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Sunlight filters through stained glass, dripping soft amethyst on Terzo’s hands above the altar. Candlelight glints off the gold embroidery on his robes and the flame dances in his eyes when he looks up at the assembled Siblings and Ghouls. At first, Mass had scared you even as it thrilled you. It had been two older Siblings who had met you at the gate when you arrived on your first day, and they had welcomed you warmly, hurrying you inside away from the November chill and showing you to a small, cosy bedroom immediately. They explained over tea and biscuits in a small kitchenette what would be involved in the Black Mass that evening, and it had all seemed fairly tame – some chanting, an invocation of Lucifer to be present and a prayer to him to watch over the Ministry and its inhabitants and the Ghost project, prayers of intercession and of praise… nothing shocking, nothing vastly different from what you had done in the privacy of your bedroom since you were fourteen. All of the very serious stuff, the summoning rituals and initiations and so on, were performed in private, by Papa Secondo, Sister Imperator, other members of the Clergy, and sometimes very senior Siblings of Sin. The Ministry, you were told, should be thought of as a home for like-minded people who didn’t fit in anywhere else, not as some kind of monastery.

Once you actually experienced it for the first time, though, you began to doubt that assessment. Your hands trembled as the music swelled and Papa Secondo strode into the chapel, his black robes sweeping the floor, his shoes clicking against stone, his head held high. If his ritual garb hadn’t conveyed who he was with enough emphasis, you could have told immediately from his posture. He didn’t look at the Siblings as he walked down the aisle, and when he began to chant, his deep voice resounding and reverberating around you, he kept his cool gaze focused firmly on the far end of the chapel, where hung a painting twice your height of Satan holding out an apple as if to offer it to the viewer. Secondo’s chanting grew louder, and the Siblings began to join him, and soon everyone around you was chanting the same Latin invocation. You only learnt later what any of it meant. A cold wind swept through the chapel, and you looked at the Sibling to your right, who smiled at you encouragingly. Then all at once the cold was replaced by what felt like the heat of a campfire deep in your chest. There was no doubt in your mind who it was. You watched as Secondo drew unfamiliar shapes in the air with a black-handled knife that glinted coldly in the moonlight, as he poured what you hoped was wine into an ornate silver chalice from an opaque black bottle; you stayed still in your seat as around two thirds of the congregation filed to the front of the room to drink from the chalice and returned to their pews with an expression halfway between serenity and ecstasy. Secondo’s sermons were slow, serious, and learned. He seemed to recite his words rather than speak them – you wondered, when you found yourself too tired to pay attention, if he wrote his sermons and then practiced them in front of a mirror, intoning in his head as he brushed his teeth… When the Mass was over, and you had mumbled “Hail” after each prayer, as the heat faded to a warmth like glowing embers, Secondo had placed the athame into the centre of the altar and then strode out as detachedly as he had entered, Sister Imperator following behind.

Terzo, now, does things a little differently. He had placed a small card at every seat with a translation of the Latin, and, though his entrance into the chapel is just as dramatic as Secondo’s, it is somewhat less sombre. His black robes billow behind him, the organ music surges through its crescendo as he ascends to the altar, but as he walks he nods to the Siblings, offering a smile to those who meet his eye, and as he performs the invocation to Lucifer he lets his gaze wander about the congregation. There are some who prefer Secondo’s style, calling Papa Terzo a showman, but just as many seem to appreciate his acknowledgement of the Siblings and Ghouls, his more communal approach to ritual. The Black Mass, he frequently mentions during sermons, is a time for the inhabitants of the Ministry to come together with a common purpose, to be with each other in the presence of Lord Lucifer, to reaffirm their commitment to each other as well as to their faith. Black Mass was the only time the Clergy, the Ghouls, and the Siblings were all together. Terzo’s sermons are frequently delivered not from behind the altar, but from the steps, high enough to be seen from the back of the chapel, but close enough to make clear that he was talking to the congregation, not into a mirror. He keeps them a little shorter too, and you’ve dozed off in fewer of Terzo’s sermons than Secondo’s.

The front row of seats is reserved for the Clergy: Sister Imperator in the front left, by the aisle, with an empty seat beside her where Papa Nihil used to sit; Primo, Secondo, and various cardinals on the right of the aisle; guest preachers – usually from overseas ministries – sit at either edge. The Ghouls sit in the back rows, a convention of Sister’s that Terzo was still working to soften. It had been a big enough step when he insisted they be allowed to be referred to by name, at least within Ministry walls. You still hold your breath when Sister enters – last before the Papa – and casts a dispassionate eye over the congregation before taking her seat.

