Archive of Our Own

The heavy wood groaned as Winifred cautiously sat down at the end of the pew. A wave of bashfulness ran over her, her cheeks warming and no doubt turning pink as she turned her head away and looked towards the narthex. The door was open and she could see clear through to the vestibule outside. She still had time to go; she wasn't being forced to stay here except by her own conscience.

'Sister Winifred. It's good to see you back in attendance.'

She let out a soft breath. It had been so long since anyone had called her that. She'd never taken vows, and entering a cloister had never been anything more than a youthful lark. There was something romantic and peaceful about seeing the white habits bobbling along the schoolyard when she was still a girl (though she did miss the black-and-white habits of old). But being part of the fold, where members were also called sisters and brothers had an aching softness to it that Winifred had found herself missing.

'Thank you, Father. It's... it's been some time.'

Two months, three weeks and two days. She might be able to count the hours, if pressed.

'Saint Andrews will always open you back with open arms.'

Winifred gave a nervous smile and twisted her hands about. She knew that may be the case, but she wasn't entirely sure if she wanted it to be, particularly if she wasn't sure if she wanted to be there herself. Bit by bit, she felt like her life had begun to fall apart like a jigsaw puzzle, but her own core existence remained untouched.

Her aunt had passed some four months earlier, and though she had tried to take solace in the cancer no longer wreaking havoc on her health, Winifred hadn't been able to deny the pain of her death. Her cousin, struggling to conceive, remained childless, and her neighbour's dog had ran away during a storm some weeks prior and had yet to return home. A number of her friends had lost their jobs, and though she found her own work monotonous and dull, the paychecks remained steady. Her headaches had grown in number but were by no means debilitating, like her coworker's throbbing and frequent migraines.

If anything, Winifred was a little frustrated by her own rather banal daily existence. The worst thing she had experienced was a stubbed toe a week prior, but even a bruise seemed out of reach. It was though a tornado was spinning around her, but she remained in the eye no matter which way she stepped.

God was meant to test believers, but He had chosen not to test her.

'Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,' she said quietly. 'It's been...'

She paused and studied her fingers, bare of polish and naked of jewellery. Her fiance had left her. That was something, though it had been over a year prior.

'Would you like to do this here?'

She looked up towards the confessional. She'd always hated those boxes. Maybe that was her confession.

'Why Longinus?' she asked abruptly. 'I never knew a priest to take the name Longinus. I thought you had to be named after a disciple.'

Beside her, Father Longinus laughed. He was frustratingly young, particularly compared to the old Father Thomas, who had departed the church suddenly earlier in the year. Winifred found herself inexplicably bothered by Father Longinus' rich red-brown hair, his freckled cheeks and bright, hazel eyes. He was the sort of man who came into the office and flirted with her vivacious coworkers, still reeking of mortarboards and graduation gowns.

She twisted a finger around the spot the engagement ring had once lay. It felt unreasonably bare now, which was terribly ironic. She'd been reluctant to accept at the time, and she'd ultimately said yes after it had been pointed out to her more than once that she was unlikely to be asked a second time.

'You're troubled, Sister Winifred?'

'No,' she replied automatically. Then, after a pause. 'Maybe. Perhaps.'

'And what is it that haunts you?'

Winifred pursed her lips together. It felt selfish to even wish that her life was more harrowing than it ways. She wished no harm upon her family (though her sister did tire her with her excessive griping about her job), and she was glad to be as healthy as she was (though, she would concede in private, that she could stand to lose a few pounds). Her life could stand some excitement, though. A chance to travel, an opportunity for an overseas romance with a dashing and charming foreign man. She supposed a failed engagement was better than a failed marriage, but she didn't wish to remain on her own forever.

'How would you know if God were testing you?' she finally dared to ask.

There was a flicker of emotion across Father Longinus' face, though it was so quick she couldn't even begin to read it. A widening of his eyes, a faint raise of his eyebrows. Curiousity, perhaps. Or, maybe, just a silent encouragement for her to continue.

'Do you believe the Lord is calling you?'

'No.'

She said it too quickly. She may have intended to say yes, though she wouldn't have been able to say what it was she was being called to. But, as that single-syllable word lingered in the air between them, she realised the opposite was true.

'There is a... a lingering darkness, all around me,' she finally settled upon. 'And yet it never touches me. I can see it effecting my friends and distant family, but none of it has reached me. It is as though I'm at the epicentre of it all. I can almost feel the tendrils of trouble reaching out from me.'

'Or... reaching towards you, perhaps?'

Winifred was silent for a moment.

Yes, perhaps he was right. If she closed her eyes, she knew for certain deep within that nothing was touching her yet. But something was there, right on the periphery, letting her knew it was close. Maybe it was the very thing that had driven Paul, her former fiance, away.

