"You want to become a nun?"
Sister Agnes's question hung in the air of Father Atticus's study like incense, sweet and heavy. I'd cornered them both here, timing it perfectly when they were reviewing the weekly shelter reports together—two birds, one stone.
My carefully arranged expression of spiritual longing must have been convincing, because both of them were staring at me with the kind of gentle expectation that made my skin crawl just a little.
God, I hate having to play the devoted convert.
"I... I think I do," I whispered, letting uncertainty color my voice while my mind remained coldly calculating. This was it—my path deeper into their organization, closer to Mikael, further from my family's reach. "I've been praying about it for days now, and I keep feeling this... calling."
Calling. Right. The only thing calling me is survival.
Father Atticus leaned forward in his chair, his grandfatherly eyes warming with what looked like genuine pleasure. "Tell us what you're feeling, child. What draws you to religious life?"
I dropped my gaze to my hands, arranged them in my lap with practiced humility.
The lie formed itself with the ease of long habit.
"When I was... with him," I began, letting my voice catch slightly on the fabricated abusive boyfriend, "I thought love was supposed to hurt. That pain was just part of caring about someone. But here, I've seen something different. Pure love. Divine love."
Sister Agnes made a soft sound of understanding, and I pressed my advantage.
"My past showed me that love can be poisoned, corrupted. But the love I've witnessed here—the way you care for broken people without expecting anything in return, the way Father Mikael tends to our wounds..."
The way he looks at me like I'm something precious instead of something to be used.
"I want to be part of that. I want to help other people find what I've found—a sanctuary that can't be taken away."
The words tasted like ash in my mouth, but both of them were nodding with the kind of approval that meant my performance was working.
These people actually believe their own mythology.
It would be endearing if it weren't so useful.
"Have you considered what religious life truly means?" Father Atticus asked gently. "The vows of poverty, chastity, obedience? The surrender of your own will to God's?"
Surrender my will? That's rich.
I've spent my entire life fighting for the right to have a will at all.
"I understand it's a sacrifice," I said aloud, making my voice small and earnest. "But after what I've been through, the idea of belonging to something greater than myself... it feels like freedom, not imprisonment."
Sister Agnes's eyes grew bright with unshed tears. "Oh, my dear child. What you're describing sounds like a genuine calling. The way grace can transform our deepest wounds into our greatest ministry..."
"But I don't know if I'm worthy," I interrupted, hitting exactly the right note of vulnerable self-doubt. "I don't know if someone with my past can truly serve Him. I'm so far from perfect, so broken..."
So manipulative, so calculating, so willing to exploit your kindness for my own survival.
"God doesn't call the qualified, child," Father Atticus said firmly. "He qualifies the called. Some of our most effective ministers have been those who've walked through the darkness and found the light."
"Then you think... you think I might truly have a vocation?"
"I think you have the heart of a servant," he replied, studying my face with those sharp eyes that seemed to see too much. "If you're serious about pursuing this path, I'd like to arrange for you to receive proper spiritual direction."
My pulse quickened, but I kept my expression carefully composed. "Who would provide that guidance?"
"Father Mikael has experience with spiritual formation," Father Atticus said, and I had to suppress my triumphant smile. "He's young but exceptionally gifted at discerning genuine callings. He also handles some of our more... specialized ministries. Exorcism, for instance."
Exorcism. Of course he does. How perfectly ironic.
"Would you be comfortable helping him?" Sister Agnes asked gently.
I arranged my features into grateful relief while my mind raced with possibilities. "Father Mikael has been so kind to me already. I would be honored."
And you have no idea how much I'm counting on that kindness.
An hour later, I knocked on Mikael's study door, my heart hammering with anticipation rather than nerves. When his voice called for me to enter, I stepped inside and found him arranging books on his desk—preparation for our first formal lesson.
"Wren." His smile was warm, genuine, and for a dangerous moment I almost felt guilty about what I was planning. "Father Atticus told me about your conversation. I have to say, I'm not entirely surprised."
