Chapter Text
Prologue:
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It remained a blur, the night you were violently uprooted a second time, when you were forced to leave the only home you’d ever known.
You remembered how the rain pelted the weathered stones of the castle, what remained of its ancient visage, covered in moss and ivy that climbed the walls like fingers stretching across the stones; you recalled the way the thunder rumbled dangerously across the countryside that night, as if it were a living, breathing thing, tumbling over the hills and heading straight for the Caislean Ciar to swallow you whole.
Was it a cataclysmic coincidence, or was it an omen, a harbinger of things to come?
You propped open the old leaded window, pressing your shoulder against the warped glass, bracing yourself against the violent winds of the approaching storm that threatened to yank the window from your hands. Your eyes widened, your heart racing with an inexplicable fear as you felt a cold dread creeping up her spine.
"I don’t understand, please,” you repeated, raising your voice over the roar of the storm as you latched the window shut tightly. “Leanne, what are you doing,” you shouted, as confusion descended into a choreographed sort of chaos.
The room was small, dimly lit, and damp, but it was yours, and you’d learned to love it, finding it magical, an easy environment to romanticize and lose yourself in your imagination.
But Leanne was frantically gathering up what she could, withdrawing an assortment of your belongings, sentimental objects, books, with photographs tucked between the pages, from a chest at the foot of the antique bed, stretched taut beneath the feather bed and linens. She was frazzled, as if being tugged in too many directions, and pulled clothes from your dresser drawers, thrusting them into your canvas backpack and your duffle bag while visibly holding back tears.
You stepped closer, her voice was barely audible as she muttered to herself, her incoherent words tumbling out in a rush as she grasped at your things in a flurry of activity.
“Leanne, I don’t understand, please,” you cried, tugging on her arm, searching for answers. “Tell me what’s happened," you begged, falling to your knees beside her beseechingly as you clung to her arm.
She finally slowed to a pause, faltering, then unexpectedly pulled you into a desperate hug, burying you deep against her chest so you could hear the frantic beat of her heart. She ran her fingers through your golden hair, and cradled your face in her hands, admiring the way your green eyes gleamed like jewels.
You were both trembling, both frightened, but a silent understanding passed between you, and you knew.
It’d finally happened.
“Carl telephoned from Birr, after supper,” she murmured, pressing her lips to your ear. “Lancaster drove all the way here, from Montpelier, to reach us, to tell us about the murmurings he’d heard from the Hellfire Club, and… Oh, Sylvia, I…”
Your mind reeled as you felt your entire world shifting around you with every word she uttered, yanked out from beneath your feet, the very foundations of your reality trembling, shattering, and falling away.
“The Vatican is still keeping tabs on you, as if you're some sort of demonic prop to add to their collection,” she sighed wearily, years of frustration boiling to the surface. “I won’t allow them to steal your happiness, your heart and soul. I won’t let them. I promised your mum that much.”
Leanne’s expression shifted, softening, her eyes filling with a motherly concern at the mention of your own mother, an inherent protectiveness, followed by a profound sadness, one that threatened to consume her, one that she may never recover from should she allow the Catholic Church to step any closer, to reclaim you and kill your free spirit.
She was quiet, as if collecting her thoughts, choosing her words carefully, to articulate the risks without unintentionally instilling fear in you. She was walking a fine line, she always was; she knew this day would likely arrive, again, and she knew it would be inevitably painful.
"I want you to have a chance to live your life, to make your own choices,” she finally said, her voice fragile, almost broken. “That's why I'm… sending you to the Church of Satan, their organized ministry. It's the one place they won't dare go, and if they attempt to, their clergy won’t allow it, you’ll be protected."
“No,” you breathed, your voice shaking.
You broke away from her, but still managed to cling to her, and your eyes met hers, a sense of determination rising within you; perhaps it was bitterness, and slow burning resentment against the hand you’d been dealt in life. It was grossly unfair.
“But what about you,” you asked, your cheeks wet with tears you couldn’t hold back, silently streaming down your face.
Her smile was bittersweet, feeble, a faint glimmer of tears lingering in her eyes.
"I'll be fine here, I’ll return to Croydon and manage the shop," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I've been preparing for this possibility for a long time,” she paused, as if reflecting on everything that had brought you both to this moment. “You, on the other hand, have a future to build. Go, I want to see you make it happen."
As she spoke, she pulled out a small, intricately engraved cameo from a pocket in her knitted cardigan, pressing it into your hand, enveloping your hand in hers as she held it.
"Take this," she instructed, her voice urgent, yet gentle, brimming with sentimentality. "This is all you have left to prove your heritage, it’s rightfully yours, it’s proof of your power, your bloodline.” She bit her lip, struggling to breathe as she resisted the tears that were finally flooding over. “Your mother would be pleased to see you have it, keep it safe, keep it with you always, and wear it with a sense of pride."