'Would you perhaps like to discuss this over coffee, Sister Winifred?'

That had her opening her eyes immediately. Setting her jaw, she slid her pale eyes over to Father Longinus. He was watching her, a coy smile on his face.

'Pardon me?'

'Is it not allowed for a priest to take one of his parishioners out for morning tea?'

'I assumed it was.'

Though she'd also assumed there was a set book of names priests were meant to take their names from. Maybe she was wrong about a great deal of things.

'It's only coffee, Winifred. Not a proposal. Though, if it makes you uncomfortable- '

'No. No. It's fine. Coffee is fine.'

Her cheeks were beginning to heat up again. Clearing her throat, she stood abruptly and smoothed out the front of her skirt. Picking up her purse, she made noises about seeing him after Mass the following weekend ('my cat, she will be upset I didn't feed her breakfast, goodbye, Father') and hurriedly made her leave.

Technically it wasn't anything; after all, she didn't even drink coffee.

*

Nerves ran through Winifred the following Sunday. She hovered on the steps of the church, her hands wringing together as she watched Father Longinus shake the hands of the attendants of Mass that day. People were heading off to go about their day. A late breakfast, an early lunch. Some might feel a sense of peace as they left, while others were no doubt off to sin but tell themselves they were allowed to as they would atone for it next week.

Winifred was unsure where she sat there. It wasn't a date. It was only a chance to speak to the priest of her church, and an opportunity to clear her mind. What could be more holy, more faithful than that?

And yet something about it wasn't sitting right with her. Something tugged at her and tried to get her to get into her car and drive home.

Her mother had told her to ignore that voice. It was only anxiety, she had said, and Winifred only needed to get out and ignore it. She'd spent too much time wallowing over Paul, even though she had been the one to want the engagement to end. This would be a good opportunity to try something new, without any future commitment. After all, he was a priest.

The last of the parishioners had left. She continued to wait, chewing idly on a hangnail until he emerged. His holy vestments had been removed and hung somewhere to be cleaned. Instead, as he headed down the steps, he wore a bright red shirt. It was a little jarring to see on him; such a vibrant and bold colour didn't seem befitting of a priest.

'Hullo,' he said cheerily as he approached.

'I know where Longinus came from,' Winifred said in lieu of a greeting.

He stumbled a little, slowing as he buttoned the left cuff of his shirt around his wrist. She tried not to stare.

'Excuse me?'

'Longinus. Your- your holy name. He's the centurion who stabbed Jesus.'

'He's also viewed as a martyr. His blood healed his blindness.'

'It's a bit macabre, isn't it?'

'My Christian name is Peter, if you'd prefer to call me that.'

Winifred's mind whirled. She had been following him- Longinus, Peter, Father- away from the church. There was a not-quite-bustling cafe strip down the block and around a corner, where families would frequent after Mass to either talk about the sermon that morning or, more likely, gossip about what had transpired over the week. Winifred rarely attended.

'Why did you choose Longinus? Peter's a perfectly Christian name.'

He shrugged. 'Longinus may have pierced Christ with a lance, but Peter denied Him three times. Who's the greater sinner?'

'Peter also later recanted and became the first leader of the church.'

'That all seems a little backhanded, doesn't it? I'd rather know where my friends loyalties lie.'

'You'd rather them stab you upon first meeting?'

'At least then I'd know to never turn my back.'

While she didn't agree with Peter's assessment, she couldn't immediately fault it, either. The words were lost on her tongue. All she could do was gawk at him, her pace slowing as he walked ahead.

After half a breath and two seconds, she was forced to hurry up to him. Walking briskly to step back beside him, she glanced briefly in the window of a cafe they passed by. Inside were a number of faces she recognised, who, in turn, recognised... not necessarily her, but Father not-Longinus-but-Peter. The children inside waved, though Peter hadn't seen.

She also saw her own reflection. Round cheeks, flushed by the speed at which she was walking, curly hair that always seemed frizzy, no matter what she did. Dark circles under her eyes and the hint of crows feet and worry lines that seemed to grow by the day. Everyday her reflection grew increasingly unfamiliar.

'That seems like a rather poor assessment of people you meet,' she finally said. 'And not one befitting a priest.'

'Maybe,' he conceded. 'But I've never been called a poor judge of character.'

'And how do you read my character?'

He finally paused. Winifred didn't want to admit she was grateful for it. Her heart was racing, she needed to catch her breath, and her legs were burning in a way that she hadn't felt in years.

'As a member of my flock who is seeking a little guidance and a nudge in the right direction.'

