A reddish brown wooden door with beveled paneling sits at the end of a hallway of horrible, thick, green carpet. Smells of artificial roses, printer paper, and gooseberry seep from the door gaps. Thea's nose wrinkles; the familiar smell hits her scalp with tingles like the wind around her motorcycle tugging at her hair. It's exactly how parish offices should smell. She hovers a hand near the middle of the door, then knocks three times.

Words with a high, nasally tone come from inside. "One moment." Papers shuffle, filing cabinet drawers slam shut, and keyboard keys click. The nasal voice calls again. "Alright, you may come in."

Thea cracks the door and peeks her head and curly untamed strips of black frizz through. "Morning, brother."

Brother Dale sits on the other side of the desk, hands resting intertwined on its top. He wears a well practiced smile and he sits straight against the back of his tall leather swivel chair. At the sight of Thea, he changes. Perfect posture disappears as he slumps away from the backrest with a sigh. "Oh, it's just you. Thank the heavens."

She glances down the hallway behind her, then back at brother Dale. "Expecting someone else?"

He throws his arms up and shakes his head. "Anyone else. I didn't think Frank would be able to convince you. I was part expecting His Excellency to walk in here and admonish the parish for this or that."

Panic steals Thea's breath for a moment, but no way the Bishop is actually here. She slips through the crack in the door and motions to a metal folding chair. "So I take it I'm welcome to have a seat?"

"Definitely, definitely. I suppose it would be too much to hope you've come to your senses and plan to rejoin the Church?"

She pushes into the room. Her cane catches on the raised carpeting and she stumbles forward, pain blaring through her leg like a siren.

Dale jolts up from his chair with a raucous of knee-banging on the underside of the desk. "Oh heavens!"

Thea flails her empty hand — and her stomach by the feel of it — toward the chair. The metal bar making up the chair's backrest falls into her hand. She grasps it.

Albeit wobbling with the new, odd center of gravity, the chair doesn't collapse backward. Her stomach settles, but her breathing thunders in her ears. She straightens back up with the help of her cane and smooths her cassock cape's wild flaps to sit flat. "That's embarrassing."

"Are you alright? What happened?"

Thea weaves a hand through the air. "I'm fine. Just a little motorcycle accident."

His eyebrows lower and his eyes widen like a sad puppy. Genuine concern, maybe. "Will you be able to stop using the cane after a while?"

"Probably not."

With a tilt of his head, he brushes a hand forward on the desk. His dry skin sounds like sandpaper against the hardwood. "I'm so sorry."

Thea closes and rolls her eyes, the only outward tell of sarcasm is her sighing loud enough to tumble the gargoyle peeking down from the top of Dale's window. "Why? The cane means I don't fall over, it's a good thing. Aren't we suppose to be thankful for everything or something like that, brother? God's plan and such?"

"W-Well, I don't know. You make a pretty good point... Sorry." He tugs at the collar of his black robe and clears his throat. "I guess the sarcasm answers if you're rejoining the Church. That complicates things. Bishop Andrews won't like this a bit: you know that right?"

"Yes, we're both very aware of the consequences if the Bishop finds out. Even then, he wouldn't take it too far." She twists a hand around her cane. "Would he?"

"I doubt it. That's why I'm making sure you're okay with it, you'd never be able to join us again, you know."

Her twisting hand tightens to a stop: there it is. Always repeating things she knows more than well enough. "I said I know. I'm never rejoining so it's like there won't be consequences."

He shrugs. "You can't blame me for hoping the consequences might change your mind about rejoining."

Yes she can.

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The deal they strike is simple: Thea performs the priestly duties she left, then brother Dale makes some money disappear from the parish's budget. A sour feeling permeates Thea's mind, like she knows better. She does. Exchanging money for this type of thing is a big taboo. Regardless, she has no choice so she does it. Mass, baptism, and confession spread across a week. None of it leaves a lasting impression on her, but it does make her heart float. Like she's helping other people again.

It's tiny things. Her guiding enthusiastic children during catholic themed crafts, or guiding a new visitor to interesting spots in town, or just talking an older man through the weekly grocery coupons for God's sake.

It's nice. Not riding-her-motorcycle nice, but nice enough.

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Inside a cramped, dimly lit, wooden booth probably not too far off from a coffin, a voice on the upper end of baritone comes through a dense copper-tinged grating like the sorrowful song of a raven. "Morning Reverend."