You felt a surge of uncertainty run through your body as you took the brooch, your slender fingers closing around it like a lifeline. You traced the delicately carved imagery with your thumb, feeling the silver and pewter against your fingertips, as if you could sense the heaviness that surrounded it. You knew, in that moment, that your life was about to change forever, things would either be better, or worsen, and you may never see the woman that saved your life, the woman that raised you, ever again.
You couldn’t accept this.
"I'll come back for you," you whimpered, choking back the sobs that overwhelmed you as you folded, leaning into her.
Although you couldn’t see it against the shadows that fell across her face, her tender smile was a gentle and affectionate thing, filled with a deep, abiding love as she embraced you, as if lending you her courage and strength as her arms enveloped you.
"I know you will, my little flower face," she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she offered you what little reassurance she could, soothing you like a child in her arms. "Someday, when it’s safer for you here, we’ll see each other again, and you can tell me all about the life you’ve built, and how free you’ve become.”
You lingered there, in the shelter she had always generously provided you, but you couldn’t help but sense her unease, the sense of urgency that increased with every passing minute, so you reluctantly returned to your things, resumed packing, collecting what little you could of your fragmented life.
Eventually, her voice stopped you, splitting the tension in the room like a blade. Her words were cautionary, almost taking on a prophetic tone, and were heavier than you anticipated.
"Remember, the Catholic Church will stop at nothing to claim you, to force you into submission, force you into repentance for sins you’ve never even committed, then displaying you to the world like a trophy,” she warned, reaching out to feel the crystal that swayed from a long chain around your neck, allowing her fingers to wrap around it. “But you have the power to resist, to fight back. You’re stronger than you know. Don’t let them smother you, don’t let them take your freedom away from you."
She fumbled with a pocket inside her cardigan, then handed you an envelope, her hands trembling slightly as you obediently took it. You carefully tucked it between the pages of one of your hardcover books.
“When you arrive at the ministry, the rectory and monastery, give this to the first figurehead that greets you, do you understand,” she instructed, her voice low and severe.
You nodded, curious as to what secrets the envelope contained. What message was she sending with you? Would the ministry even be receptive or willing to read it? What if they turned you away? You bit your lip, there was no time to dwell on it, you’d have to trust in her, and obey.
“Tell them you’d like to apply to join their ministry, give them your name, and insist they let you stay, that your mother wanted this for you,” she continued, shadowing you as you surveyed your scattered belongings strewn across the cold, stone floor.
You stood, befuddled, then knelt down again, allowing yourself to sink onto your knees dejectedly. You felt your hands shaking as you reached for one of your most prized books, worn and battered from years of enjoyment; during a simpler time, when it was the only small comfort you had, filled with handwritten notes in the margins from Leanne, and scribbles from your childhood. It was all that remained of a world you’d escaped to, that had always offered you safe refuge.
“I… I won’t let anyone take anything else away from me ever again,” you vowed, anger searing your cheeks, momentarily replacing your fear.
“Calm yourself, flower face,” Leanne cooed, gently sweeping your unruly hair away from your face, her fingers brushing against your cheek.
You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever awaited you, you knew better than to allow yourself to be consumed by rage; it would cloud your judgement, and only lead to mistakes, missteps, and unnecessary attention. Leanne and her sister Lenore had taught you everything you knew, and that was to trust in your spirit, what your heart and instincts told you. You knew she was right, that you’d find your footing again, and you’d start anew somewhere else.
“I promise you, I’ll find a way to be happy,” you whispered, more tears welling in your eyes. “I’ll be strong, for you.”
In time, you’d adjust, you’d find your way, you’d meld with everyone around you, people pleasing and conforming to their needs to avoid arousing suspicion, questions or doubts. You had to be agreeable, be useful, so they had no excuse to reject you or dislike you. You would step into the shadows to heal your wounds, growing confident in your power away from prying eyes, asserting a quiet strength. It was how you learned to survive as a child, you’d become malleable, a master of disguise with many masks, calling upon whichever one suited the situation best. You would cope, just as you always had, pretending to be happy until you truly felt it, until it finally found you, and you could feel safe.
But would these strangers ever fully accept you, as you are?
To you, rejection and persecution were far scarier than the passage itself.
===============================
3 Months Later: The Beginning of Your New Life
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It had only been three months since you first arrived at the ministry, and in this short time, you’d witnessed the anticlimactic shift in leadership as power was transferred from one clergy member to the other, an ordained figurehead accepting his new position over the congregation like a shepherd silently tending to his flock, keeping a watchful eye on all his sheep and lambs from a distance.
The former Papa Emeritus, Copia, had been promoted, now recognized as Frater Imperator, after the death of his mother, who had previously stood at the helm of the Ministry. He was an unwilling pawn in this exchange of influence and position made by the ministry, that much was clear and well known amongst the congregation, his very presence was a paradox of authority and reservation, his awkwardness undeniable, if not endearing.
He seemed to view his new position as a demotion, preferring the stage and spotlight over an office filled with sorted documents, desks, and haphazardly stacked books and boxes.
