Page 60 of Deck of Scarlets
“Maybe your mom?”
I laughed a true belly laugh at his comment. “Please, that woman hates anything to do with the name God. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than ask her for help with anything. She might put me in a psych ward herself.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. The way his hair curled, right down to his defined jawline… he made empathy too sexy. I need to get the hell out of here.
His shoulders slumped. “I just… I don’t understand.”
“What I don’t understand is why I keep entertaining all of this when we both know none of this shit exists.”
The way his eyes shifted from sympathy to pure rage made my breath catch. “The faster you accept what is, the less likely you’ll get your ass chewed out by Thatcher, or anyone, for that matter.”
If I didn’t calm my breathing, he was going to catch on that I was hyperventilating. I cleared my throat and said, “But you will still be a thorn in my side. Excuse me, but I have somewhere I have to be.” I didn’t give him a chance for a rebuttal and stormed out, trying to shake away the effect he had on me.
The amount of pacing I did before my first lesson with Father Benedict gave me an intense headache. Giant gears rotated inside my brain and kept my thoughts circling in endless loops of unanswered questions that I tried desperately to make sense of. Thatcher’s reasoning for her strong dislike toward me stemmed from Grams, and although Grams was having her final comeback beyond the grave, not knowing why was killing me more.
Then there was the whole lineage bullshit and how she kept it a secret. Did my mother know? Could that explain her distaste for anything religious? But wouldn’t she have gone to Columbia too? Instead of Brown University where she met my father? I didn’t have the energy to bring it up in conversation, especially since she was already hellbent on Grams’ will and going behind her back. I needed to bide my time, and Heather’s when she was fully healed, call the authorities, and get all these crazy people arrested. I changed into lighter clothing and threw my hair up in a ponytail. After a glance at Heather’s belongings to hold me steady, I took a deep breath and made my way outside.
Summer daylight lingered in the sky, though the air hinted at colder days to come. Days when hot chocolate and cozy sweaters made the darkest of days a little brighter. Days when snow fell like little cotton balls, and bright colorful lights were strung across tree branches and ice rinks. Days when you watched your favorite people open presents while the TV played A Christmas Story for twenty-four hours in the background.
Instead, I walked up the steps to the cathedral, ready to hear more nonsense and possibly false information.
Entering in the daytime had a lighter atmosphere, which didn’t include the sunlight casting through the many stained-glass windows. I discovered Father Benedict and recognized the young man named Collin at the altar. Father had advised me to come by after dinner, when students tended to stay clear of its perimeter. This gave us uninterrupted time to begin my first history lesson.
Collin greeted me with a kind smile, halting just before placing a thick book on the long table covered in white and gold material.
“Remi! Welcome!” he greeted me cheerfully. At least Collin enjoyed my company.
I couldn’t help but smile at his warm welcome. “Are you joining us?”
Father Benedict finally noticed my presence and smiled—not as warm as Collin’s, but kind enough. “He is. Collin is my apprentice. From here on out, he will be assisting me in our lessons.”
“Cool.” I shrugged. Unsure where to stand, I decided to shimmy my way into the first pew and sat.
They continued to adjust objects on a long table, shuffling them around to find the perfect spot and cleaning them with an old linen cloth to give them a polished look.
It was the silver cup in Collin’s hands that caught my eye. The bowl had the reddest of gems embedded at the center, each a different shape of a swirl, thick and hypnotizing. The stem seemed to match the design, from the bowl to the flat base of the cup. There must have been over a hundred gems, all different sizes, with that striking red glistening from the lights. I’d never seen such a beautiful object in my life.
Father Benedict caught me eyeing it and said, “Chalice of Divinity.”
“I’m sorry? What?” I stammered.
“The cup is called Chalice of Divinity. It has been with our society for centuries. It is said to hold powerful properties once the water is Blessed,” Father Benedict explained.
“We also use it for Sunday service. We drink from it after you receive the body of Christ,” added Collin.
“How did it end up in your possession?” I asked.
“And that exact question will begin our lesson for today.” Father Benedict walked behind the podium and unwrapped an item from the table. A thick leather-bound book with a red ribbon for a bookmark peeked through the off-white pages, marking the last place someone read. I watched him cradle it in his hands, caressing the worn spine with the tip of his fingers. “This is the Book of Allegiance. Pages of history written from past priests, Scarlets, and Tutelary Saints. This is the beginning of our story.”
He carefully opened the marked page, traced a finger on a sentence, and walked back to the podium to lay it flat. “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. Isaiah 41:10.” He then turned the page just as Collin walked over, handing over a delicate set of Rosary beads. Father Benedict clenched them to his chest and continued, “It is our birthright, duty, and mission from above to protect the children of our Lord.”
He whispered a few words to himself, the Rosary beads dangling from his aged fingers, and I realized at that moment he spoke a prayer just as he performed the sign of the cross. “Centuries of faded documents were compiled and transcribed to convey our history. The history of the very first Scarlet. A young woman who had been given a second chance after her courageous sacrifice. Eighteen-year-old Juniper Findlay of Edinburgh, Sco—”
“How do you know this is accurate?” I questioned, not caring that I interrupted his profound lesson.
Collin looked back and forth between Father and me, possibly waiting for him to scold my ass for rudely interrupting such a severe topic.
But a smile stretched across his face, the wrinkles around his eyes creasing deeper as he said, “You’re not the first Scarlet to question history. But because of Juniper’s vigorous beginning, her story was written for us and us alone.”