“Come, my beloved. Come home.” Solomon’s voice broke my attention from them, and I looked ahead to where Father Kent was. His eyes were on me.
The bells stopped, only to be replaced with the congregation repeating his rite. “Beloved, come. Mercy unto us,” they intoned.
As if an invisible rope was tied around my breasts pulling me forward, I walked. My feet were bare, and I realized I was naked. I felt powerful, though. Not ashamed. This was me. No habit, no veil, no shoes on my feet. Only that voice dipped in gold, beckoning me.
“Constance,” Solomon said through Father Kent’s lips. “Come home.”
And so I did as he commanded. With one foot in front of the other, I walked the aisle like a bride, ever closer and closer to the one who looked upon me as if I were everything in the world that was true. His Beloved. But what looked only yards away from the start, now seemed endless—a cavernous space from my feet to him, and the more steps I took, then more he shrank into the ever-growing horizon.
“Solomon? Come closer!” I cried out in a panic, but he and the altar kept getting further and further away from me. I looked around me now and saw I was no longer in the church but in a field of dark purple and crimson delphinium. The sky above me darkened with angry fat thunder clouds, and the sun was a dark circle with only a ring of white light outlining it. An eclipse.
Pure fear assailed me, and my steps faltered, weakening my knees until—
Suddenly, I sat up, my hair plastered with sweat against my cheeks and the back of my neck. I was in my bed, in my single room at Trevorstone Parish. It was a dream, a nightmare.
“Solomon?” I whispered on a panicked breath. “Solomon, I need you.”
Silence.
“Please, Solomon. Mr. Voice. Please.”
The feeling of loss was overwhelming when, after waiting in vain for an eternity for any response, I finally fell back to sleep.
Chapter Five
I didn’t seeFather Kent again until mass that next night, which certainly didn’t give me an opportunity to speak with him. He hadn’t come to eat with us at dinner before that, nor did he come to my room after everyone had gone to bed. Later that night in my own bed, I laid there in the dark, waiting to hear Solomon’s voice, but the room was pregnant with silence.
It was on my third day at the parish that he summoned me to his office.
Sister Beady-eyes gave me the message while I was stapling little ziplock bags of treats for the children of Trevorstone under the ever-watchful eye of Sister Diane, a nun who I was tempted to slap whenever she corrected me on some stupid little thing I was doing wrong. I’d been tasked with making the giftbags for the Blessings of Hope, which started tomorrow.
Already, the parish had an undercurrent of anticipation for the event. Last night, two priests from Anderson County had arrived. Supposedly, they were volunteering their time as well and would be staying with us the rest of the week. Sister Hazel had appointed them the first two rooms in the resident hall, kicking out the two Sisters that occupied it.
I kept waiting to hear some type of gossip—nuns were notorious for the juice—but this place was unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. These people, even the new arrivals, were too sedate. It was like the time we novitiates visited the seniors at Gladberry Center: a gaggle of constipated, frowning old biddies who knitted and complained all damn day.
Putting down my stapler and ignoring the distaste on Sister Diane’s face, I gladly left the room and headed for the breeze way exit for Father Kent’s office.
It was going on lunchtime, so I assumed his appointments or whatever it was small-time clergy did during the morning was done. Which meant we’d be alone, no doubt.
I was nervous, my hands sweating, as I walked dutifully to his door, past the church entrance whose doors stood closed to the public at this time of day.
With a deep breath, I opened the office door. “Father Kent?”
“In here, child.”
Solomon’s voice. I closed my eyes in sadness and longing, just standing there holding the doorjamb to support my weight
It was the first time since I’d arrived that I actually longed for home. To Mother Mary Margret, to my closet and trapped souls. To Hannah and Jack and even old Sister Bethany’s food.
Since I’d been here, I’d been… good. No tricks or pranks, my kite retired and dejected. There simply was no wind for it to rise, and no one I cared about to summon an ounce of enthusiasm for.
“Constance?” Father Kent inquired from the back somewhere.
“Ye—” I cleared my throat, finding my voice. “Yes, Father. I’m here.” Shutting the door, I looked around the room, taking in the small but clean layout. A coffee table, two decent sofas, and a standing shelf of books decorated the room. A perfect waiting area for engaged couples or parishioners waiting to meet their representative of God.
I passed through the waiting area and into a backroom, where an open doorway showed me Father Kent’s profile. He was sitting at his desk, and when he saw me, he turned his head and waved me in, standing up.
“Please, come in and have a seat.” He put his hand on my shoulder for a second, then must have thought better of it as he looked behind me toward the waiting area. I took a seat in the chair closest to the door. My heart skipped a beat when I heard him shut the door, giving us privacy.