Despite his powerful position and utter disappointment, his kindness never wavered, and he exuded a sense of gentle humility, his painted eyes shining with a warm, benevolent light. His smile was always quick to appear to reassure those around him, to humble himself before others, often accompanied by a faint flush of embarrassment, as if he were perpetually surprised by his own capabilities and deft leadership.
As he moved through the darkened halls within the ancient stone walls that still stood on ceremony all around them, his long papal robes that would otherwise have been elegant and extravagant seemed to get tangled in his feet, and he stumbled over his own words, his speech peppered with curses and apologies followed by self-deprecating laughter.
"Ah, Sister, I'm so sorry, I-I didn't mean to... Ah, forgive me, please,” and, “Di che parli? Don’t apologize, sorella, it’s entirely my fault.”
Despite all that he’d accomplished and achieved as Cardinal, Papa Emeritus, and now as Frater Imperator, his voice was still laced with a vulnerability and insecurity that made those around him want to reach out and offer him reassurance, to remind him of his worth, especially in the absence of his mother, whom he’d already had a complex relationship with that was only compounded by her recent passing.
He was a complex, multifaceted individual, full of contradictions and paradoxes, and it was this very complexity that made him so compelling. He had a reputation for putting even the most hardened and skeptical of individuals at ease. He had a way of listening that made you feel like you were the only person in the world, his eyes locked on yours with an intensity that was both unnerving and comforting.
You stood outside the alleged makeshift office door, your heart racing with a mix of excitement and nerves. He wasn’t a stranger to you, but the thought of his eyes on you made you nervous, the effect all authority figures tended to have on you, an inescapable remnant of your childhood that you just couldn’t quite shake yet, especially in a religious environment.
You sighed wearily, took a deep breath and smoothed out your habit, and knocked softly on the door.
"Ah, Sister, come in, please," Copia's voice called out from within, muffled by the door.
You gently pushed open the heavy door and slipped inside, your eyes adjusting to the harsh light that unpleasantly filled the room. You suddenly found yourself empathizing with him over his plight for a new office; this room seemed more like the ministry’s dumping ground, an unofficial storage room where files came to be mysteriously lost. And Copia sat on a couch behind a small table that had become his desk, a look of mild disarray about him.
He was surrounded by stacks of boxes, papers, mismatched files, and a wide variety of books that were scattered across the floor around him, and because of this, you approached with caution, afraid that one misstep might add to the chaos and clutter.
"Ah, it is you, sorella, good morning," he said, his face breaking into a warm smile as he stood up to greet you, his chair dangerously scraping against the floor. "I'm so glad you could make it. Please, come in, come in," he added, motioning for you to come closer.
Elodie smiled and lowered her head slightly in a display of reverence, knowing he would wave such a gesture away.
"Good morning, Frater Imperator," she said, using the title that had been explained to her many times, but it still felt foreign to her.
Copia waved a hand and grinned, then winked, his eyes twinkling.
"Oh, please, call me Copia, or Cardi, or even C for short. Eh, whatever you’d like, really,” he said, moving closer and fumbling over disheveled cardboard boxes along the floor. “We're not so formal here, not among friends, okie dokie?”
You lowered your gaze, your cheeks flushing a light pink, making him smile warmly as he clasped his gloved hands together.
”Now, let me show you to your new workspace, eh,” he resumed, ushering you back into the hall. “I’m sure you’re eager to see it, no?"
You found his eagerness endearing, his genuine enthusiasm putting you at ease as he graciously led you through the winding corridors, pointing out various rooms and explaining their purposes in an attempt at small talk, faltering over his words as if he were afraid he’d say the wrong thing.
You listened intently, grateful for his guidance, and patience, smiling softly to reassure him, taking in the sights and sounds of the new church you could now call home. They eventually arrived at a door in the oldest section of the momentary, down the hall from the library, and as Copia talked, he pushed open the heavy wooden door with flourish.
”Ta-da,” he announced, opening his arms jokingly, chuckling nervously as he coaxed you further inside.
The room was antiquated, presumably unchanged for several decades, perhaps even forgotten, and it was modest but inviting to you, and while the furnishings and green wallpaper that encompassed the room were at one time fashionable, they took on a mournful appearance and admittedly darkened the space, framed in impressive displays of dark woodwork. But soon, your eyes fell on the pair of windows that stretched from the floor to the ceiling draped in a dark green brocade.
You hesitantly approached each window, framed by small sections of colorful stained glass, and thrust aside the bulk of cascading fabrics, letting in a flood of natural sunlight that illuminated the rows of shelves on each side of an unused fireplace. The shelves that lined the walls were generously stocked with fabrics, of all colors and textures, while some sections were filled with jars and tins of various shapes and sizes brimming with sewing notions, buttons, and glass beads.
Copia applauded you as you tied back each curtain panel, as if he’d completely overlooked them when approving the use of the space.
The windows offered you more than sunlight, they also provided a view of the grounds from above, the landscape, although a little sparse for this time of year, overlooked a solemn view of their adjoining cemetery. You didn't find it macabre or unsettling like many would; you found cemeteries hauntingly beautiful, and they were sacred places. You reflected on this, realizing it might be necessary to close the curtains on occasion, whether that be if other siblings of sin found it unsettling, or if the view below became too cluttered for you, too… overwhelming.
