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Back when they lived together — and on a few occasions after they stopped — Jean would be tasked on occasion to take Barbara to church instead of their father, who had a habit of overindulging when he was invited to partake in drink at this party or at that event. It was always expected for Jean to be in attendance at the service, which she always was, injury or sickness notwithstanding, and she would have accompanied her family there even if her father was less — afflicted, only she would be charged, these times, to take Barbara alone, which was a departure from their normal routine, but not a significant one.
She would stand in front of her sister's bedroom door, or, later, the front door, and knock softly until someone let her in, either Barbara herself or a servant, and then her sister (always on time, but always in a hurry) would flutter out of the door, pressing her fingers over the tips of her curls, and she'd say, I'm here, I'm ready, as if she was afraid Jean would have left her behind.
Jean would respond every time, I don't mind waiting, but Barbara would shake her head no, and she'd insist, I'm done, really, let's go, and Jean had never been in possession of an argumentative nature: she would pick up her things from where she'd left them in the mudroom on their way out, and Jean would trouble the servants to look after the estate in their absence, and they'd leave, on the dirt-beaten path, on the way to the city, often on carriage, sometimes on horseback, rarely on foot. Barbara tended to exhaust herself before they reached their destination when they walked, but she had no trouble reading her copy of the scripture seated on their trundling travel to the walled city, and Jean would sit there, her sword resting across her knees, and vaguely think about asking her a question about how her studies were doing, or what it was like being a Sister out of courtesy, and in the end she'd miss the timing and say nothing at all.
On occasion Barbara would ask Jean what her thoughts were regarding this story about Barbatos, or what her impressions were about this account of Arundolyn, and whether she thought of this figure kindly, or did she manage to understand the lesson from that chapter? She would always provide her answer diplomatically, although she had always possessed the vague impression that Barbara was more devout than her, and understood the morals and precepts their parables were supposed to impart upon them. There was a certain sense of ritual to her prayer that Jean's did not possess, though it was not a question of believing — there was no doubt that Lord Barbatos existed — but aptitude.
Their conversation would rarely diverge from these set routes. But there were times when the last statement that Jean had managed to muster had left her throat, and Barbara would fall silent, and they would be subjected to the interminable rolling of the wheels … when discussions of faith had petered out, and Barbara would pause, grasping at her dress, herself, the edges of her book, and hesitate, stumbling over her words: have you ever thought, about a Vision, whether you might receive one, whether the gods would give them to you, or why they give them…
Visions were mysterious. Diluc had received his early, although she rarely saw it these days, after the novelty of Diluc's casual mastery of fire had worn off for him — when he'd first received it, he'd made little plumes of fire, flickering illusions that'd dart and smoke around thin air, and melt the frost off of the windows in the buildings bordering Dragonspine in patterns, and he'd used it in combat, here and there, although only by water or in the rain, after he'd nearly burned down a patch of the woods. She'd thought about it briefly then: whether she'd ever receive one of her own.
Have you thought about it? Jean would answer, faintly curious. Wondering if, after all, Barbara had not wanted to pursue the footsteps of their father, the Seneschal, and instead wanted to pursue something related instead to his earlier career as an adventurer. Barbara had always been interested in trying a variety of things ever since they were children: running around to wield this weapon or that weapon until it became readily apparent that she did not have what it took to become a knight, and then, gamely, that skill or that skill, dancing and darts and brewing, looking for what suited her even with the unspoken presumption that she would one day join the folds of the church.
Oh, no, Barbara would say hastily, waving her hands in front of her chest. Never. And the conversation would die there.
Upon arriving at the city gate, Jean would disembark and greet the Knights of Favonius standing watch, and Barbara would lean outward but never fully descend, hesitating as she watched them. But her sister was more familiar with the others in the city, the adventurers and shopkeepers, who all greeted her affectionately, and Barbara would greet them back, startled every time into smiling as people called for her; rarely ever were they addressed together.