If Papa Terzo was aware of the effect his mother had on the Siblings, he never acknowledged it. In fact, he never referred to her as his mother at all, as far you knew. It was just presumed: Sister and Nihil’s relationship, and the unmistakable single white eye shared by every Papa essentially confirmed it as far as the Siblings were concerned. Nihil had never especially scared you, so infirm in his old age that he could not even attend Mass most days. But if it had been Sister who had met you when you first arrived at the Ministry, alone and afraid, you know for sure that you would not have stuck around. As it was, the Siblings and Ghouls who showed you to her office once you’d had a few days to settle in made sure to prepare you. She isn’t really all that influential in the residential parts of the Ministry, they had told you. If you want to move up the ranks and take part in the arcane mysteries of the Ministry, then you can worry about Sister. For now, they had told you, just be polite, and answer her questions quickly. Do not waste her time. You got through the formalities and bureaucratic details painlessly enough, but if you never again have to feel the intensity of her gaze on you alone, you will be glad.

You’re sat towards the back of the chapel today, just in front of the Ghouls, in an aisle seat. Sister still insists they wear their masks when on Ministry duty; you’re slowly getting better at telling them apart, but in the darkness of the chapel you still can’t be sure who is sitting behind you. That is, until you recognise Omega’s voice in your right ear, suddenly so close you feel his breath on your skin. He apologises when you startle.

     “Was just going to say – if you want company on any of your nighttime walks, do feel free to stop by the Ghoul common room.” He keeps his voice low, barely audible above the organ. You turn to face him.

     “Oh, thanks,” you whisper, unsure of how else to respond.

     “I don’t mean to pry, and there’s no pressure, if you want to be alone,” he says. “Well, so long as you’re sober. I’ve had to drag a few too many drunk Siblings out of the lake after parties…” You snicker, a little too loudly. A sharp cough from beside you has you snapping back to face the front, unwilling to glance even out of the corner of your eye at the woman you know is standing in the aisle beside you. There’s absolute silence from the Ghouls behind you. Finally you hear her shoes begin clicking again and she walks to the front; you stare down at your lap as she glances around the room. You don’t hear any of Terzo’s sermon, but you do meet his eyes for a second as he leaves the chapel, a slight smile on his painted lips. Everyone remains seated until both he and Sister have left, the echo of their footsteps fading. As you stand to leave, Omega taps you on the shoulder. He leans in close.

     “Her bark’s worse than her bite,” he murmurs. You’re not sure if you believe him.

You don’t sleep well that night, and you’re not sure why. You toss and turn until you hear the muted clicking of boots on stone – a Ghoul doing the rounds of the Ministry. You see the light of their torch through the crack in your door frame. When you finally drift off to sleep, Marshmallow held loosely in one hand, you have dreams that you cannot recall by morning but that leave you with the same feeling you used to get when you realised, halfway to school, that there was homework due that you hadn’t done. You sigh heavily and get dressed before heading to the cafeteria.

You were supposed to be meeting Natalie for breakfast, but she wasn’t there when you arrived, so you picked a spot by the window, as far from the noisy kitchen as you could. Natalie would know to find you there.

     “Mind if I join you?”

You pause, toast halfway to your mouth. Papa Terzo has already put his half-drunk mug of coffee down on your table, but he doesn’t sit, just hovers above you. He reminds you distinctly of Cardinal Copia, as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, waiting a tad awkwardly for your reply. The remnants of his papal makeup are still smudged around his eyes.

     “That’s OK,” you say, moving your tray of food to make sure it’s not in his way. “Good morning Papa.”

     “I won’t bother you long,” he says, taking a seat. He doesn’t have any food with him. “Sister Natalie is in the queue, she’s already, ah, spotted you. I just wanted to say hello. I haven’t seen you since – you know. It’s been, what, a few weeks? Just thought I should check in, si?”

     “Oh, uh, thanks? I’m doing OK,” you say, panic rising in your throat. “I… I’m sorry about… that.”

     “Caro,” he waves his hand dismissively. “No need for that. You are feeling better now, though, si?” You nod. “And, ah,” he lowers his voice, “Sister was in a bad mood yesterday. I think she, ah, startled you a little, at Mass? Don’t mind her. It was me she was cross with, really.” He winks. Before you can respond, Natalie is placing her tray beside yours.

     “Morning Papa,” she says to Terzo. “How are you?”

     “Oh, I’m doing well, grazie caro,” he replies. You resist the urge to smirk as the tips of your friend’s ears turn faintly pink. “How are you?”

     “I’m good, Papa,” she replies, tucking her hair behind her ear.

     “Glad to hear it. I’ll leave you two in peace,” he says, smiling warmly at you both before he walks away. Natalie takes his place opposite you, moving her tray and immediately tucking in to a bowl of porridge loaded with her usual mountain of frozen blueberries. You finish your own breakfast slowly.

     “Did he – did he wink at you?” Natalie lowers her voice to a stage whisper. You roll your eyes at her. “No, I’m serious! He never winks at me, and you’re probably the only person here not interested in him like that!”

     “He was joking,” you assure her, laughing. “Anyway, I’m definitely not the only one, you just have a thing for men old enough to be your dad…” Behind her, you’re surprised to see Terzo still in the cafeteria. You watch over Natalie’s shoulder as he pulls some paper from his jacket pocket, unfolds it, and stoops over a table to write something on it. Natalie disregards your teasing with a playful glare and continues eating.