You turned, noticing a wooden worktable reminiscent of a mercantile countertop dominated the western wall of the room, covered in threads, needles, and half-finished projects you would have to sort through, but you would eventually claim the space as your own, in due time. You paused to scan the rest of the room, your eyes finally landing on the amassing stacks of cardboard boxes containing supplies, antique source materials, buttons, and a wide assortment of needles and threads, what you needed to work efficiently, and contently.
Copia beamed with pride as he watched you drink in your new surroundings in awe, swiftly moving to reassure you and dispel any doubts that might be lingering.
"This room was once a scriptorium, which is why it’s so close to the library, but I didn’t think you’d mind that, sorella,” he said, leaning forward, desperately trying to read your expression.
“It’ll make my work in the library that much easier,” you said, evenly. “I still plan on helping you with your files, frater, I know it can be overwhelming for your bookkeeper,” you continued, your voice trailing off as you grasped for his name, recalling his dubious expression but not his name.
“Ah, Brother Erin,” he affirmed, finishing your thought for you. “The poor boy is… inexperienced in clerical work, heh, easily overwhelmed, admittedly there is much work to be done. I know he’s extremely grateful for your assistance, sorella.”
“Likewise, I’m sure, I like his company,” you replied, warmly. “I don’t mind. I like keeping my nose in a book.”
“Ah, yes, that’s why I had this room converted especially for you, I thought you’d appreciate the shelves,” he rejoined, his voice suddenly small. “I, eh, hope you'll find it suitable, and not too… outdated."
You shook your head.
"It's... it's wonderful, and cozy, and I love this old wing of the church," you breathed, your eyes glistening with tears that you were desperately trying to blink away.
Copia smiled, visibly relieved.
"Good, good… I'm so glad you like it, sorella. I wasn't exactly sure what you'd need aside from what you’d modestly requested, but… I tried to think of everything,” he continued, his tone reconciliatory.
You felt a wave of gratitude towards him; no one had ever treated you with such consideration, with such care.
"You've thought of everything, thank you," you professed, your voice filled with sincerity.
Copia's face flushed, and he looked away from you, muttering something about the ghouls, then clumsily stumbling over the leg of an antique chair near the door. You smiled to yourself, quietly amused, feeling a sense of belonging wash over you. You had a feeling that you were going to like it here, especially if you could somehow escape what haunted you, what had managed to find you everywhere you roamed and disturb your peace.
“Is the fireplace still functional,” you asked, your excitement growing.
“Yes, yes, I don’t see why it wouldn’t be,” he answered, adjusting his jacket as he strolled across the room, mirroring you and peering outside at the view, although he seemed more taken aback by the view than you, jumping slightly at the sight. “I’ll have the ghouls come and check the fireplace, you’ll likely need it, sister, this wing of the church gets cold, it will chill your bones,” he said, tapping the mantle.
“I’m used to that, to stone walls and cold corridors,” you replied, offhandedly, leaving him curious. “I don’t mind, really,” you added, smiling faintly, reaching out to feel the ornamental grate that protected the hearth, tracing the elegant lines and shapes with your finger.
“And I suppose you don’t mind the ghosts, either, sorella,” he quipped, humorously, attempting to make you laugh.
”Not at all,” you said, smiling faintly.
His eyes sparkled with curiosity and a hint of mischief, as he ushered you across the room, gesturing to the built-in shelves lined with jars filled with old buttons and lace trimmings, wooden spools, embroidery threads, and sewing supplies and other notions, many assumed obsolete and old-fashioned, but to you, they were a precious commodity, something you strove to preserve, using them with a great sense of reverence.
"I see you've brought some... treasures with you, in your personal belongings," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of embarrassment, "I may have, ah, caught a glimpse of some of your boxes as they arrived. The ghouls were kind enough to, uh, start unpacking for you when they brought these from the dormitories, and I couldn't help but notice your… antiquated style, it’s all… rather old-fashioned, no?"
Your face warmed slightly as you realized that Copia might have indeed snooped through your belongings.
"Yes, I... I like old clothes,” you admitted, sheepishly. “I’d often wear whatever the older neighbors gave me back home. I quickly learned to restore and repurpose antique garments, old jewelry, and the like," you answered, your hands instinctively reaching out to touch the familiar fabric as you withdrew a cotton nightgown from a box at your feet.
“Perhaps you’re the spectre haunting our halls,” he teased, making you smile.
“Perhaps,” you teased, smiling.
You’d always felt like a ghost, often unseen, unheard, and unwanted, but you’d never accepted such a fate, never succumbed to such a depressing point of view. Leanne and the other ladies wouldn’t let you, they kept you from fading away. Leanne always managed to pull you out of the shadows, shelter you from your own self-deprecating thoughts, but now, there wasn’t anyone to offer you a hand and pull you out of such a dark place.
