Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 304(@200wpm)___ 243(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
It was a mistake to bring them here. They do not belong in a space like this, where simple God-fearing people gather to submit their earthly cares and fears to a higher power. There is mischief here from time to time, and intrigue too, and gossip. A great deal of gossip. These two are gossip magnets. I see eyes swiveling toward the pair of them. Some of the ladies, especially the younger ones, think that Jonah is attractive. There are not many unattached men in my congregation, so it is husbands and sons who cast glances at Nina. They are New. Shiny. Strangers.
I will tell Crichton to take them directly home when the service is over. It would be best if they did not enter into socialization with the congregation. It would be best if they had never been seen at all.
And then I feel it. Like a soundless chime, a bell tolling in the distance, one only I can hear. One set of bad decisions has been made, and now fate has decided to make things worse.
I feel a hunger growing around the chapel. It is not my need that sparks it. It is something bigger and darker, something that inhabits the congregation and the building itself. The light coming through the stained-glass windows dims as outside this hallowed space, clouds roll in. A few of the older parishioners shift uncomfortably. Their joints have started to ache with the change in pressure. There is a storm coming, and we are all going to get very wet indeed.
“Go in peace,” I intone, ending the service.
There is an immediate burst of chatter. The vast majority of the congregation will go next door to the hall where folding tables are already laid out and laden with food. Everybody has brought something to share. Scones, crumpets, plenty of homemade jam, and lashings of ginger beer. Finger sandwiches, club sandwiches, preserves, and pickles all await. And then there are the cheeses, also locally made by the farmers who have made these moors productive. There is no need for lunch on a Sunday after one of our services, the ladies whose little group runs the hall and all attendant activities make sure of that.
I am expected to farewell everybody after the service, and so I am the first to lead my little flock from the chapel. I don’t get a chance to tell Crichton to flee with the offspring. The first large drops of rain are starting to fall as the receiving line begins. Most of the parishioners head off at speed with a brief thanks, but there are always a few chatters even on the worst of days. I find myself accosted by a bland woman who has no idea how much damage her tedious conversation is doing.
“Have you considered that dinner with my Sarah? She’ll be down from London soon.”
“You know I’d like nothing more, Mrs Nuttal, but there’s no room in my life for dating at this stage.”
“I can't believe that. Handsome man like you ought to have a wife to look after him. Someone to attend to your needs.”
“Crichton is admirably competent at tending to my needs, Mrs Nuttal.”
A queer expression passes over her face. She and many of her ilk suspect that there is something they would consider untoward going on between Crichton and me. The modern church has no time for bigotry, and rumor is all they have, but tongues will wag until the women’s league sees me suitably situated with one or other of their offspring.
“Shall we go to the hall? Mrs Spiers has brought her chocolate cake again, I believe.”
“Oh yes, certainly. I don’t know if I told you, but…”
It is a testament to my patience that I do not grip the woman by the back of her cardigan and throw her bodily into the hall. I can see Crichton speaking with Jonah in the attempt to stop him from doing something stupid, and Nina is shivering in the growing cold. She has a dress, but no cardigan.
I stride to the hall, nudge Mrs Spiers inside, and shut the door behind her. It’s rude, but she’ll forgive me. They always forgive me, especially if I make physical contact of any kind. The weather is turning even further, the rain is starting to turn icy. Mist has started to creep over the moors. It may be eleven o’clock on a Sunday, but that does not preclude the coming gray.
This is not simple drizzle. This is a particular weather pattern that appears from time to time and is inevitably accompanied by the sorts of demonic infestations that ensure I remain busy. This is the gloom. Within the swirling vapors of ethereal mist lurk entities unseen but absolutely felt. Some people are more sensitive to the gloom than others.
“Get her warm,” I tell Crichton. I have no idea why he would allow Nina to stand in the cold, but I don’t have time to deal with that particular oversight in his ability to care for humans. Jonah has raised my ire, and he will bear the brunt of it.