Chapter 1 …
A Certain Confession
There are men in this world closer to the divine than even the gods themselves. The elderly lady, just entering the confessional, had to exert extraordinary effort to avoid staring at the young priest beyond the wooden grille. The priest was handsome. When he lowered his eyes, his features took on a devout austerity; when he looked up and met someone’s gaze, he appeared as a spirited, assertive youth. Ever since the priest before her had shed the last traces of boyishness to become a fully grown man, more and more worshippers had begun coming to the monastery claiming to see God. Yet their true intent was far less noble—they wanted to see, above all, a man who was healthy and beautiful. Women, eager to brush even a sleeve against a neatly dressed priest in black, could fill several carts in this province alone.
The elderly lady also reflected. It would have been so much better if she had a daughter of marriageable age, instead of a foolish son who, hot-tempered like his father, had thrown away his life in duels.
For a while, she said nothing, merely running her wrinkled fingers over the thick, expensive rings chained like manacles around her joints. Beyond the wooden bars, the priest waited silently, patient until she began to speak. Yet his patience was not infinite; his slender fingers had started tapping the surface of the desk in a steady rhythm.
“Madam.”
The priest’s low voice echoed inside the confessional. When in the same space with him, it truly felt as if she were in private audience with God, and words did not come easily. Slowly, she lifted her gaze and looked at his lips.
“…Father Timeo.”
“May I take a moment to quench my throat?”
Timeo, as he was called, did not chastise her for her slow speech. Instead, he picked up the flask he had pushed to the corner of the confessional desk. Before she could even nod, he twisted open the cap and drank the fruit wine he had kept instead of water, down to the last drop. Adjusting his broad shoulders to the narrow space of the confessional, he sat in a posture that seemed pious from above but arrogantly crossed his legs below. He now rested his chin and openly stared at the elderly lady beyond the grille.
“Truly… yesterday, I didn’t know what to do with my husband. So infirm, yet every day filled with suspicion and tantrums… like some vagrant in the streets!”
“Tantrums?”
“At this age, I could tolerate a sick man throwing sheets or dishes. But to insult me while invoking my deceased son—I could not endure it! As if he were only my child alone!”
“Your late son would also be sighing, watching this scene from beside you.”
“Ah, Alphonse…!”
The elderly lady covered her face with both hands and began to sob. When she lifted her gaze toward Timeo again, her eyes had become clouded.
“The dead… usually stay near the living, right?”
Timeo could hardly know that—he had never died. Nonetheless, he lightly shook his face, showing only the semblance of piety. Only then did she seem somewhat reassured.
Timeo quietly observed the space behind her. There were no signs, no presence at all. As he looked coldly down at the ill-fated lady, who had suffered both husband and son, he spoke just as another door of the confessional half-opened and closed. He had intended to take a brief rest after her confession, but with a tearful penitent present, he had no leisure to guide the next worshipper. Once his “audience” with her ended, he planned to leave the confessional swiftly.
Looking down at her slightly more emaciated shoulders than a few days ago, Timeo asked,
“Madam, what goes through your mind when you visit the confessional?”
The lady slowly raised her head, dabbing away tears with a handkerchief. A faint trace of warmth spread across Timeo’s otherwise chilling features.
“I often feel that the confessional is like a coffin.”
“Th-That’s not quite so.”
“The worshippers who visit here all look corpse-like. Seeing them grow thinner by the day…”
Timeo met her gaze. Leaning slightly toward her, he smiled faintly. The lady, suddenly reaching her hand through the bars, muttered with desperation: I didn’t come here today for that reason, Father… Her fingertips sought to clutch the sleeve of his black robe.
Leaning back, Timeo easily shook off her grasp. Since entering the confessional, the scent of her perfume had wafted through the air… Instead of answering, he twirled his chin thoughtfully before suddenly asking about the number of servants who came and went in her husband’s bedroom. The lady answered faithfully.
“Not many.”
“What does that have to do with the hardships of my life?”
“I wondered if there were witnesses.”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you… kill him?”
A moment of silence hung in the confessional. The lady trembled like a brittle twig, yet she clutched at his fingertips again, as if ignoring the prior dismissal.
“It was… medicine for a beast about to be slaughtered…”
“I see.”
Timeo responded indifferently. Oddly, this calm reassured her. Gradually, her trembling subsided, and she looked at him through the bars with calmer eyes.
“He struck me with a candlestick. I had never been treated that way in my life. He said everything was my fault… Alphonse’s death, the troubles of the household… God! Even so, could such a thing be permitted? What will become of me? And yet I am his devoted servant…”
“Of course it’s not acceptable.”