You noticed his face light up with interest as you brought the old nightgown to your chest, holding it against your body and allowing it to flow down to your ankles, revealing the large splay of ruffles gathered across the front.
"Ah, I see, so this is a hobby, I presume, some of your handiwork,” he remarked, stepping closer to admire the heirloom lace trim along the cuffs as you held it in your hands, noticing the pearlescent buttons. “You have a remarkable eye for detail, a talent for restoration, then,” he praised, clasping his hands together as he approached. “I've always been fascinated by the art of bringing old things back to life. It’s a dying art form, no?"
You smiled, your fingers lingering over the pearlescent buttons, feeling a sense of pride and ownership in your work.
"It's more than just a hobby, I'm afraid, I've been doing it for years,” you sighed, your expression softening. “At first, it was out of necessity, but after a while, I realized there’s something rewarding about taking old clothing that's been discarded, forgotten in attics or closets, and making them whole again, bringing them back into the light of day.”
Copia nodded, his eyes dark with understanding, recognizing a kindred spirit, an old soul, acknowledging your talent, reveling in the fact that he’d just discovered a new facet of your personality, that you had far more depth than he’d previously thought.
"I think I know what you mean,” he said, carefully articulating his words as he watched you rustling through one of the boxes. “There's something beautiful about restoration, about preserving the past and giving it new life, honoring those who came before us. They're not just objects, are they? They're pieces of history, pieces of people's lives."
You felt a sense of wonder at his insight, at how easily he seemed to understand you, and you paused to give him your full attention.
"That’s exactly it, frater," you replied, contentedly. "When you think about it, each article of clothing has its own story. I've spent hours carefully recreating and restoring pieces, or even blending the old with the new, to bring them back to their former glory.”
"I'd love to hear more about your process sometime,” he interjected, enthusiastically, motioning to the other boxes of materials. “Perhaps you could show me some more of your work, once you get settled in?"
You felt a flutter in your chest at the prospect of sharing your interests with anyone who didn’t see it as frivolous or strange.
"I'd like that," you replied, smiling back at him.
When you broke away from his gaze, your focus returned to the room, to your new responsibilities and the challenges you would face, and your eyes drifted from wall to wall, your eyes still shining with gratitude as you took in the thoughtful touches Copia had included to make your new space feel like your own. Your gaze eventually landed on the small collection of old sewing machines, some unattached to cabinets and crying out for repair, but one appeared to be in working condition, fully intact and made of black iron with wheels and a pedal, and for a moment, you were still as if frozen in time.
It was breathtaking to you; you could see beyond the dust, the elegant design and golden ornamentation in an art deco style, an Egyptian motif featuring scarab beetles, outstretched wings, and hieroglyphic images.
Copia observed your sudden shift in body language, your silence, and his smile faltered, and he began to apologize, fumbling over another box, thinking he'd made a mistake.
"I'm so sorry, sorella, I didn't think... I, eh, know these machines are quite old, and I'm sure they may not be what you're used to..."
But before he could finish stumbling through his sentence, you spun around, your face lighting up with an uncontainable excitement that startled him.
"Oh, Copia, thank you, thank you," you exclaimed, your voice filled with genuine joy, abandoning his title amidst your excitement as you reached out to take his hands into yours, gently squeezing them. "How did you know I preferred older machines? This one is absolutely perfect! Where did you manage to find it?”
Copia's eyes widened in surprise, and he looked at the sewing machine with new eyes, his expression still doubtful.
"You... do you really like it?" he asked, his voice hesitant.
You nodded enthusiastically, trembling with excitement as you knelt down beside the machine, inspecting the movement of the gears.
"Copia, I love everything about it. This is exactly what I’ve always wanted. It’s just like the machine I used while staying at one of the old castles back home,” you explained, jubilantly, grasping at the wheel as you stood. “I'll be able to tinker with it, get it running smoothly again soon, and once it's ready... you'll be amazed at what it's capable of, I promise you."
Your excitement was infectious, and Copia found himself smiling, feeling rather foolish, but also feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. You were pleased, more than pleased; ecstatic, and he was glad to see such vitality return to your face after months of obvious sorrow and uncertainty.
"I'm glad you like it, sister," he said, feeling a sense of relief, his nerves slightly frazzled. "I wasn't sure if it would even be... suitable for use."
You laughed as you took in his incredulous expression, your eyes sparkling with an amusement you couldn’t mask.
"Suitable? Oh, Copia, it’s perfect,” you repeated, your hands following the lines of the wheel well. “You have no idea how much this means to me, truly,” you said, your voice fragile. “To be able to work with my hands again, to bring something old back to life like this... it's a gift within itself. I won’t disappoint you."
Copia observed every move you made, feeling an immense sense of satisfaction, a feeling of completion. He'd been worried about you, worried that he'd made a mistake, that he'd misunderstood your needs, which might have worsened your condition, your self-imposed isolation, your obvious reservations and skepticism of strangers, and your unshakable tinge of sadness. But seeing you in such high spirits, so happy, so alive, it made all the difference.