Winifred had never been to the cafe they were standing outside of. They were further off the cafe strip than she'd realised; she hadn't even noticed how far they had walked. She couldn't see the window which they had passed by before.

No, scratch that. She could barely see the cafe strip at all.

There had been a hill. Her legs were definitely aching from it. And cafes and boutique stores had given way to houses, and now there was nothing around them but trees carefully planted every twenty yards or so. Winifred would have never said she knew the local area around the church well (it took her the better part of ten minutes to drive there every Sunday), but she was sure she'd have known if this spot was within her typical walking distance.

Maybe she shouldn't feel so bad about being tired from the walk.

'The word pastor is derived from the Latin word for shepherd,' she said.

'Yes.'

'Does that make me a sheep?'

'Would you feel poorly if I said yes?'

Winifred looked past him and through the glass door of the cafe. It seemed empty.

He held the door open for her. With a polite nod, she stepped inside.

The late autumn air had a nip to it (when she wasn't exerted from a walk), and the cafe was thankfully warm inside. She loosened her coat almost immediately and tried to smooth out her ever-frizzy hair. The autumnal dryness had only made it worse.

'Do you normally come here?' she asked as Peter led her to a seat.

'Often enough.'

She smiled to herself; at last, she had something over the other women who attended the church. They weren't one of those churches, where the pastors were free to date and marry. Saint Andrews preferred their priests to stick to their vows of celibacy. But Peter, with his ambiguous age and head full of hair unlike the previous Father John, had caught many an eye during Mass.

Mostly Winifred tried to pretend that that wasn't part of the reason she had returned to church. She wasn't interested. Not really.

'I didn't know this place even existed.'

She wondered if the staff did, either. She couldn't see anyone at the counter, and the only noise was vaguely distant, static-filled music from an unseen radio. She couldn't even hear anyone working in the kitchen.

'I've never even heard of someone mention it,' she continued, mostly to herself as she blindly reached for a laminated menu.

'People like to think it doesn't exist,' Peter replied.

'That doesn't make any sense.'

'It brings comfort to think there's a more pleasant alternative.'

As her stomach growled (two slices of toast for breakfast was never enough, especially after Mass), Winifred had to agree. A cafe without a waitress or barista seemed like a baffling place to bring someone. If it hadn't been for the heating, lights, music and general cleanliness, she'd have thought it was abandoned.

Before she had a chance to look at the menu, Peter reached over and took it from her.

'Tell me what you'd like.'

'What?' That sounded rude. 'Pardon?'

'I'll get it for you. Anything you like.'

'Oh.' Letting her hand fall to the table, Winifred tried to guess what might sound reasonable to eat in front of a priest. 'Uh. Scones?'

'With clotted cream?'

'Um. Sure.'

'Jam?'

'I like strawberry.'

'Lemon curd?'

That was her favourite. Her grandmother used to make it, and she'd promised Winifred to pass on the recipe before she died. That hadn't happened.

It had been sweet, but also deliciously sour with a delightful tang of something that she had never been able to recreate.

She gave a nod. It was unlikely to taste anything like what her grandmother made, but she'd try it.

'And to drink?'

'Tea will be fine. English Breakfast.'

'Milk?'

'Sure.'

'Sugar?'

She'd been trying to cut back on sugar. She'd also been trying to take her tea black, but she'd yet to reach that stage. Taking out sugar had been a compromise.

'I'll get you sugar,' Peter said with a smile.

'I need to use the bathroom. Excuse me.'

The cafe had suddenly grown stifling. Standing, she pulled at the collar of her blouse as she stood and pushed her way from the booth. She couldn't even remember sitting down.

She splashed water on her face, faintly aware of the dim bathroom and humming fluorescent lights up ahead. It cast an eerie yellow glow around the tiled room, the walls and floor splotchy with something she couldn't identify. It reminded her of the grimy toilets in seedy underworld parks. Or, maybe, the splotches were just part of the peculiar pattern on the tiles. Whatever reason, it was enough for her to not want to come back to this cafe.

By the time she left the bathroom, their order had already arrived at the table. A slice of rich, dark cake sat in front of Peter, though he hadn't touched it. She could smell the chocolate when she neared.

'That looks decadent,' she remarked as she eased herself back into the booth.

'Better?' he asked.

She nodded, though she didn't feel it. Lying to a priest. Fantastic.

'Try one of the scones.'

They also looked decadent, though in a different way. She could smell the jams. It wasn't just strawberry on display, but a variety of berries: blackberry, blueberry, raspberry, and something that could possibly be cherry.

There was also cream, sweet and rich, and lemon curd. It was a rich yellow, with a faint orange tinge that reminded Winifred with a sudden pang of her grandmother.

