through the dining room where we ate a few days ago and into the large kitchen where several staff are hard at work.
Damian takes off his jacket, and before I can figure out what’s going on, he drapes it over my shoulders, and we’re outside.
It’s a clear night, colder than I’ve felt in a long time. I shiver even with his jacket on my shoulders and his arm around me.
I hurry to keep up in my high heels as he leads me over a path that’s only recently been cleared to a small stone building in the distance. I realize it’s the chapel as we near it. I can smell incense.
God. How long as it been since I’ve smelled incense? I haven’t been inside a church in ages. Since the funerals. After those, I’d had enough of churches to last me a lifetime.
The warm glow of lights comes through the two windows at the front and the deep red stained glass above the door. It’s the crucifixion scene.
Someone begins to play the piano inside.
Damian climbs up the stairs, taking my hand to draw me along with him as my attention is absorbed by that window. When he pushes what appears to be an ancient door open, I can make out that the pianist is playing “Ave Maria.”
All the faces inside turn to us. To me.
Damian slips his jacket off my shoulders and draws the lace over my head to cover my face, skewing my view. Shielding me from them. When he pushes a small bouquet into my hand, I have no choice but to accept but wince instantly and drop the flowers.
Blood red roses litter the floor at my feet, their thorns uncut. I look at him, and he just watches me. I want to ask him why he would do that. But I look down again and remember the dead roses that littered the marble floor of my uncle’s house.
Blood on white marble. Blood on stone. Always blood with him.
I touch my finger to his mouth and smear the drop of blood over his lips. I don’t know why I do this. Don’t know what I expect.
He licks his lips, and I think he likes the taste of it. The taste of my blood.
The music changes to a bridal march. How out of place.
I turn again to face the altar where, through the pattern of the silk, I see the waiting priest in all his robes. In the front pew sits a woman and a young boy. Michela and her son, I think. Michela dressed in black with lace over a part of her face, too. She doesn’t smile, but the little boy is up on his knees in the pew, arms on the back of it and smiling wide at me. He’s the only normal looking one in here.
Across the aisle sits Lucas, the good side of his face to me, and I can’t help but shrink away.
And at the front of the church is the old man in his chair, a heavy blanket draped over his legs. The man who was with him last time—what was his name—is standing off along the wall nearest him.
What a strange gathering we make.
I feel a little sick when the march begins anew, but when I take a step back toward the door, Damian catches my arm.
This is wrong.
This place.
These people.
This house of God?
All I feel is hostility alongside my own fear.
I make a sound, a small whimper.
Damian pulls me forward, and I don’t know why I resist. I said I would do this. I made up my mind. But I don’t want it. And the closer we get to that altar, all I can think is—this isn’t a funeral dress at all, but one for a sacrifice.
And I’m already bleeding.
I know there’s no getting away, but still, I struggle.
He must have known I would. He just keeps on walking, hand like a vise around my arm. I’ll have bruises in the shape of his grip tomorrow.
Does he care? Would he?
We walk toward the two kneelers set side-by-side before the priest. Damian forces me down to my knees, then follows. I’m surprised he kneels. Maybe he does believe in God. His left hand engulfs mine, and with the right, he makes the sign of the cross.
The priest begins.
I’m shaking and I feel faint. Maybe Damian was right. I should have eaten something.
I turn to look at him. He’s looking straight ahead, his beautiful face set and hard as if carved from