He began to realize that sometimes it was the smallest gestures that made the biggest impacts, and he'd inadvertently stumbled upon something that brought you unfathomable joy.
He returned to the fireplace, pretending to inspect the long neglected hearth as if he knew what he was doing, and continued to watch you unpack, your movements gentle and deliberate as you handled each item with care, reaching into each box with a sense of hope. He couldn't help but think about the journey that had brought you here, and the choices you’d been forced to make, the scrutiny you faced, and the path you’d chosen to follow.
He was only told that you were previously a victim of circumstance, a target and scapegoat, and you’d been rushed here without much time to consider any of it, and yet, you seemed to radiate a sense of peace, a newly gained sense of purpose. It must be hope, he presumed.
As he observed you, he felt a mutual sense of gratitude towards you, for trusting them, and for trusting him. He'd given you the option to accept the position without fully joining the ministry, without taking the oaths and vows, but you’d chosen to commit yourself fully despite your lack of experience or knowledge in their belief system, but there was freedom here.
“Sister, your bedroom is just beyond that door, private quarters,” he said, gesturing to a dark wooden door on the western wall. “It’s small, but you’ll have your own room there, and a bathroom of your own, although I’m afraid it's very old, the, eh… water might not be the warmest… the pipes are old…”
”It’s more than enough,” you responded, your voice filled with gratitude. "Frater, I want to thank you again, for all you've done for me, for… taking me in, accepting me here. I don’t want to be a burden…”
Copia's expression softened in response, sensing your uncertainty returning, and he held up a hand swiftly to reassure you.
"No, I know what you’re thinking, and I do not want you thinking of this as special circumstances, sister,” he responded, speaking measuredly, his voice gentle but firm. “I just wanted to make sure you have everything you need to perform your role with excellence, do not forget that your skills are a gift, and I want to support you in any way I can."
”But-”
“You're a part of our community here, this is your home now, and here, we support each other, bring out the best in each other.”
“I-”
“The ministry will do everything we can to help you feel safe, to grow and flourish here."
You listened carefully, then reluctantly nodded, accepting his unremitting reassurances.
But he could see your mind racing, struggling to keep up; you required more reassurance than the others. But he had no doubts; he knew you were going to fit in well here, he’d considered this role for you over and over again in his mind after your arrival, even after he’d glanced over your application papers and read the disconsolate letter you’d arrived with, he was confident in his decision and the faith he’d placed in you, and in time, the ministry would also see.
Until then, he would gladly shepherd you, offering you words of encouragement and reassurance, and occasionally nudge you in the right direction if need be.
==============
There was a knock in the doorframe, and a familiar figure appeared there with the door left ajar that stirred you from your work.
“Back so soon, frater,” you asked, your voice muffled behind the cabinet and parts of the sewing machine you’d chosen to tinker with first. “I’ve barely unpacked, but… I’m making great progress, sir, especially on the machines,” you bemoaned, shifting your position on the floor.
“That is good to hear, sister,” he said, stepping into the room. "Once you've met with Papa Emeritus for your first official consultation, you can begin to develop your plans for his wardrobe and costuming, and from there, our current Papa Emeritus will approve the project," Copia explained, theatrically waving his arms in an attempt to put you at ease, his eyes shining with excitement. “Are you eager to get started? The sooner the better, no?”
His gaze swept the room as he joined you, assessing your progress as you continued to unpack. You were still surveying your materials, organizing them, placing them in their proper places. You hadn’t expected him to return so soon, just after dinner, so you’d already changed from your habit into denim overalls as you worked to service the sewing machine and get it back into operable shape.
Copia seemed mildly amused to see you in such a state; your hair was tossed into a messy bun, disarranged from crawling underneath the machine and cabinet several times, and your hands and arms were smudged with grime, evidence that you’d been hard at work addressing the cast iron gears and wheels.
“Ugh,” you groaned, using your arm to wipe away grease you felt on your face, but you only managed to make the grime more noticeable across your cheek. You sighed, frustrated that you’d been interrupted in the midst of such a mess, shoving the dirty rag you’d been using to polish the inner workings into one of your oversized pockets.
“Tell me more, frater, I’m listening,” you said, bowing slightly as you rose to your feet and approached him.
He waved dismissively at you, grinning clumsily at your formality despite your disheveled appearance.
"You'll be working closely with Papa from now on to ensure that your designs match his vision for his upcoming tour and studio album, and I’ll be overseeing your progress,” he continued, folding his arms behind his back as he rocked forward, standing at the center of the room. “He’s… unpredictable. He may stop in at any time for a fitting, so I’d encourage you to be prepared to receive him at all times. I will tell you he does tend to keep… unusually late hours.”
“As do I,” you nodded, your creative mind already racing with possibilities.
“Satanas, sei una persona che ama stare sveglia fino a tardi la notte,” he muttered under his breath, watching you wipe your greasy hands on the back of your overalls like a child.
"I understand what I need to do, I want to make a good impression,” you answered, evenly, tousling your hair thoughtfully, letting it fall freely. “I'll make sure to be prepared with some initial concepts and sketches, too, to give him an idea of what I’m capable of.”