Peter picked up one of the scones. Without waiting for her permission, he took a knife and sliced it clean in two. The blade slipped through the middle, a waft of steam coming from it as it was split in half. Balancing both halves on his palm, he dipped the knife in the cream and slathered one side. On the other, he coated it in a thick heaping of lemon card. The scone was put back together and offered to her.

He held it, pinched between two fingers and with his other hand cupped underneath, as though he intended for her to bite it right from his hand. Winifred could feel her cheeks beginning to heat again, as something warm began to unfurl in her stomach. It was strange and oddly pleasant and, quite quickly, wholly unwelcome as she was looked up at him.

She was being watched. Peter's eyes, an uncanny golden hue with freckles in his irises that matched his cheeks, were locked on her. The smile on his mouth wasn't like any she had witnessed in Mass, which was kind and ever so slightly absent in its delivery. His smile now was wide- just a little too wide. She could see the point of his eyeteeth from behind his stretched lips.

The cake lay untouched.

Her stomach growled.

Reaching over, nearly knocking the unseen teapot over in the process, Winifred snatched the scone from his hand. She took a bite of it, a little pointedly (she wasn't about to eat from his hand).

She stopped.

Sweet. Sour. That tang.

She hadn't tasted it since she was a teenager. Sat behind her grandmother's round dining table, a heavily embroidered tablecloth hanging over it, peculiar decorative chickens sitting in the middle as a centrepiece. Lemon curd dripping down her fingers as she bit into large scones, overladen but utterly worth it as her grandmother promised to pass down the recipe before she left for heaven. Sweet and deliciously sour.

'The secret is mandarin,' Peter said with a wink. 'Two squeezes as it's mixed in.'

'Oh.'

Oh. That made sense.

Setting the scone down on the small plate in front of her, Winifred licked the drizzle of curd from her thumb and grabbed the fork beside her with her other hand. In front of her, Peter reached across the table, somehow avoiding the slab of cake, and began to pour her a cup of tea. Though she wanted to stop him, she wasn't quite sure how to go about it. He was being polite, that was all; politeness wasn't a bad trait.

There still wasn't an noise from the kitchen. The radio kept crackling in and out of signal. Sometimes her TV at home did that, when the freight trains passed by town. She couldn't tell if that was the case here. She couldn't hear the blare of the horn or the rattle of the wagons. Looking out the window, she could see nothing but an empty plain.

She didn't think it had looked like that when they'd entered. She was sure there had been a tree.

Had there been a tree? It hurt to think about.

'Have some tea,' Peter said. 'It'll help.'

She didn't think to question what he meant by what it would help. She only nodded and took the cup when he pushed it over to her, the saucer rattling a little. Picking up the cup, she took a sip and felt the warmth of the tea rush through her. It was sweet, which meant sugar, but she couldn't bring herself to think too hard about it.

Scones.

Lemon curd.

Tea.

Her grandmother.

Quiet and thoughtful, with a playful smile on her lips like she knew a great big secret that she was just gushing to tell. There had been a locked chest in the attic, made of old wood and covered in brass buckles and leather straps. A padlock hung off the front, and it was covered in cobwebs after years of being untouched. When Winifred, shorter and chubbier and with ringlets down her back, had asked what lay inside, her grandmother had only whispered, 'a woman is allowed to make sacrifices when needed, dear'.

Winifred hadn't known what that meant at the time, and she still wasn't sure.

'I need to go,' she said suddenly, putting the scone down. 'I need- I, um. I need to go.'

She had thought Peter-maybe-Longinus would have argued, but he didn't. He actually stood and offered her his arm.

'Let me walk you out.'

She might have said okay. She couldn't recall. But she took his arm, and the world went hazy.

*

Her grandmother had been a good Christian woman. She knew her saints, she knew her Commandments and followed all virtues. She attended both Sunday Mass and even Wednesday evenings missa cantata. Winifred would sit next to her and hold her hand, listening to her grandmother's voice echo throughout the church.

But when Winifred tried to engage her in any kind of discussion as to why her grandmother liked going to church, she never received a straight answer. Her father (her grandmother's son) had never been one for attending Mass, and her mother had lapsed years before. Church had been something Winifred engaged with purely for her grandmother, and she had hoped it would bring them closer together.

It had, in a manner of speaking. But their bonds had grown over baking, knitting, and watching medical mystery dramas more than Bible verses and reflecting on various holy days.

'Do you like Mass, Nana?' Winifred had asked once, when she was somewhere between girlhood and her adult years.

'I like attending it with you.'

'Do you like religion, though?'

'I like the structure it provides.'