     “Oh, by the way,” she leans forward, putting down her spoon. “Ben officially asked out Ryan, finally, and –”

     “Congratulations to him.” Natalie jumps at Terzo’s voice behind her. “Scusa,” he laughs. He moves to your side of the table and hands you the paper, folded neatly. “I think you left this in my office – your theology notes, si?” he says. You’re too confused to say anything, and he leaves quickly without waiting for you to reply.

     “In his office?”

     “Oh. I…” You stuff the paper into your pocket quickly.

     “You normally come to me for help with theology,” Natalie says, in mock offence. She places a hand over her heart. “Oh, I am wounded!”

     “Shut up,” you laugh, heart racing. “Anyway, Ben and Ryan?”

     “Right! Yes! SO…”

Once you’re back in your room, you finally read what Terzo had written.

I meant to say: please don’t be embarrassed about being upset in front of me. Ask for help before things get that bad again. If you need someone, you know where to find me.

You reread the note, hands trembling. You take a few deep breaths, then lie back down on your bed, Marshmallow clutched tightly to your chest.

Sister Imperator doesn’t scare you any more. She’s just a stern old lady, no different from the strict teachers you always managed to stay just on the right side of in school, no different from your aunt who never smiled at you and never had anything nice to say but never actually said anything unkind either. You insist to yourself, every time she looks down her nose at you in the corridor, that you are not afraid of her. You nod politely, smile at her, and ignore the fact that when she returns the smile it doesn’t meet her eyes.

     “It’s not just you,” Brother Ryan says as you wait for your ritual studies class to begin. “She doesn’t seem to like any of us.” He grabs a pen from your pencil case, raising his eyebrows in lieu of asking permission in words. You roll your eyes and nod. “Thanks. Maybe she doesn’t dislike us, she just has resting bitch face.”

     “Yeah, maybe,” you reply. “Oh – speak of the devil.”

     “What the hell is she doing here?” Ben whispers from the seat behind you.

Sister Imperator sits down at the desk and surveys the class coolly. The room falls silent.

     “Sister Emily is unwell. I’m taking the ritual class today in her place.” Her voice is quiet, but firm. “I’ve been informed you had reached the second chapter of the handbook with her, so we’ll begin by reviewing the first…”

Sister Emily never does surprise tests. She rarely does tests at all. You look at Ryan in panic, a pit opening up in your stomach.

     “Relax, you’re good at this,” he murmurs.

     “I missed a bunch of classes, though,” you whisper. “I’ve barely caught up! I’m screwed.”

     “I didn’t say it was to be a team effort, did I, Siblings?” Sister is glaring at you and Ryan. Your breath catches in your throat and you mutter an apology.

After an agonising twenty minutes of aural questions, Sister has you mark each other’s work. Ryan hands back your paper with an apologetic look. 15 out of 40, and your diagram of a ritual circle is covered in corrections in purple biro.

     “Right, I’ll go round the room and you can tell me your marks,” Sister says.

     “In front of everyone?” Ryan asks.

     “Yes, in front of the class, Brother Ryan,” Sister replies sharply. “It’s the quickest way for me to get an idea of where you’re all at. Is that some kind of problem?”

     “No,” Ryan says meekly, “I just –”

     “Good. Sister Hannah?”

     “35.”

     “Brother Shivam?”

     “37.”

Your chest tightens with every Sibling called on, and you can’t look at Sister.

     “Brother Ryan?”

     “38.”

Your name is called. You take a deep breath, but just before you can speak, Ryan has taken the paper from you.

     “Sorry Sister, I think I made a mistake – can you come back to us?”

     “We can cover any issues at the end, Ryan,” Sister sighs. “What was the mark?”

     “Oh it would be unfair to embarrass them if I messed up marking their work, though–”

     “Brother Ryan!” Sister almost shouts, and you flinch. “Just let your friend read their mark, and we can move on with the class,” she says more quietly.

     “I got 15,” you whisper.

     “What was that?” Sister raises her eyebrow at you.

     “15.”

     “15 out of 40,” Sister repeats. She stares at you for a second, tuts once, then moves on.

The rest of the lesson passes without incident; you don’t dare even glance at Ryan, and you keep your eyes glued to the blackboard. Your right leg bounces anxiously under the desk. When the hour is finally up and Sister dismisses the class, you look at your hands and realise in dismay that you’ve been picking at your nails, unaware until now that they’re short and raw and, in one case, bleeding. You stand up quickly, knocking your pencil case onto the floor in the process. You hear Sister huff in frustration. By the time you and Ryan have gathered up all your things and are heading to the door, the rest of the class has left. Sister calls your name. Ryan waits for you, but Sister tells him sternly that he is free to go.

     “Now,” she says to you, smiling politely. “If you are struggling in this class, we can always have you join the new converts in the beginner class. Ritual work is dangerous if you don’t get it right. Or, of course, not every Sibling must aspire to enter the Clergy. Ritual and theological education are optional, you know.”

Your face heats up in shame.