“Va bene, sorella,” he replied, a look of quiet satisfaction spreading across his face.
You faltered, quieting your own nerves as you stepped closer, timidly.
“Frater, what is Papa's style like? Does he have any specific preferences or inspirations?"
Copia smirked, albeit slightly devious.
"Your new Papa is a unique individual, a little darker than the rest of us, and his style is a bit… unconventional, to say the least, but I think he will appreciate your... antiquated approach to design,” said Copia, furrowing his brow thoughtfully, and in truth, a little disdainfully. “He's looking for someone who can bring a curated perspective to his image and help him stand out."
"I think I can work with that,” you nodded, taking notes in a small leather notebook that had found its way into your hands. “And what's the timeline looking like? When is the tour scheduled to start, and when will the album be released?"
Copia’s expression narrowed as he considered this, tallying the weeks, months, and days, then he sighed.
"The tour is set to begin in several months, so we don’t have much time to spare," he answered, bringing his arms forward, then folding them. "We'll need to work quickly to ensure that everything is, eh, perfect, for him,” he grumbled, almost painfully. “Papa and his preferred ghouls are working on finalizing their debut album now, rehearsing their songs, recording... The deadlines are undoubtedly fast approaching, but I have no doubt that you'll be able to deliver something truly exceptional, sorella. I believe in you."
You smiled at the sound of his voice, at the sincerity in his support, and you began to feel a sense of nervous excitement and anticipation. You were looking forward to working with Papa Emeritus, and you were determined to prove yourself, to bring his visions to life.
"I'm looking forward to meeting him and discussing his ideas," you offered, quietly. "I'm sure we'll work well together. He sounds captivating."
Copia's expression turned serious as he leaned in, his voice taking on a gentle, cautionary tone.
"Sister, I want to, eh, prepare you for your meeting with him,” he said, lowering his voice, emphasizing his words with his hands. “He's a…very peculiar sort of individual, I find him flamboyant, and a bit rough around the edges. It may take some time to get to know him, to get him to… properly open up to you.”
”I see,” you rejoined, solemnly.
“Initially, he might come across as distant, perhaps even disinterested, but I assure you, he’s heavily invested in his role here, despite his demeanor,” he disclosed, discreetly, responding to your unease.
Your expression furrowed slightly as you brought the tip of your pencil to your chin pensively, carefully absorbing his words.
"Oh?"
Copia nodded, but remained silent, awaiting your response.
"So… you’re saying it's not personal," you posed.
Copia smiled faintly, nodding.
"Esattamente,” he replied, coolly. “I just… don't want you to misinterpret his… odd behavior,” he continued, adjusting his leather gloves. “He's a good person beneath his brooding facade, mio fratello, but once you get to know him… eh, he’s… alright, I suppose,” muttered Copia, resentfully. “And I think you'll find that he has a deep sense of solicitude, even if he doesn't always show it in the most conventional way."
You nodded again, feeling a sense of gratitude towards Copia for enlightening you, speaking freely and imparting sensitive, potentially defamatory, information with you.
"Thank you, Frater, I appreciate your honesty,” you replied, warmly. “I'll make sure to keep that in mind when I meet him. I’m sure it will go smoothly, especially now that I’m aware of his approach.” You paused, a faint smile crossing your lips. “I’m still very much looking forward to it, I can’t deny that I’m intrigued,” you admitted, tapping your pencil against your notebook.
“Don’t expect him to remove his mask, either,” added Copia, attempting to snap his finger against his glove, grinning at the thought. “I’m almost certain he sleeps in it, if he even manages to sleep in the first place.”
You were unsure if he was being serious or not, so you suppressed your smile.
”Oh,” you replied, biting your lip. “The more you tell me, the more he starts to sound like the phantom of the opera,” you teased.
”He would take that as a compliment,” he huffed, indignantly, tugging at his jacket. “He’s dramatic, I think he enjoys being a tortured soul.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” you replied swiftly, eyeing him reproachfully as you set your notebook down on your sewing table.
Your new role was admittedly both thrilling and daunting, and now, it seemed that meeting Papa Emeritus promised to be just as exciting, and you were intrigued.
“I’ll certainly do my finest work for him," you added, offhandedly, trying to keep your voice steady. “It sounds like he has high expectations.”
Copia grinned, his eyes glinting with amusement.
"Ah, the Papal wardrobe is a sacred trust, sorella," he cautioned, playfully. "The Papa's image is of utmost importance, and his attire must reflect the power and majesty of the ministry, so your recommendations, your suggestions, are highly appreciated, and welcomed."
“You seem… doubtful,” you observed, sensing the palpable hostility and distrust that seemed to exist between the two brothers.
”I hardly know him,” he shrugged, masking his obvious pain, mixed with a subtle concern. “He’s… ostentatious, and I fear his ideas will be unrealistic, unachievable, or otherwise a lamentable mess on stage. He seems keen on diverting from our established stage presence, which could have disastrous repercussions.”