“…Father.”
“But…”
Timeo leaned over her, casting his shadow across her small, frail body.
“God is merciless and does not tend to each ant at His feet.”
“Ants… Ah, yes. The curse of the twin gods. Originally two, not one, yet still bearing a grudge, attempting to destroy the seed of the twins…”
The lady swallowed hard and looked at Timeo with a pitiful gaze.
“Then… what should become of this ant?”
Reaching out, he slowly grasped the wrinkled back of her hand. With his other hand, he began making the sign of the cross, and she followed anxiously with her own.
“I absolve you.”
“Father…”
“It is said that priests have ears to hear but no mouths to speak. You needn’t fear.”
Timeo, letting her feel absolved, allowed her to cry with relief.
“I, too, have no ears,” he added, promising to keep her confession secret. The lady, calmer than before, wiped away her tears.
Noticing Timeo gazing at her hand, she removed the ring from her finger and held it through the grille. Timeo shook his head with slight embarrassment.
“This is a small token for the priest closest to God in this Aljaz.”
“Madam.”
He took the intricately patterned ring and, without hesitation, slipped it back onto her finger, like a moment of proposal.
“You must wear the ring.”
“…Ah. Of course. To avoid suspicion.”
“Place it in the offering box at the right time, and it will provide for the monastery.”
“My thinking was short-sighted.”
“Your son will always be with you.”
The lady, invigorated, rose. Unlike when she had dragged her feet entering, she left with a slightly lighter step.
After the day’s last confession, Timeo opened his flask, now empty, and his neatly arranged forehead quickly crumpled. As he threw the flask to the floor and ruffled his hair, he prepared to leave.
The monastery’s confessional had three doors. During the lady’s confession, someone had entered through another door and apparently remained. Timeo, cramped and impatient, was not in a generous mood. With an irritated expression, he glanced over the grille. The confessor seated firmly was clearly a woman, and it was obvious what her confession would be without listening intently. The monastery was overflowing with the mentally unwell, whose wives wandered in gaunt silhouettes. Timeo stood, gazing arrogantly.
“Madam.”
He did not expect an answer. Some found comfort merely by sitting in the confessional. Yet the voice came from beyond the grille: smooth, velvety, and deep.
“I have neither sisters nor brothers.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Father, do you have siblings?”
An unpleasant question. Timeo stared intently at the silhouette. She appeared to be a young lady in a purple dress.
“No.”
“How strange.”
Rude indeed.
“The priest closest to God… will you hear my story?”
“If you wish, I shall lend you God’s ear.”
After a pause, the young lady spoke:
“My wedding, planned for autumn, has been postponed.”
“Oh.”
“Our family favors early marriage… yet due to my fiancé’s episodes, it has remained an engagement for ten years.”
Timeo, listening faintly to the noise outside, drifted from her tale.
“This time, I fear he may truly die.”
He made the sign of the cross indifferently. Despite the gravity, a faint smile played on the young lady’s face. It was a sad tale, but she was still young; another suitor could be sought.
“Strange indeed.”
“How so?”
“If your child were seriously ill, wouldn’t it be better to hasten the marriage?”
“Ah, but fertility issues might disgrace the family.”
“You speak with conviction.”
“Seems we understand each other, Father.”
Could this be called understanding? Timeo, hands neatly folded, stared blankly.
“How many children could you bear, Father?”
“Inappropriate question. I am celibate.”
“The doctrine says one should not live alone.”
“Marriage distracts and interferes with meditation.”
“Is this suitable coming from one who sips wine in the confessional?”
The young lady rose and held her hand over the grille. Timeo eyed it with suspicion.
The young lady lifted her veil, leaned on the desk, and brought her face into clear view. Among all the women who had passed through this monastery, none could compare. Timeo recognized her; he could not mistake that face.
“You were only entrusted to the monastery, not meant to become a priest… yet you’ve become the perfect priest, Timeo.”
Her long black hair was neatly tied. She studied his foolish expression as if evaluating a work of art. She extended her hand to him politely, almost as if expecting an escort. Yet her outward smile soon turned indifferent. Her gray eyes lingered on his dazed face.
Phyllis Menezes de Banolay.
The daughter of the Menezes marquis, who had fallen to Brjul one day. A girl who had grown up in Banolay, slipping through his fingers like sand, taking daily walks like a staged performance. Velvet, pearls, and other luxuries were her playthings once, and she had been Timeo’s first and… his brother’s fiancée. Long estranged from Timeo.
“Timeo Volleurbain, go to Brjul at once and propose to me.”
In short, Marcel’s fiancée.