     “It’s – it’s OK,” you say quickly, “I just missed a couple of classes because I was – I was ill, so – I’ll have this stuff down in a few more days, I’m sure.”

     “I see. Well, I’m sure you’ve thought ahead and have borrowed someone’s notes to catch up properly this week,” Sister says. “You’re free to go, but I do expect you to take this seriously, if you’re going to do it at all.”

You nod and practically run out of the room, your heart racing. You dump your belongings in your bedroom, thanking Lucifer that you have no more classes today, and grab a nail file to fix your ragged nails. You sit on the floor, slumped against your bed, and take some deep breaths. It’s not a big deal, it’s literally just one small test. She didn’t even say anything that bad! You’ve failed tests before, it’s fine, don’t be so stupid…

At dinner, you sit with your friends in the hall. Papa Terzo, Sister Imperator, Primo, Secondo, and various members of the Clergy sit at the high table, while the Siblings sit where they please. Portraits of previous Papas stare down solemnly at you from the walls; you never quite got used to that. Your friends chatter around you, and you hear Ryan telling Natalie about the ritual studies class. You manage to shake off some of your anxiety, at least enough to pick at your food and laugh at Natalie’s jokes. The conversation at your table shifts towards the future – Ryan wants to enter the Clergy, his goals backed up by hours studying in the Ministry’s vast library. More than once you’ve found him asleep over his books in the early hours of the morning. It reminds you with a pang of how you were before you entered the Ministry – your school days spent mostly friendless, lunchtimes reading or studying in the school library under fluorescent lights that hurt your eyes, evenings spent studying in the hope that perfect grades would be your ticket out. Your grades, in the end, were fine. Just fine. Not enough to get you where you wanted to go. Not bad enough to complain without making other people feel bad; not good enough to feel like your efforts were worthwhile. It’s hard, even now, even so many years later, to really believe that hard work makes a difference. If hours of studying got me the same result as if I’d have winged it, why bother? It was luck that introduced you to the Ministry, where you no longer have to prove your worth. Am I going to be a failure even here? Your friends have been assuming you’ll join the Clergy one day – it’s the obvious choice for a nerd – but you’ve never been sure. What if I’m not cut out for it? What if the choice has been made for me? What if –

     “Bro are you alright?” Ryan pokes your arm gently. “Sister wasn’t too harsh after I left, was she?”

     “Uh – no worse than she usually is,” you reply, trying to smile. “I know not to listen to her.”

     “What did she say?”

     “Just that – I need to take things more seriously,” you shrug. “And … and that the classes are optional. That I don’t have to aspire to be in the Clergy.”

     “I mean – that’s true,” Ben interrupts. “It’s not for everyone, and the Ministry needs people in all kinds of different roles.”

     “Right,” you mutter. “I don’t know if… if I’m cut out for it.”

     “Do you even want to be in the Clergy?” Natalie asks.

     “I don’t know.”

You hear an amused sniff from behind you – you turn to see Sister walking past you, with Secondo. She looks down at you for a moment, then moves on.

It’s been months since you last did this. You hadn’t thought, as you excused yourself hastily from dinner, of all these little annoyances: the tiny cuts on the tips of your fingers as you struggle to pry the blade from the cheap orange disposable razor; the cold of the shower tiles beneath you; the way the first cut always comes out as just a tiny scratch, your hands unwilling to go against their instinct not to hurt even as you so desperately want to make a mess of yourself. That first scratch, infuriating and freeing – so frustratingly, pathetically small, and yet the tiniest bit of blood beading in the middle, so small it was hardly worth doing, is the permission you need to keep going. You’ve started now – are you really going to reset your clean streak over something so tiny? No. You may as well keep going. You may as well make the mess you’ve been fantasising about.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and you call out “occupied!” You need to hurry up, or whoever is waiting to use the shower after you will be grumpy. You start the water, flinching at the freezing blast, cursing the ancient plumbing of the Ministry, probably unchanged since Nihil’s time as Papa. When the water heats up, you relax against the wall, knees up in the small cubicle. The next cuts are much more satisfying. You hiss at the sting, then squeeze your eyes tight shut at the burn of the hot water hitting your left arm.

The next knock is loud and impatient. You sigh in frustration, grab your shampoo and finish your shower as quickly as you can, ignoring the prickling pain as the suds get into the row of shallow cuts. “OK, I’m being as a quick as I can!” you yell. You rinse off, pull your clean clothes on, put the blade into your pocket, and shove your towel over your arm to hide your relapse from anyone who might be waiting in the corridor.

You dump your towel in the laundry basket in your bedroom, and all you can do at first is pace in circles. You put the blade into your old favourite hiding place – the case of your phone. Your arm has already stopped bleeding. You grab a hoodie and put it on over your t-shirt, gingerly pulling the sleeve over your arm. It hurts. It’s not enough. You put on your shoes and head outside.

You consider Omega’s offer of company, but as you pass the Ghoul common room you hear a roar of laughter, and what you’re fairly certain is the Mario Kart Rainbow Road music. You hurry past, unwilling to disturb their fun.