”Luckily for you both, I’m on the job,” you hummed, gently, offering him a friendly smile as you stepped closer to study his bejeweled collar clips, adjusting the chain so that it laid just below his neck, disarming him.
“Ah, well, I-” he stammered, quickly forgetting his bitterness towards his brother and returning his focus to you.
“I can’t deny this assignment is daunting, to say the least,” you sighed, your eyes never leaving his collar as your fingers moved to secure the pins. “I’m now responsible for designing his personal wardrobe, his costumes, and even his vestments, while simultaneously juggling the clothing needs of the entire ministry, mending much more than socks.”
You stepped back, allowing him to pivot in order to face you, to see that you were smiling.
“This is true,” he countered, jestingly, waving his finger at you teasingly. “But, your skills are essential to the ministry’s most crucial preparations for this debutante tour. It’s how he’ll present himself to the world, a visual display of the ministry’s cultural influence, power, and authority.” He paused for dramatic effect. “If you pull this off, think of the headlines, the fans, the crowds that will cheer for him.”
You blinked, reminding yourself to breathe as you assured yourself that you were capable of doing this.
"And what about the...ghouls," you asked, hesitantly, trying to sound nonchalant. "You mentioned them again…. What are their roles as part of his entourage?"
Copia's smile grew wider, his eyes seeming to gleam with amusement, proof of the esteem he held for you.
"Ah, they are his companions," he answered, his thoughts drifting back to his own experience as Papa, and Cardinal. "They are special individuals, preternatural creatures that are summoned, and chosen for their unique abilities and dedication to the ministry,” he explained, capturing your imagination. “You'll be working with them too, to create costumes that are both functional and... fitting for their roles.”
“Tell me, frater,” you interrupted, unintentionally, your voice dripping with curiosity. “What do they look like, when they’re on stage with thousands of eyes on them?”
Copia nodded, his eyes filled with understanding.
“They take a human form for the stage, a mere glamour spell, but they can easily shapeshift, and travel in shadows,” he offered, sensing your disquiet in the way you did not immediately respond, so he placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder before continuing. “Don’t be afraid of them, they’re fiercely loyal, and act as guardians. You’ll get used to their presence across the ministry."
You felt a chill run down your spine. There was something about the way he spoke about the ghouls that seemed… off. They were summoned? Wouldn’t that imply that they’re demons? They were unquestionably supernatural entities, likely from hell if they served the church, but were they truly so human, so well-intentioned, as he described? You pushed these dark feelings and questions aside, focusing on the task at hand.
This was your new life, and you needed to abandon all previous presumptions and learn how to live openly, freely, without fear. You were here to do a job, and you would see it through to the end, no matter how uncomfortable, or intimidated, you felt.
In time, you’d adjust, you’d be malleable and you’d meld, blending in with the shadows, hiding beneath the shroud of darkness; you’d find your way, and you’d cope, just as you always had.
============
When Perpetua first arrived at the ministry, his reception was lackluster; many of the siblings of sin seemed wary of him, whether that be from his intimidating aura, his sunken expression, or his unsettling, gaunt appearance and lanky build, he couldn’t be sure.
He suspected it was due to his predecessor’s disapproval and resentment over being forcibly promoted to a higher position. His predecessor, his own brother, had successfully sowed the seeds of opposition simply by refusing to look him in the eye, shake his hand and welcome him to the ministry, or even congratulate him on returning home to the ministry.
How could his own brother be so heartless?
Perpetua felt undeniably isolated, and somewhat betrayed, he was confused, alone, and felt like an outsider that may never fully be accepted, yet he was expected to lead these people, his new congregation. He was used to being an outcast, and had no doubt it would take time for those around him to accept him, to understand him, and earn their trust, but he also couldn’t deny that part of him longed for the company of others, not just the summoned nameless ghouls.
He sighed heavily, with such contempt he could feel the release throughout his entire body as he walked the long halls and empty corridors, watching his feet, until his attention was captured by the approach of a young woman wearing heels and dark stockings beneath a tailored black corduroy skirt that fell to her knees. She passed by with such effortless poise and grace it made him stop in his tracks, her lace scarf giving her an ethereal look as it flowed around her as she walked. He felt rather dubious, his heart protesting against his ribcage as he couldn’t help but stare at her.
It was you.
You recognized him as the figurehead he was even without his papal robes, Papa Emeritus, acknowledging his authority and smiling at him, bowing your head slightly and bending your knee ceremoniously, offering him unconditional and unquestioning respect.
Perpetua saw this as, by extension, acceptance of his position there, unlike countless others whose faces now blurred together.
“Good evening, your eminence,” you whispered softly, pleasantly, as you passed, your steps so light they were soundless against the old stones.
He suddenly felt awkward in your presence, clumsy even, as he managed to tower over you with unintentional reserve, like a gaunt skeleton that had just stepped out of a casket after years of dreamless sleep, but you didn’t look up at him with mistrust, nor did you avert your gaze as you walked by, your eyes were bright, with no suggestion of fear or revulsion, and this made his entire world shift.
He wanted to know you.