That caught me off guard. "You're not?"
He gestured for me to take the chair across from his desk, studying me with those beautiful brown eyes.
"You've been asking very thoughtful questions during our informal talks. And there's something about the way you've been helping Sister Agnes, the care you show the other women... it suggests someone with a genuine heart for service."
Genuine heart for service, my ass.
"Though I have to admit," he continued, and there was something almost teasing in his tone, "your theological knowledge seems... spotty. For someone who claims to have found faith through prayers."
My chest tightened. He was more observant than I'd given him credit for.
"I told you, I never really learned to pray properly," I said carefully. "My religious education was... limited."
"Mmm." He leaned back in his chair, still watching me with that penetrating gaze. "You stumble over basic prayers but discuss complex theological concepts with surprising sophistication. It's an interesting contradiction."
Shit. Think, Rowan. Think!
"I read a lot," I said, forcing uncertainty into my voice. "When I was... hiding from him, books were my escape. I devoured everything I could find, including religious texts. But reading about faith and actually living it are different things."
"Indeed they are." His expression softened slightly, but I could see the wheels turning behind those warm eyes. "Well, that's what spiritual direction is for. Speaking of which," he continued, pulling out a leather-bound notebook, "let's begin with prayer. It's the foundation of everything else we'll explore together."
He settled back in his chair, and I felt my carefully constructed mask beginning to slip.
"Just speak to God about whatever is on your heart," he said gently. "There's no wrong way to do this."
The request caught me completely off guard. For a moment, panic rose in my throat, because I didn't know how to pray. I'd never spoken to any god except to curse them.
The coven had power, magic, ancient rituals—but no prayers, no supplication, no surrender to anything greater than ourselves.
The silence stretched between us, growing heavier with each passing second. For the first time since arriving at the cathedral, I felt genuinely exposed.
"I don't know how..." I whispered, and it was the first completely honest thing I'd said to him.
Something shifted in Mikael's expression—surprise giving way to something infinitely gentler. He leaned forward slightly, his voice becoming even softer than usual.
"That's alright. There's no shame in not knowing. Prayer isn't about eloquence or getting the words right. It's about speaking truthfully from your heart."
He paused, studying my face with those warm brown eyes.
"I can guide you through something simple." I nodded, not trusting my voice. "Close your eyes if it helps. Just speak to God as you would speak to someone who loves you completely. Start with gratitude—what are you thankful for?"
I closed my eyes and tried to find words that wouldn't reveal too much while still sounding genuine.
When I finally spoke, my voice was barely above a whisper.
"I'm... grateful for shelter when I expected to die in the cold. For safety when I thought I'd never feel safe again. For kindness from people who had no reason to care about someone like me."
The words felt foreign on my tongue, but something about the quiet intimacy of the moment—his patience, his genuine care—created an unexpected vulnerability.
"I'm grateful for second chances I don't deserve. For people who see something worth protecting when I can't see it myself."
When I opened my eyes, Mikael was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read. There was something deeper than professional interest, warmer than spiritual guidance.
The careful distance between us seemed to collapse entirely, and I became hyperaware of everything—his proximity, the way his breath had quickened slightly, the intensity of his gaze.
"Beautiful," he said quietly, and I knew he meant it.
The sincerity in his voice did something dangerous to my chest, made me want things I had no business wanting. The moment stretched until he seemed to catch himself, clearing his throat and reaching for another book with hands that weren't quite steady.
"We should continue with the reading," he said, but his voice carried a rougher edge than before.
As the lesson proceeded, I realized I'd succeeded beyond my expectations.
I'd gotten closer to him, established regular access, positioned myself perfectly to gather intelligence and ensure my protection.
But I'd also discovered something I hadn't anticipated: the growing certainty that my greatest danger might not be exposure as a witch, but the way my carefully guarded heart responded when Mikael looked at me.
Well, shit. Didn't see that coming.