Winifred had pursed her lips and studied the woman before her. In all her life, it never seemed like her grandmother had aged. Her hair was still a mix of red and white, and grooves were etched into her skin. But instead of being frail and small like other women her age, a vibrancy burned inside her. She looked only a few years older than Winifred's own mother, who had two feet planted in middle age.

She'd looked that way since Winifred was a toddler and attached to her apron strings.

'What else do you get out of it, Nana?'

The question knocked around Winifred's mind.

There came no response.

'What did they take from you?' she asked instead.

'You're asking the wrong question, my Winnie,' her grandmother said. 'Instead, you should be asking what I offered.'

Winifred didn't remember the conversation going this way.

She didn't remember this conversation at all.

*

She awoke disorientated and utterly baffled as to how she got home. It was difficult to tell how much time had passed. Part of her felt like she ought to feel groggy, sore, and not unlike she had a hangover (not that she'd ever been so inclined, but she had been a teenager once). But she also felt incredibly well rested, despite a tackiness in her mouth and a pinch in her jaw from how she'd slept.

Sitting up, she rubbed her head and looked about. She was dressed in her nightgown, her clothes from the day before nowhere to be found. Her hand fell to her face, which she rubbed as she sat up and staggered about. Everything hurt, but she couldn't even describe how.

Somewhere, in another room, her phone was ringing. Forcing herself to wake up, she staggered about, huffing under her breath until she groped for the phone and held it to her ear.

'Hello?'

'Winifred. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you finally decide to answer. I swear, our mother was about to have a conniption.'

'What?'

Her sister was parroting down the line, nagging and scolding at her. Pushing the heel of her hand into her eye, she stumbled towards the kitchen. Her legs felt like jelly.

'I've been trying to reach your for days. Where have you been?'

'Days?' Winifred asked.

It had only been a few hours. She'd come home, collapsed into bed. The hike to the cafe must have taken it out of her. She wasn't used to walking so far, and she hadn't been dressed for it.

But, as she looked about, she wondered just how long she'd been asleep. It looked like morning outside- she'd have come home somewhere in the early afternoon. She was utterly parched, and as she filled her glass with water in the kitchen sink, she was already imagining downing a second.

'What day is it?' she asked.

'Wednesday. What, did you hit your head getting out of bed this morning?'

'Uh. Something like that.'

Wednesday.

It had been Sunday when she'd last been awake.

'Uh. I need- can I call- I need to go. I'll call you this afternoon.'

Winifred dropped the phone as she began to guzzle the first glass of water.

Wednesday. It was Wednesday. Wednesday Wednesday Wednesday.

Yesterday has been Saturday. It was Sunday. Maybe Monday at a stretch. But it wasn't Wednesday, it couldn't possibly be Wednesday, that didn't make any sense.

Wednesday had been missa cantata. Her grandmother had loved missa cantata. It had been the one sole time Winifred could comfortably say her grandmother actually enjoyed going to Mass and it hadn't only been an obligation.

Wednesday Wednesday Wednesday.

She had to get out.

*

Father Longinus didn't take missa cantata, but he was still around the church. Winifred could sense it. He was there, and as she drove over, feeling the oil in her hair, a hint of unwashed grime on her skin and a fuzziness on the back of her unbrushed teeth, Winifred could only feel his presence grow stronger.

She got out of the car. The clothes she'd been wearing since Sunday clung to her. She needed to bathe.

It was like she was attached to a track. She walked down the line of cars, listening to the parishioners inside singing. Her footsteps seemed to move in time with them. She curled her fingers into her palms, grit her teeth and stormed ahead.

The chapel door was open. She stepped inside.

Holy water. She should bless herself.

Before she could even reach the stoup, though, her name was called.

'Ah, Sister Winifred. It's wonderful to see you again. Are you well?'

'Don't Sister Winifred me!' she snapped.

Father Longinus- Peter- was standing in the aisle of the chapel. He looked at her, his brows shooting up. He was holding some type of long, spindly brass burner, and she was briefly taken aback by it.

'What- what are you doing?'

Peter looked at the burner, then up at her. 'Lighting incense for evensong. Are you well, Winifred?'

She was getting distracted. The incense was stronger than what was lit in the church itself, and she could briefly recall someone saying the former priest before Father Longinus had disliked it. Maybe he'd continued it on without knowing the reasons why.

'What did you do?'

She didn't mean about the incense.

He picked that up right away. He lowered the burner, extinguished it, and set it down on one of the pews. His robes were black, and briefly she wondered if he was wearing another bright red shirt underneath.

'I took you home,' he said, his hands folded in front of him. 'You seemed unwell. Perhaps the heat? I drove you home, made sure you were safe inside and left. Why? Are you afraid something untoward- '

'Stop.' Winifred held up a hand and shook her head. 'That's not what I meant.'