For the tenth time today, Thea's body clenches up and the cold, clammy hands of anxious sweat crawl down her back. Confession will never be comfortable. Too much to think about, too much to judge, too much responsibility. "Good morning, brother. What is it you need today?"

Silence carries weight: enough to stretch moments into minutes and minutes into eons. Did she say something wrong? Did the person leave and she didn't hear?

Then — on the fourth or fifth scenario running through her head — the baritone voice comes through again. "Actually, Reverend. W-Would you be able to call me Jessica for the moment?"

Racing thoughts disappear, then recognition of a wrong with more racing thoughts. Vertigo sends her vision spinning forward through space like a barrel rolling train shooting through a tunnel. Words. Say words. "Sorry for the wrong assumption, sister. I'd be happy—"

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Their voice trembles. "N-Not sister or brother. Just Jessica i-if you wouldn't mind, Reverend."

A cringe sends Thea's eyes slamming shut. Come on, Thea. "Sorry. Of course. Anything I can do for a child of God, Jessica."

"Thank you."

"So what brings you here today, Jessica?"

"I was hoping we could just talk. About anything."

Thea's eyebrows twitch. "A bit unusual, but I can make that work. How about —" Her words trail off, then inspiration strikes and she snaps her fingers. "Baseball?"

Jessica's voice changes. Genuine interest bursts through the grating in warm tones like an audible smile. "I love baseball! I can't believe what Stevenson did last night. A line drive straight to him and he didn't even flinch!"

Any remaining vertigo and anxiety disappear into a swell of comfort: Thea's back slackens into a slouch despite the hardwood wall of the confessional behind her, her scrunching eyes turn to a discerning glare at nothing in particular, and her mind runs rampant with future threads of conversation. This just got fun. "That ball had to be going at least 120 miles an hour, I know it! You think his hand hurt after that catch?"

After half an hour of chatting back and forth about the menagerie of feelings that being a local fan of the Cordia Ravens brings about, Jessica's shifts their weight on the other side of the dividing wall. "I've taken enough of your time, Reverend."

"Of course, Jessica. Be sure to come back next week so I can get a break from all the heavy stuff. If you don't mind."

Jessica announces their departure with heavy footsteps and the sound of curtain rings scrapping along a metallic rod. Tingles shoot up Thea's spine: she's never been a fan of that noise.

Even though that was a nice break, exhaustion shuffles Thea's mind like her thoughts are tumbling through a kaleidoscope; pain surges in her temples; her vision turns into an unintelligible flow of colors. Confession is always too darn early. If she's quick, maybe she can get in a ten minute nap. She nestles the back of her head into the corner of the booth and closes her eyes.

The next moment, the curtain on the other side closes and smells explode through the grate. Mulberry, cranberry, yew. Strawberry. Overwhelming strawberry set over a faint... perfume? Like roses dipped in gasoline.

Thea's mind sharpens in an instant, her heart stops, and her stomach clenches to keep it from coming up at the the sudden noxious medley. Why would someone carry around all that hatred? And for who? And who in God's green earth would want to smell like that?

Wooden boards creak underfoot and whoever-it-is sits on the bench with a thump like a clump of snow plopping onto the ground from an overladen roof. The voice of an old woman with a lifelong propensity for cigarettes grumbles through the grate. "Good morning, Pastor. Nice weather we're having, it's it?"

Older people can smell so much stronger than younger folk. Still, this strawberry is a bit much unless this woman has a lifelong feud on the level of— well, of biblical proportions or other nonsense. Thea rolls her head back to face the ceiling and opens her eyes, tracing the curving wood rafters. "Morning, sister. Quite nice, yes. What burdens do you bring with you today?"

"I succumbed to temptation, pastor. I let my selfish desires guide me in place of His word."

Clouds of boredom roll into Thea's mind and she sighs. "You recognize it and God forgives his children of —"

"I wasn't done, pastor."

"Of course. My apologies, sister, Please continue."

"Hmm, nice and proper. It's a shame really."

Confusion twists Thea's tongue into a knot, but she forces her voice to start. "What does that —"

The old woman clears her throat. "Never mind that. Pastor, I have sinned. I felt that I could overlook wrong doing; or rather, I could forgive myself a little ignorance if it would lead to helping my fellow children of God."

There's probably more: Thea scratches at an itch on her leg, but otherwise she stays silent.

"Last night when I was trying to fall asleep, God sent me a sign I couldn't ignore." Something odd slips into the woman's voice, tainting it harsher than the cigarettes ever could. "Have you had those moments Pastor? Where God sets you straight when you already know you're ignoring his word?"