There’s a bit of daylight left when you step outside – the sky is tinged pink, and the air is muggy. You wander through the gardens, past the greenhouse where a tall Ghoul sits smoking something herbal (he nods at you as you pass by), past the lake, as far from the main buildings as you can get. You reach a favourite secluded spot – a walled garden, overhung with grape vines, with the roses Primo is so proud of. You stop at the gate, listening carefully for sounds that would deter you from entering; once you’re confident you won’t be disturbing anybody’s rendezvous, you enter the garden.

You sit on a bench, and check the time on your phone. 7:45pm. You have no signal out here, which is probably for the best – if anyone were to message you now, you know you’d only be irritable with them, and as much as you know, somewhere deep down you wish you didn’t have to acknowledge, that you don’t want to be alone, if you were to actually message anyone now asking for help it would only be embarrassing. Your friends are kind, and open-minded, you know this, but you’ve never talked about this with them. The only times the topic of self harm has ever come up, it’s been quickly dismissed, Natalie’s jokes never mean-spirited but all too reminiscent of the types of comments people made at school when you got caught with scars that couldn’t be explained away.

Your arm no longer hurts. This bothers you in a way that you cannot explain even to yourself. There’s no one around. You think of the blade in your phone case. I could just – you know you can’t. You don’t have anything with you to clean up with, you’d have to walk all the way back to your room with your arm bleeding. It’s too warm, and you’re pretty sure you’d hear someone coming if they did decide to enter the garden. You take off your hoodie. Your sleeve sticks to your arm – a cut has re-opened, just a tiny bit, but enough for the inside of your sleeve to be stained with a small patch of blood. I’m going to have to wash that. If I’m going to have to wash it anyway, getting more blood on it won’t matter. I can hide until I get back to my room… You try to distract yourself from the thought, watching a ladybird crawl across the arm of the bench. One or two more cuts really wouldn’t be that bad.

The loud hoot of an owl startles you, and you drop your blade. You don’t know how much time has passed, but the sky is dark. You scramble to find the blade on the floor, cringing as the blood on the ground coats your fingers in a sticky mess, and it’s only then that the reality of what you have done hits you. Your arm is covered in cuts, from your wrist to your shoulder – the blood drips down onto the concrete path and even onto your shoes; the pain becomes more intense the more aware of it you become, and you find yourself gasping as if you had been holding your breath the whole time. You feel a prickling sensation behind your eyes, and you squeeze them shut. OK. I’m OK. I just have to clean this up – you dig in your pockets for a tissue, but come up with nothing. The best you have is your hoodie. If you wipe your arms with it, though, you can’t wear it, and then you’d have no way to hide yourself when you go back inside. Think, you have options, there’s got to be a way to get back without anyone seeing… your mind won’t cooperate with you. Your thoughts stutter into fragments, I want to go home don’t be stupid where even – want – doesn’t matter what you want ­– don’t want to be alone ­– just need a tissue or something for fuck’s sake – want Terzo to – shut up just think there must be some way to –

     “Satanas!”

You flinch back, shoving your hoodie over your arm, trying to shrink into the shadows, but it’s no use. A torch shines into your face then quickly away.

     “Sorry, didn’t mean to do that...”

     “O – Omega?”

     “Yeah, is that – I can smell blood.” He comes closer, turning the torch off.

     “It’s OK, don’t worry, I just – ”

     “You got hurt.” He sits beside you, and you curl over your arm, shielding it from his view. You try to speak, to insist that it’s nothing, but no sound comes out. You gape at him for a moment, and you see his eyes narrow behind his mask.

     “Show me.”

You shake your head.

     “That wasn’t a question.” He doesn’t sound angry, but you feel your hands start to tremble anyway. “The nearest first aid kit is in the greenhouse. I just need to know if what’s in there will be enough, or if I need to go back inside and get the bigger one.” You don’t reply. He sighs. “If you’re embarrassed about, like, falling over or something, I’m not going to judge. And I’m not squeamish, if that’s your worry. I wouldn’t be on night patrol if I was going to be bothered by the kinds of scrapes humans get into.”

     “It’s not that,” you whisper.

     “What’s the problem then?” You can’t tell if he’s starting to sound frustrated, or if that’s in your head.

     “I – I can’t –” Your words get stuck in your throat again, and you blink back tears. Omega turns the torch on, keeping it pointed downwards, and he seems like he’s about to stand up, before he suddenly gasps. You look down – glinting in the torchlight is the blade you had dropped, in a small red puddle. Omega takes a deep breath.

     “I take it that’s yours?” You nod shakily. “And that’s your – your blood. Right. OK. I understand what’s happened here.”

     “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

     “Don’t be silly.” His voice is much softer now. “It’s usually the arms, right? Not always, I know, but – ” He gestures to your hoodie. “If you don’t move that, I’m going to, OK? I’ll be careful, I promise.”

Your body feels frozen to the bench. All you can do is watch as he gently pulls the hoodie away, prizing the end of the sleeve out of your fist. He cups his hand above the torch so that you don’t get blinded as he looks you over, then he stands.