'What do you mean, then, Sister Winifred?'

'What did you do to my grandmother?'

Peter grew still. His jaw was set and his lips grew into a thin line. His eyes bored into her, and Winifred felt a chill race through her.

She'd never been looked at like that before. She was well aware of the grease in her hair, and a patch on her blouse where she must have drooled in her three-day slumber. Her cheek probably still had indents in it from the pillow.

Before her, Peter clicked his tongue. He was likely to deny it. He had only started at Saint Andrews some months earlier. Months, or was it years? It was long after her grandmother's time. He had every right to deny it, though. Her not-quite-departure, a leave of absence that no one ever lingered on. It was easier to consider it a death than a disappearance.

'I am not responsible for your grandmother, Winifred.'

'But you know what happened to her?'

He paused. Studied her. He bowed his head, and for a moment she thought he was going to nod, but he only merely picked up the burner.

'You should shower, Sister.'

'I deserve an answer!' she spat out, not even realising how loud she was until her voice cracked.

Peter looked at her, as visibly surprised as she felt. In his hand he gripped the burner. The sleeve of his vestment has slid up, and underneath she saw a strip of crimson.

'And what will you offer in turn?' he asked.

He turned and headed up the nave to the northern transept. Winifred, with a shudder, turned and left.

*

For two weeks, Winifred avoided attending Mass. She stayed in bed, telling herself she needed the extra sleep for thin reasons, but instead of closing her eyes, she watched the time on her alarm clock tick away. The needle rounded around and around, taunting her as she pulled the blankets up to her chin and considered the merits in adopting a cat.

Her sister was unexpectedly made redundant, along with a dozen other employees at her company. There was a four-car pile up on the highway outside of town, with no known cause. A neighbour lost their child; not to illness or misadventure, but literally in a shopping mall. He was found again the following day, all parts intact, and alone a little hungry and a touch exhausted.

Winifred's headaches nagged at her. She rubbed salve on her temples, upped the amount of water she drank in the day and had her eyes tested.

Something nagged at her. It was uncomfortable name, and more uncomfortable to think too hard about.

Father Longinus haunted her. He followed her into her dreams, peeking around the shadowy corners of her mind. She saw him in the faces of her nighttime spectres, whispering at her in a language she didn't understand. It was him but it wasn't him.

It didn't frighten her. Not really. On some hazy aspect, yes, it did concern her, that Peter-but-not-really-Peter was lingering about in her memory like that and burrowing into her mind even at her most private moments. But, when she awoke in the morning, she found herself comforted by it. Although the world around her had grown a little more sour, with each passing thing that should effect her but didn't, she found herself enjoying her dreams more and more.

*

On Sunday morning, Winifred opened her front door in anticipation of going for a stroll, only to be greeted by her grandmother's chest. It sat upon her welcome mat, as though it had been left there by a delivery person who didn't care if it would be taken by a thief. Winifred stared at it, a slue of jumbled thoughts hitting her one after the other.

Her father was meant to have the chest.

Her father hadn't said he'd be sending the chest to her.

Her father would have never parted with his deceased mother's belongings so carelessly.

There were no deliveries on a Sunday.

The chest was not meant to be sitting on her front porch.

Somebody had left it there for her to find.

Winifred stepped back and shut the door. Her hand splayed out on the back of it, her other hand still holding the latch, her keys wedged under her palm and digging in. Her grandmother's chest, her deceased grandmother's chest, was meant to be sitting in her parent's attic, under a cotton sheet to protect it, along with her grandmother's wedding dress, veil, and well-worn Bible. Winifred had never asked for any of it to be given to her upon her grandmother or parent's passing, but she'd always quietly hoped.

She gripped the door handle and opened up the door again. The chest still sat there. She stared at it. Looked up and down the street. Turned back down to it.

The chest was still there.

Right.

Picking up the chest (and mildly surprised by the heft of it, though she couldn't tell if she was surprised that it was heavier than she expected, but also lighter), she carried it into her kitchen. It gave a solid thump as she set it down upon her dining table, the padlock on the front giving a small jangle in the process.

The chest stared at her, and something heavy moved within her. There was a lump, somewhere between her ribs and lungs. It almost felt like indigestion, though more solid.

Her fingers ran over the wood, worn smooth over the years despite having been hidden from view. There wasn't an ounce of dust upon it, and any cobwebs had been dusted up. Even the brass looked polished and the leather polished. She couldn't recall it ever being that clean- it almost looked new, if she didn't know any better.

Fine. This was fine.

She just couldn't be alone with it.

She just had to get out of the house.

She found herself driving, the streets rolling out in front of her, and the whole while she told herself she was just driving. Here she was, letting the passing world clear her thoughts, without an ounce of worry as to where she was going.

