Rowan’s POV
The Museum of Art wasn't where I expected to find peace, but watching twelve children scatter through the galleries like caffeinated pigeons had a strange way of silencing the darker thoughts that had been circling my mind since Lilith's visit.
"Tommy, we do not touch the sculptures," Sister Agnes called out, her voice carrying that particular blend of exhaustion and affection that came from decades of wrangling young souls. "God gave you eyes for looking and hands for keeping in your pockets."
I caught Mikael's eye across the marble foyer, and he smiled—that quiet, genuine smile that had become increasingly dangerous to my carefully constructed defenses.
He stood surrounded by a cluster of girls who'd appointed themselves his personal tour guides, pointing at paintings and competing for his attention with the ferocity of tiny warriors.
"Sister Wren, Sister Wren!" A small hand tugged at my sleeve. Maria, seven years old, missing her front teeth, and absolutely convinced I hung the moon. "Father Mikael said you know about old things. Is that painting really from a hundred years ago?"
"More than a hundred," I said, crouching to her level. "Almost two hundred, actually. The artist painted it before your great-great-grandmother was even born."
Her eyes went wide. "That's older than dinosaurs!"
"Not quite that old, but close enough." I smoothed a strand of hair from her face, and something in my chest ached at the trust in her eyes.
These children had no idea what I was. To them, I was simply Sister Wren—Father Mikael's wife, a kind woman who helped at the shelter and always had time for their questions.
If they knew the truth, they'd run screaming.
"Alright, everyone," Mikael's voice rose above the chatter, drawing the scattered children back like iron filings to a magnet. "We're going to see the special exhibition now. I want everyone to find a partner and hold hands. No running, no shouting, and absolutely no touching the art."
The children paired off with practiced efficiency while Sister Agnes counted heads with military precision. Mikael fell into step beside me as we followed the group through the arched doorway into the next gallery.
"You're good with them," he said quietly, his shoulder brushing mine in the narrow space. "Maria hasn't stopped talking about you since the Christmas pageant."
"She's easy to love," I replied, watching the little girl skip ahead with her partner. "They all are. It's remarkable, really, how children trust so completely. They haven't learned yet that people will disappoint them."
Mikael was quiet for a moment, his dark eyes studying my profile with that intensity that always made me feel seen in ways I wasn't sure I wanted.
"Is that what you've learned? That people disappoint?"
"It's what life taught me." I kept my voice light, but the words carried more weight than I'd intended. "Present company excluded, of course. You've been disappointingly consistent in your kindness."
"Disappointingly?" He raised an eyebrow, and I caught the hint of amusement playing at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or a criticism."
"Take it however you like." I glanced at him sideways, allowing myself a small smile. "Though I notice you didn't deny it."
"Why would I deny the truth?" He stepped closer as we paused before a painting, his voice dropping to something more intimate. "Being kind to you isn't a burden, Wren. It's never been a burden. If anything, you make it remarkably easy."
The words hit me somewhere soft, somewhere I'd been still trying to protect. "I doubt that very much. I've been difficult since the day you found me bleeding on your cathedral floor."
"Difficult isn't the word I'd choose." His hand found mine, fingers interlacing with casual gentleness that sent warmth spiraling up my arm. "Complicated, perhaps, challenging. But never difficult. You've brought more light into my life than I ever expected to find."
I stared at him, momentarily stripped of my usual defenses.
This man, this impossibly good, frustratingly sincere man stood in the middle of a public museum telling me I'd brought light into his life. And the worst part was that he meant every word.
Lilith's vision flashed through my mind—fire consuming the cathedral, bodies burning, Mikael's face twisted in agony as my uncontrolled magic destroyed everything he loved.
I should push him away. I should create distance, rebuild my walls, protect him from the monster hiding beneath my skin.
Instead, I grabbed his hand and pulled him through a side door into a small corridor used for storage. The door swung shut behind us, muffling the distant chatter of children and the echo of footsteps on marble floors.
"Wren, what…"
I kissed him before he could finish the question with hunger, pure and desperate, born from the terrifying certainty that I was running out of time with him.
Mikael went rigid with shock, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides. I felt the exact moment his composure shattered—the sharp intake of breath, the groan that vibrated against my lips, the way his fingers suddenly tangled in my hair and pulled me closer instead of pushing me away.
He kissed me back with suppressed longing, his body pressing mine against the cool wall, one hand cradling my face like I was something precious while the other gripped my hip with desperate intensity.
The gentle priest vanished entirely, replaced by a man who'd been denying himself for far too long.
When we finally broke apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rested against mine.
"That was..." He swallowed, his voice rough and unsteady. "We're in public. The children, Sister Agnes—"
"I don't care." I traced my thumb across his swollen lower lip, watching his eyes darken. "I needed to do that. I needed you to know that whatever happens, whatever comes next, this was real. You're real to me."
"Wren." He said my name like a prayer, like a question, like he was trying to understand something that defied explanation. "What's going on? You've been distant all week, and now you're kissing me in museum closets and talking like you're saying goodbye."
"I'm not saying goodbye." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. "I just wanted to kiss my husband. Is that so strange?"
Before he could answer, a giggle erupted from somewhere nearby and we both froze. Slowly, dreading what I'd find, I turned my head toward the source of the sound.
Seven small faces peered at us from behind a stack of crates, eyes wide as saucers, hands clapped over mouths to stifle their laughter. Maria stood at the front of the group, her gap-toothed grin stretching from ear to ear.
"Father Mikael kissed Sister Wren," Tommy whispered loudly to the boy beside him. "On the mouth."
"We saw everything," another child added helpfully.
The blood drained from Mikael's face so fast I thought he might actually faint. He stepped back from me like I'd caught fire, his hands flying up in a gesture of complete surrender.
"Children… How long have you… This isn't…" He turned to me with an expression of pure horror. "Oh God, Sister Agnes is going to… the parents will… I'm supposed to be setting an example."
I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing.
His mortification was so complete, so genuine, that it somehow made the whole situation bearable instead of catastrophic.
"Relax," I said, grabbing his arm before he could spiral further into panic. "We're married. We're allowed to kiss."
"In a storage closet? During a children's outing?" His voice had gone slightly hysterical. "They're going to tell everyone. Everyone, Wren. Tommy's mother already thinks I'm too young for the position."
"Are you going to have a baby now?" Maria asked with innocent curiosity. "My mama says kissing makes babies."
Mikael made a sound like a dying animal.
I'd never wanted to escape a situation more in my entire life. The children's delighted faces, Mikael's complete meltdown, the knowledge that this story would spread through the congregation like wildfire—it was too much, all of it, pressing against the fragile walls I'd built around my heart.
"Alright, everyone back to Sister Agnes," I announced, herding the children toward the door with the efficiency of someone fleeing a burning building. "Now. Immediately. Let's go."
"But I want to know about the baby," Maria protested.
"There's no baby. Move." I glanced back at Mikael, who stood rooted to the spot, still wearing that expression of absolute horror. "Coming?"
"I need a moment," he said weakly. "Possibly several moments. Perhaps a year."
The children's laughter echoed through the corridor as I shepherded them back toward the exhibition, leaving my husband to compose himself among the storage crates. Haunted by the knowledge that a dozen small witnesses would be sharing today's events with absolutely everyone.