By the time that they climbed the final steps to the front doors of the church, the service would not be long behind them. Barbara would linger once more, and it was then that Jean would quietly wait for her as she'd offered before until her sister at last mustered her courage and entered, clutching her belongings to her chest, into the embrace of the church. The sunlight pouring through the stained glass would suffuse her skin with color, the white of her dress colored gold, and Jean would cast a glance at the statue of Barbatos that hid them behind his back just outside that grand entrance. He would stand there in his unmoving vigil, and Jean, letting the door close behind her, would go to perform her own duty, her own service.
"You're here," said Rosaria. She was leaning against one of the pillars overlooking the statue of their archon, taken off-guard, it seemed, by Jean's sudden arrival, although it was hard to discern from her features. The faint sound of rain overhead hit the vents of the roof and trickled downward, puddling into the periphery of their awareness; overcast with clouds was the moon above, casting them in shades of blued night instead of silver.
"Yes," said Jean, turning to greet her. She held the sheath of her sword in one hand, the edges of her hair clinging damply to the sides of her face from where she'd been walking in the downpour earlier before she'd come to seek shelter from the storm. Politely: "Good evening, Sister Rosaria."
"It's past evening now," the Sister said, although she hardly seemed troubled by the remark. The web of her veil glistened with interwoven water. Rosaria pulled at it with her fingers, ignoring how it caught here and there against her nails, and wrung out the damp onto the stones underfoot. Droplets splattered downward. "Don't tell me you came to pray at this hour."
Jean's gaze flickered to the glowing windows of the building in the distance. An answer: "The church is still open, isn't it?"
A scoff, an abbreviated tilt of the head. Sure, I guess. The casual acquiescence of someone who had no skin in the game: mild-natured was not a word often used to describe Sister Rosaria, but her passivity could be taken for indifference had her observation not been so sharp — she looked at Jean with a skepticism bereft of action. "You didn't strike me as the type that needed to make confessions in the middle of the night."
Jean smiled, a concession of her own. "No, I suppose I didn't."
"If you're looking for Barbara, she already left." The edge of her nail, glossy, flicked the wet off of her bare fingers. She wore her Vision closer to her front than Jean did. The pale blue of it glowed softly, casting glistening light across their surroundings like frost.
"No," said Jean. She looked briefly in the direction of the Pegg estate. In this weather, the carriage must have been afflicted with troubles: the mud-slick roads, the slippery grass … but she was not overworried; Barbara's healing afforded her a rare degree of protection, and the servants in her father's employ were well-accustomed to traversing the dangers of Mondstadt. After all, her mother had once personally selected them. "She must have left early to escape the rain."
"She always leaves at the same time," said Rosaria. She looked at Jean through minutely narrowed eyes, then shrugged and crossed her arms. "She starts work in the mornings."
"I see," offered Jean.
"You're really not interested in her, are you?" Without a trace of surprise: but Rosaria had never spoken of her own family, which said enough, even in Mondstadt, which was inextricably tied with lineage despite its free-roaming reputation. Kaeya might know more — they seemed close, and he would look, if she asked, until she had her answers, she was sure, but she had never asked. The curiosity necessary to prompt the question did not exist.
"We've never been particularly close."
"I know," Rosaria said. Looking at her down the slope of her nose, who do you take me for, in response to Jean saying something obvious, something that hadn't needed to be said. She saw that expression often, though it was softened here by the lack of expectation in Rosaria's expression, the lack of anything at all. "She doesn't even call you by your first name."
"I didn't know that Barbara and you were close," said Jean. Distantly wondering. Their natures were not particularly alike, after all, for all they worked side-by-side in the Church of Favonius.
Rosaria's eyebrows rose. Her veil was twisted from where she'd forced the water out. "We're not," she said, and she didn't sound as if she cared if Jean believed her or not at all. A passing remark: "But she doesn't have very many secrets, does she?"
"I'm sure I wouldn't know." But it made sense, she supposed. There was not much space for deception in front of the gods, and Barbara had never been prone to lying as a child — only here and there, when she'd broken a plate and was worried about the consequences, but it had been grown out of, along with the high-chairs that she'd used to occupy, the miniature silverware. The unknown of Barbara was not secrets kept from Jean; instead, it was the parts of her that Jean was ignorant of.
"Wouldn't you?" said Rosaria. Slightly cutting, slightly blunt. "It's what made me see the resemblance."