It was true. It had to be true. And though she knew it was undeniably false, and that even if her mind said otherwise, she knew instinctively where she had to go. Past the houses, around the corner, up to the coffee strip. The steeple of the church hovered in her rear view mirror, an omen or a beacon. Both, perhaps.

Up the coffee strip, where her heart hammered in her chest. One window, two, a group of people with half-recognisable faces. Mass would be finished for the day. She was sure she'd woken up early to go for her walk so she could avoid seeing anyone she knew, but perhaps she was way off.

She drove. Face forward, force her mind to be clear, ignore everything go on around her. Past houses and cafes and buildings she didn't recoginse. Out and out, until the trees grew sparse.

There was the cafe.

She'd only been here once before, yet somehow she hadn't faltered in her journey.

The car came to a stop near the entrance. She wasn't certain if it was a legal parking bay but, given how desolate the road was, she doubted she'd be in much trouble.

Out she stepped, the gravel crunching beneath her feet. One step, two, and before she could eve close the car door, the cafe door opened to reveal Peter. Neither seemed surprised to see the other, though Winifred hadn't even known she would be driving here. He wore is holy vestments. The cassock was black, his collar a stiff and crisp white around his throat.

'Hello, Sister Winifred.'

'Hello, Father Longinus.'

'You shouldn't be here.'

'No.' A pause. Then, 'my grandmother's chest turned up at my door. Did you put it there?'

Peter didn't respond, but there was just the tiniest, most infinitesimal twitch of his lip. His eyes darted to the side for the smallest moment. Winifred would have missed it, if she hadn't been stuck staring him down. He shook his head.

'Liar.'

'No, I'm not.'

Winifred's heart was hammering in her throat. She grit her teeth, fists balled up at her sides, and stared him down. Peter took several steps forward, and while she initially thought he was approaching her, he walked right past and stepped to the rear passenger door. His finger tapped on the glass window.

'Is that it?'

She didn't even recall putting the chest in there. Her last memory was of leaving it on the kitchen table. 'Yes.'

'It shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be here.'

'But I am.'

'Do you even know what's inside it?'

It was Winifred's turn to swallow hard. Assessing her, Peter made a small noise from the back of his throat and opened the car door.

'Let's get this inside. Get the door for me, will you?'

Winifred saw him pick up the crate. At least she thought she did. She could half-recall stepping to open the door, and the next moment she blinked, she found herself standing next to him in the cafe beside a table. The crate was sitting on the table. Her hand was around the lock.

That lump inside her moved. She felt sick.

'I don't understand,' she found herself saying.

She pulled the lock. The shackle released with a click. It slid through the latch, with no sign of wear or damage to be seen. Holding the lock in her hand, Winifred shook her head. That shouldn't have happened. None of this could have happened.

She set the lock on the table and placed a hand on the top of the chest. The lump was growing tighter, thicker, firmer in her throat. Swallowing did nothing to fix it, and neither did coughing.

A firm had wrapped around her shoulder. It was comforting. At the very least, she took it for comfort, even if Peter seemed a little stilted in it, as though he wasn't sure if this was what people did.

Winifred opened the lid.

The chest was lined in a crushed red velvet, so deep it almost looked burgundy. The stitching had come loose in some parts, and it hung loosely, billowing and rippling out as Winifred carefully pushed the lid back.

The contents of the chest were covered by a swath of black cotton. Picking it out, she handed it to Peter, who tossed it over his arm like a dish cloth. Winifred paid it the most casual glance, before turning to the contents of the chest.

In her mind, when she had clung to girlish daydreams and a belief the past was coloured in sienna and grayscale hues, she had thought her grandmother's chest would be filled with a treasure of wonders. Photographs of distant family members, books with crumbling pages, pressed flowers and wafting potpourri.

Those things didn't exist in the chest.

Instead, she was greeted with a baby blanket. Yellow ducklings and lavender rattles were pressed into soft terrycloth. She slowly pulled it out, bafflement coursing through her as she held it in both hands. It smelt of talc and musky rose, something so achingly familiar but impossibly distant.

Underneath was a stuffed bear. Peter took the blanket from her as she reached in and took the bear out; it was the only other item in the chest. The bear was worn thin in parts, the fur nothing more than a small nub. The nose had been ripped in part, and one of the button eyes was hanging on by a thread. Although there was a strike of familiarity to it, Winifred still couldn't place it.

Turning the bear over, she shook her head. Something tugged at her, and the lump in her throat grew thicker as she lifted the bear to her nose.

Talc and musky rose. There, right there. Filling her as she closed her eyes and breathed in the bear.