     “The first aid kit in the greenhouse should be enough,” he says calmly. “We keep one in there for accidents with the secateurs and such. Do you want me to call any of your friends on the way? In fact, Mountain was still in there when I walked past; I can ask him to go inside and get someone, if you want.”

You shake your head hurriedly. Not my friends… You can’t get the words out, but Omega just nods.

     “I’ll be back very soon. And I’m taking this.” He bends down to pick up the blade, and pockets it, ignoring the blood.

Once you’re alone again, your body finally lets you move, adrenaline coursing through like electricity. A full body shake overtakes you, and you take trembling breaths to try to steady yourself. Stupid, stupid – it hurts, and you hate that this bothers you, you did this to yourself, you wanted this. And now you’re panicking because it fucking hurts? Pathetic.

When Omega arrives, holding a large plastic box, you do your best to not look like you’re panicking, but you can tell it isn’t working by the way he gingerly moves closer to you, as if you’re a stray cat he’s trying not to spook. He sits down and places the box between you, then balances the torch on the arm of the bench so that it illuminates you both.

     “I need to clean them. It will probably hurt. I’m sorry, but it’s necessary,” he says quietly. You nod. He takes some antiseptic wipes from the box, cleans his own hands, then uses a fresh one to begin to lightly dab at the edges of the cuts, cleaning the now dried blood off your arm. He works quickly, wincing every time you gasp at the pain as the alcohol fumes sting your arms before the wipe has even touched the wounds themselves. By the time Omega has reached the deepest of the cuts, you’re barely holding it together, eyes watering, lip trembling. He stops.

     “Are you sure you don’t want me to get anyone?” he asks. “Any of your friends, anyone you’d feel safer around?”

     “Papa…” the word is out of your mouth before you’ve realised you’re speaking. It’s barely audible, and for a second you think – you hope – Omega didn’t hear you. He cocks his head to one side, and his eyes widen for a brief moment.

“Papa Terzo? I can see if he’s around. He might be… occupied, at this time of night.”

     “No – it’s fine – I shouldn’t –”

     “Worst he can say is no,” Omega shrugs. “I’ll go see if Mountain’s still up, and if he is then he can go see if Terzo’s available so I don’t have to leave you alone too long. I won’t tell either of them the details, don’t worry,” he says as your eyes go wide. “All Mountain knows is I got the first aid kit from the greenhouse for a Sibling who was hurt. Not that he’d judge you, for the record.”

     “OK…” you whisper, cradling your injured arm close to your chest. You want to tell Omega that you’re fine, that you don’t need anyone to inconvenience themselves for you, but every time you try to formulate the words, the desperate need for comfort interrupts your thoughts. It’s too hard to think through the pain anyway, so you just watch as Omega stands and walks back out of the garden.

It feels like an hour before Omega returns, but you know it can’t have been more than a few minutes.

     “Mountain’s gone to get him,” he says simply. “Should I start cleaning again, or shall we wait?” You pull your arm closer to you instinctively. “OK, we can wait a minute.” You sit in silence for a while, Omega almost unmoving. The only sound you can hear is your own heavy breathing.

     “Omega?!” Terzo’s voice echoes across the garden and you hear the gate swing open.

     “We’re over here,” Omega calls back.

Terzo rushes over, a tall Ghoul behind him.

     “Thanks Mountain,” Omega says to the other Ghoul; Mountain raises his hand in a wave, nods at you, nods at Terzo, then leaves the garden as quietly as he had entered. Terzo, on the other hand, is not quiet.

     “What’s going on? Mountain said someone was injured and – oh, caro, what’s happened?” He kneels in front of you, brows furrowed in concern. Omega watches. You can’t tell his expression behind his mask.

     “Papa, you’re – you’re going to get blood on your trousers, don’t –” you stammer.

     “Blood?” Terzo looks down at the ground and his eyes widen. “Oh Satan,” he murmurs. “Is this – yours?”

     “I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m – I’m sorry, I’m sorry –” Once the words start coming, you can’t stop them.

     “Papa, I’ve been cleaning the injuries, and nothing needs stitches,” Omega says firmly. “Everything is going to be fine. I asked if they wanted anyone else here, anyone they’d feel calmer with, and they asked for you.”

Terzo takes a deep breath.

     “Oh, caro… I’m sorry, I hope I didn’t make anything worse by, ah, stressing out,” he says. “If I can help, of course I want to. I’m honoured you feel safe enough with me to ask.”

     “Can I clean the rest of the cuts, please?” Omega asks you, gesturing towards your arm. Reluctantly, you hold it out. Terzo inhales sharply when he sees what you’ve done to yourself.

     “Tesoro…” he murmurs. Then he shuffles closer to you, and holds out his hand. “Take my hand,” he whispers. “Squeeze as hard as you need, si?” You do so, holding his hand in your right as Omega takes your left and begins to gently dab at the cuts with a fresh wipe. Each time the antiseptic gets into the cuts, your hand squeezes Terzo’s involuntarily, but he doesn’t react, just rubs his thumb over the back of your hand.