Boredom swirls with exhaustion, making stringing together empty platitudes harder with every new sentence. Thea brushes at a dingy spot on her cassock's skirt. "Every person has experienced guilt, sister. You are not alone in this so hold the faith. Listen to that feeling and ask yourself and God what you can do to make things right."

"That's exactly what I've done, pastor. Things are being made right as we speak because God's word acted through me to save us from darkness."

Murky fog settles over Thea's mind and nausea creeps up her throat as the noxious fruit and perfume mixture grows stronger. That's doesn't quite match with the usual script. "What are you going on about, sister? You need to be a bit clearer so I know how best to guide you."

She yells. Her voice carries around the open hall through echoes, each bounce emphasizing the curdling, rasping hatred grumbling under each word. "We don't need your guidance anymore, you blasphemer. How dare you try to poison the minds of God's faithful!"

Frost tumbles through Thea's chest, freezing her beating heart and chilling her spine. No, no, this was working, please no. She rips the curtains open and scrambles toward the parish offices, cane clacking along the tile floor like the bricks of a toppling tower.

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Brother Dale's office door sits ajar in its frame and a voice like the crashing of waves upon an ancient cliff rumbles from the gap. "— negligent. You should have came to me immediately if you were having trouble."

Palms slap against a desk and a chair clatters to the floor. Dale pleads. "Your Excellency! I've come to you countless times about our needs here. Please reconsider, I had no other option!"

Thea's heart drums vibrations through twisting hands. God no, Bishop Andrews is already here. What can she do to fix this? Frank? No, why would she think that. T-The abbot? That'd only make the bishop angrier for sure. She hovers a hand near the door and her words come out in a whisper. "Damn it."

Bishop Andrew's voice booms through the crack. "Bypassing Canon Law, going behind your abbot's back, and you have the nerve to accuse the Church of not providing for its people?" He lowers his voice. "You're lucky I saw fit to handle this personally instead of letting the Archbishop find out and dissolve this parish himself."

Dale scrambles for any order of words that would change the bishop's mind. "O-of course I wouldn't insinuate— I'd never accuse the Church! Please, Your —"

An odd courage fills Thea's chest at a flash of memories. The kids, the coupons, Jessica. She slams the door open and sways from her cane. "That's enough, Bishop. Brother Dale was just trying to help these people; you'd know that if you'd talk to them for a moment. Let me bring—"

Bishop Andrews stands tall. His imposing form carries a long white alb that sweeps from his shoulders like an endless wave of light and a matching conical hat sits atop his head that looks too much like a stretched out fortune cookie. He hovers over a display of sacred books set behind glass and clasps his hands behind his back. "Ah, and the trouble maker appears. About time you stopped your little charade out there. I was just having choice words with my dear brother here. Nothing a disgraced member of this congregation has any need worrying about."

Something about his presence pushes Thea's words down. They catch in a knot in her throat. She glares empty threats into the bishop's eyes and braces against the door frame to stop her swaying.

Dale melts back down into his chair. Resting his head on the desk, he wraps his arms over his scalp and toward his neck as if he was protecting himself from an angry dog.

Thea finds her words and claws them from the pits of her stomach. "What's so wrong with me helping out, bishop? None of the nearby parishes can spare the staff! Brother Dale surely told you that."

A smile slips across the bishop's mouth amid deep wrinkles. "Even asking that question is reason enough to shut you out of the Church for good. You think all the people out there would be fine knowing they're getting their guidance from a person who is only doing it for a bit of pocket change? Not to mention from a person who renounced their faith?"

Embers of anger burn in Thea's chest: the bastard is enjoying this. She pushes forward a step. "You honestly think getting rid of me is a benefit to this parish? You'd ignore the people begging to have their a spiritual outlet back?"

The bishop's eyes sparkle like a dancing blue flame. "They'd be begging me to get rid of you if they knew just how depraved and misguided you are! And it's not just you, my dear. Not just you."

Her eyebrows scrunch together for a moment. What is he talking about?

Then Dale comes into focus. Whispering nonsense, The poor monk sits in a pseudo-fetal position with his head resting atop the desk. "They needed help, what was I suppose to do... What was I suppose to do..."

Whatever flame was building in Thea's chest disappears with a splash from a bucket of cold panic. It steals her breath, her words, and the rest of her calm demeanor. Her hand jitters against the wooden handle of her cane. "Please, Bishop, don't. Please. Not him."