Nana.

The haziest memory filled Winifred's mind. She'd have been incredibly young. Still in diapers, with teeth coming in and barely eating solids. Her grandmother, less gray and less wrinkles, holding her to her chest. The blanket was wrapped around Winifred, the bear was grabbed in one fist, and she gurgled as nonsense words and sounds were whispered against her brow.

'Winifred?'

Her eyes snapped up to Peter. His eyes, a swirling mix of gold and deep amber, were locked on her. The women at church liked to remark that his eyes were sweet and kind, or, for those who liked to sit in the front pew, described his gaze as reverent and holy. Winifred had never thought that. Now, though, she realised he was watching her with a level of concern.

'What is this?' she asked him.

'I think you know.'

She wanted to believe she didn't. This was all just some misunderstanding, a weird pair of items that Winifred's grandmother had stored away. She had probably intended to keep a whole collection of Winifred's belongings over the years as keepsakes, and maybe hand them back when she was grown.

That could have been it.

Really.

But the lump in her chest and throat twisted, and as her hands began to tremble and she found Peter gripping her shoulder again to steady her, Winifred knew that wasn't the case.

'She had made an offering,' she finally said.

Turning the stuffed bear over in her hands, which was filled with smells from her youngest years, Winifred tried to breathe through the shock. That was what her dream had told her. The conversation couldn't have ever happened in reality, she hadn't even known about the chest, and yet-

And yet-

'Did she make it to you?'

'What?'

'Did she make the offering to God?'

Peter frowned and shook his head, his nose crinkling up a little. 'No.'

'But you know who she made it to, right?'

He didn't try to deny it. He didn't even pretend to act like she was being mad. He levelled her with a steady gaze, the corners of his mouth pinched.

'I have an idea,' he admitted.

'Who was it?'

'I think you know.'

Her heart was hammering in her chest with such an intensity that Winifred thought she was going to fall over. Her fingers dug into the bear, and she reached out to grab the blanket that Peter held. In doing so, she took his hand into her own, his other hand still resting upon her shoulder. It was the only thing that kept her upright at that moment.

Despite attending church every Sunday and all other holy days, despite the prominent Bible in her home, despite Winifred's enthusiastic discussions with her about passages and parables, her grandmother had told her (even admitted to her) that religion had never been of high importance to her.

Her grandmother had made an offering. To someone, for something.

And, as Winifred squeezed the bear in her hand and the lump in her throat grew thicker, she found herself struggling to accept what the what was.

'But... but I've always been such a good Christian woman.'

'The irony isn't lost on me, Winifred.'

She studied his cassock and wondered if underneath his shirt was another crimson red. With a trembling hand, she squeezed his wrist as she tried to wrap her head around what she was being told. A thousand questions spiralled in her mind, and she had no idea which to ask first.

'Am I safe?' she finally asked.

'As safe as anyone ever is, I suppose.'

'Am I in any imminent danger?'

'You could walk out that door, head home and be struck by a car. That would be an unfortunate accident, but not one I, or any of my followers, would have arranged.'

'What will happen to me when I die?'

'I will take ownership of your soul.'

Winifred's eyes dropped. She stared at Peter's chest, her hand squeezing his own.

'Why?' she finally dared to ask, though she was unable to raise her voice above a whisper.

Peter let go of her shoulder. His fingers slid across, a whisper of a caress along her shoulder and collarbone, to the soft and delicate underside of her jaw. He tipped her face up, and she was struck by the intensity of his gaze.

'Because, my dear Sister Winifred, it's a family tradition.'

A slow exhale passed from Winifred's lips. She would have been surprised at how steady it was, if her attention wasn't so rapt upon Father Longinus and the way he held her gaze.

'A world of hedonistic delight is at your doorstep, and you only need to come with me to experience it. You align yourself to a God that has forgotten you, and offered you neither reward or punishment for your efforts. Turn yourself over to what you truly cherish and desire, and I will give you what your heart desires.'

'And what's that?'

Father Longinus smiled. His eyeteeth showed, as they had before in this very cafe.

She could smell lemon curd. Sweet and sour and oh-so-rich she could very well taste her. Her grandmother was preparing it, somewhere in this very cafe, and oh, she knew that so very well. Scones were baking in the kitchen and tea was being brewed.

The kitchen had never been empty, she just hadn't known what she was looking for.

The lump in her throat had spread out, but, she realised curiously, it wasn't a lump any more. It was warm and filling and came with the most comforting feeling. It only brought discomfort due to unfamiliarity.

It was home.

Father Longinus still watched her. One hand cupped her jaw, the other still held her hand.

'Unconditional devotion.'

Oh, yes. She supposed she could turn herself over to that.