     “Nearly done, now,” Omega says.

     “You’re being so brave, caro,” Terzo murmurs. You think you see Omega’s eyes flicker to Terzo for a second, but he doesn’t say anything. You breathe as deeply as you can, focusing as much of your attention as you can on Terzo’s hand in yours.

Finally, all the cuts have been cleaned, and Omega quickly covers them for you. He closes the first aid box and puts the dirty wipes into a carrier bag.

     “Let’s head inside,” he says. He stands and starts towards the gate. Terzo stands, still holding your hand, and pulls you up gently with him. You pick up your hoodie, cringing at the amount of blood that has got onto it. Terzo keeps hold of your hand as you follow Omega out of the garden.

As you near the Ministry building, Terzo taps Omega’s arm, silently getting his attention.

     “Back to my room, a… quieter way?” he whispers. “No need to risk running into anyone in such a delicate state.” Omega nods. “Follow me,” Terzo says. He leads you away from the main entrance and over to a smaller door, mostly obscured by overgrown ivy. With only the light from Omega’s torch illuminating the way, Terzo takes you along a narrow corridor and up a cramped spiral staircase, totally unfamiliar to you. “Don’t tell your friends about this one,” Terzo says. “I need at least one escape route from Secondo’s parties where I won’t run into Siblings, ah, getting it on…”

     “I’m sure you’ve ‘got it on’ down here many times,” Omega says under his breath, and you smile slightly. Terzo huffs in mock offence.

Terzo doesn’t let go of your hand until you reach his office. He ushers you inside, and insists to Omega that he can handle things from here. Omega looks at you for a moment, then says quietly, “I was serious about keeping you company on your nighttime walks, by the way.” He says goodnight to Terzo, then leaves.

     “Alright,” Terzo says, as soon as Omega has shut the door behind him. “I came here because I didn’t think you’d want to deal with any, ah, rumours, but it would make much more sense to go to my bedroom so that I can change out of these trousers and you can lie down somewhere comfortable.”

     “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

     “Don’t be silly, caro,” Terzo says, waving his hand. “A little blood can be washed off, and anyway, it’s not like I was going to wear suit trousers to bed.”

     “But I – I shouldn’t have made you deal with this. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

     “You didn’t make me do anything,” he says. “You asked, and I chose to come. And, unless you object, I am choosing to stay with you now and help you feel better. Come now, my room is just up the nearest staircase, no one will see us. And if they do, I’ll distract them with a charming grin and, ah… a witty retort, like ‘you should have seen the other guy!’ – Make them think you won a fight with someone as big as Omega, si?”

You giggle a little, and Terzo smiles. He leads you from his office, up a staircase lit only by a few candles, and through an unmarked door.

     “Sit, sit,” Terzo gestures behind you to a sofa. “I will change in the bathroom, I will only be a moment…” He grabs what look like pyjamas from a drawer and leaves into an adjacent room. You sit down gingerly on the sofa, and look around you. The room is big, but not huge; there’s a double bed against the far wall, with dark purple bedsheets, and various paintings on the walls – stormy landscapes, a city skyline, and church ruins overgrown with plant life. On the dark wood floor is a green rug. You look at your shoes – the spots of blood on them make your stomach turn. You take them off and put them by the door, then sit back down and pull your knees up to your chest. The movement worsens the pain in your arm, and you have to bite back a whine. You need to pull yourself together…

Terzo returns, in black pyjamas and fluffy purple socks. He looks at you for a moment, then sits beside you.

     “Are you feeling… small?” He whispers. You don’t respond. “It is no problem if you are.”

Are you? You’re not sure. There’s that familiar longing, that seems to reside not in your mind but in your chest, and in your hands – to reach out for comfort, the kind of comfort you could never ask for. You shut your eyes and press your forehead to your knees. It’s too much to try to work out what you’re feeling.

     “Tesoro?”

You know you need to respond. You settle for a shrug. Terzo sighs.

     “Feelings are… overwhelming, si? And you must be in pain. Mi dispiace, caro.” He shuffles closer to you. “Are you OK to be touched right now?” You nod. He wraps his arm around your shoulder, and before you can question yourself you’re leaning into him. He rubs your right arm gently and rests his chin on the top of your head. When standing, you know he’s barely a few centimetres taller than you, but huddled like this you feel tiny, enveloped in warmth.

     “We will need to talk about what happened,” Terzo says softly. You stiffen, holding your breath involuntarily. Terzo clearly notices. “But that can wait until tomorrow. I have no meetings in the morning. For now… just breathe, si? Do you need painkillers?”

You don’t think painkillers will help – they never have before when you’ve relapsed. You try to tell him so, but the words won’t come out. It’s as if someone has severed the connection between your mouth and your brain.

