Someone like me.
Looking back to make sure I’m alone, I see Lily bouncing Delilah on her hip, surrounded by the Tempest family. Benedict is talking to Salem. No one is paying attention. Smiling, I push the door open and inch down a dark, worn, stone hallway. I have no idea what I’m looking for, and yet the pull is almost visceral. Perhaps it’s the same thing I’m hunting for in all of the ancient books at the Bodleian. An answer. A reason. Something to explain why it all happened to me, as if Auguste etched every internal thought deep into the walls of the church. Maybe, these walls will provide the answers that ancient books have not.
I know deep down in the dark crevices of my mind—in the places I don’t like to venture to if I can help it—that I’ll eventually find the answer within myself, not in some external text, symbol or place. It’s not like Auguste had a gun held to his head by someone while he kidnapped me, or did any of the horrible, unmentionable things to me. It’s not as if the men who paid to abuse me, hit me, and rape me—because it was never consensual—were innocent of their unpunished crimes. But I can’t help but hope that one day I’ll stumble upon something that will cause me to have a defining moment, where it will all make sense.
Then I can finally move on.
Or, at least come to peace with it.
I’m about to open the last door on the right, but there’s a light on in one of the other rooms. Looking behind me again, I push it open. Before me is a tiny, private chapel. A small, stained-glass window sits on the top of one wall, and three rows of red velvet pews all direct the worshiper to the altar, which is decorated minimally. A tall, wooden cross and a bible sit atop a small, ornate podium. Behind me, pictures line the bookshelves. I walk over and realize they’re all priests—priests who have served the church. Smiling, I see a young Salem in a black and white photo. Looking at all of the other pictures, I realize with a start that Auguste is missing.
I close my eyes.
“Everyone has to pay their price,” he mumbles, unzipping his trousers. “Repentance. You think you’re that important? Irreplaceable? You forget I’ve fucked you. It’s nothing special. You can never leave, my Evie. You’re American, and you’re in Paris illegally. We burned your passport. Evelyn Snow is dead.”
“They took his picture down, and removed him from the official records,” Benedict says, surprising me. He’s leaning against the door with his arms crossed. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt, black pants that are much too fitted to be appropriate, and a matching black leather belt and shoes. He’s unbuttoned his shirt a couple of buttons—something he seems to do once the official business is over.
“Good,” I say, ambling to one of the pews. I sigh loudly as I sit. “I thought I’d be okay being back here.”
Benedict shoves off the door and comes to sit next to me. Looking straight forward with his legs spread wide, he places his elbows on his knees and leans forward.
“Me too.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. I take note of the way I feel comfortable here with him. It’s not an awkward silence; we’re sharing this moment. When I look over at Benedict a few minutes later, he looks just as haunted as I feel. How is it that such a monster can cause me such pain, such turmoil, and yet… his son oftentimes seems like the only refuge I have? No one asked him to take care of me all those years ago. No one asked him to watch over me like a guardian angel. No one compelled him to send me packages of my favorite, American food items. He just knew to do it.
Cherish the ones that heard you when you never said a word.
He saw. He cherished.I never said a word.But now, I see him.
“I don’t see any semblance of him in you,” I mumble, watching his face for a response. “I never did.”
His eyebrows scrunch together, and he turns his head to look at me. Something formidable passes over his expression.
“He is, though. He is my father.” He looks away, rubbing his throat.
“Biologically,” I start, and he snaps his head up to face me, his eyes darkening.
“We share blood, Evelyn. Whatever made him the way he is… it’s inside of me too. The things that run through his veins also run through mine. It’s… biological. To use your term.” He subtly ticks his jaw, his fists clenched in his lap. “If you think I couldn't do the things he did, you don’t know me very well.”
“I don’t know you very well,” I counter. “Not anymore.”
“Exactly. People change. You’re different, too.”
I let out a cruel laugh. “I’m not that different.”