     “Caro… you haven’t said a word since I came back from the bathroom. Are you… uncomfortable? If you want to leave – well, I don’t know if you being alone is a good idea, but I certainly wouldn’t make you stay here against your will.” He starts to let go of you, and your body reacts before your thoughts can catch up – you grip his sleeve. As soon as you realise what you’ve done, you drop it like it’s burned you, and look at Terzo, wide-eyed, panicked.

     “OK, so that isn’t the problem,” he smiles slightly, and takes your hands in his. “Is it just too difficult to speak right now? I’ve found myself in a similar state before, once or twice. Don’t go telling everyone else that,” he adds hastily. You nod, and he sighs. “I see. That’s alright. So long as you can nod or shake your head, we can communicate adequately.” He rubs his thumbs over your hands, and you take a shaky breath. “I think maybe you are feeling small, because – well, you’ve had a bad day, si? Something happened – or maybe you woke up feeling bad – and you… you hurt yourself.” He swallows. “And now you’re in pain, and you’re probably embarrassed that Omega found you, and your, ah, your brain has decided that everything is too much. Si?”

You nod. How simple it seems when he lays it out like that – but your thoughts are too hazy to think through it all so logically.

     “And… when Omega asked you if there was anyone you wanted, you thought of me. So, perhaps what you want is for me to… help you feel small in a good way, help you feel safe and cared for, si? Instead of feeling small and, ah, scared, all by yourself.”

Again, all you can do is nod, and you stare down at his hands. Your own hands tremble slightly in his.

     “I am very glad that you asked for me, tesoro,” he whispers. “I want to help. And it is no hardship at all for me to comfort you in this way. If it weren’t for the ah, circumstances, I would even say I enjoy it. So. I can ask a Ghoul to bring whatever you need before you sleep. Your toothbrush, pyjamas… what was your rabbit’s name again?”

Once you have brushed your teeth and changed into your pyjamas in Terzo’s bathroom, he gestures to his bed.

     “There is plenty of room. It is not too late – we can sit up for a while.”

You sit on the edge of his bed, clutching Marshmallow to your chest. Terzo rests his back against the headboard, and gestures for you to come closer.

     “Caro, you can come closer, you don’t need to be shy,” he says. You crawl up to sit against the headboard with him, and he wraps an arm around you, pulling you gently to him so that your head is against his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, slow and steady.

     “When Secondo and I were tiny – hard to believe he was ever young, I know – Primo used to, ah, babysit, most nights. He didn’t have much patience for our antics during the day, but once we were tired out from causing mischief, he would let us curl up on his bed and he would read to us. Just, ah, fairytales, you know, in Italian, and some English children’s books – the, ah, Famous Five, I think they were called? I think he bought them to help him learn English better, as he knew he’d be travelling a lot once he became Papa. The stories were the same every time, I don’t remember if I even liked them, but I liked just listening to my older brother’s voice as I fell asleep. I always slept better when he was there, no matter how grumpy he had been with me that day.” Terzo chuckles softly. “He had every reason to be grumpy – I was a menace. Secondo was worse.”

He strokes your hair lightly with one hand, and you feel yourself relaxing into him.

     “That’s it, tesoro, just relax,” he murmurs. “Everything is OK. Mio piccola stellina…”

You look up at him, brow furrowed.

     “Ah,” he mumbles. “It means, ah, my little star. Sorry, I know I… I call everyone ‘caro’, dear, you’re used to that. I can stop, if the nicknames bother you.”

You shake your head quickly and hide your face against him.

     “Oh, you are feeling small… very small,” he chuckles. “Molto piccolo, si?”

     “Papa…” you whisper.

     “Si, Papa is here, I'm not going anywhere... and mio piccolo… you have your voice back!” Terzo says. “Now you can remind me of the name of this adorable little fellow, si?” he gestures at Marshmallow.

     “M-marshmallow.” You can’t raise your voice above a whisper, but it’s worth the effort to hear Terzo’s delighted laugh.

     “That was it! May I?” he reaches for your rabbit, not touching it until you nod. “Signore Marshmallow,” he says, shaking the rabbit’s paw. “A pleasure to make your, ah, acquaintance once more.”

You giggle, and Terzo grins down at you.

     “Are you feeling better, il mio piccolo amico?”

     “Yeah… I – sorry, words… still hard.”

     “Ah, you do not need to speak, caro,” Terzo says, running his hand across your scalp lightly. “You can be quiet, if you need. I can talk enough for the both of us…”

     “Sleepy,” you mutter. “Sorry.”

     “Hmm,” Terzo hums and you feel the rumble in his chest. “You’ve had a very long day. It is getting late, especially for little ones, si? Sit up for a moment then, stellina, then we can sleep.” You do as he asks. Once he’s fluffed the pillows, he lifts the blanket and you lie down, sinking into the soft mattress. He slides in next to you and pats Marshmallow on the head.

     “Do you want me to hold you, tesoro?” he whispers. You hesitate. “I don’t mind. I just want you to feel safe.” You nod. He pulls you in close and you bury your face in the soft fabric of his pyjama top. He hums contentedly. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Everything is going to be OK. You are safe, you are cared for… rest, piccolo…”