by Selina Kray
“May She come to light our way.” Tim had practiced the Daughters’ greeting a hundred times the night before, but it still fell awkwardly from his tongue. The woman’s kind smile did little to reassure him. He nodded his thanks, then hurried along the path to the chapel, forgetting his limp.
Tim stopped halfway to collect himself, wishing he’d picked a more comfortable guise. The mustache he’d grown itched like a bastard. His muscles fought unfamiliar movements. One of the pins had stabbed through his skin over his right shoulder blade, pricking with every gesture. For the briefest moment, he wished Hiero were there to finesse it all away. But then he remembered his goal—reinstatement—and berated himself for his weakness.
A child’s life was at stake.
A row of cedars ensured the main house was obscured, though whether the Daughters wanted to keep others out or the girls under their care in was but one of the many questions Tim sought to answer. The institutional quality to the place undermined any efforts the Daughters had made to add cleanliness and character, though Tim imagined that appealed to some of their more zealous patrons. The women they took in shouldn’t seem to be rewarded for their transgressions.
The sparse decor of the chapel underlined this message. Rows of humble wood pews divided by a center aisle led up to a stone altar with a side podium. A shrine to founder Rebecca Northcote—a portrait lit by candles, a withering bouquet of wildflowers, and copies of her most famous books chained to the wall for easy reading—adorned the opposing side. Instead of the stations of the cross, the room’s perimeter told the story of Mother Rebecca in mementos and sketches. No vulgar collection plates for the Daughters; instead a few well-placed signs asked patrons to do all they could to “make way for Her return.” A painting above the altar depicted this second coming in riotous colors.
Tim milled about, pretending to take interest in one of the sketches while surveying the sizeable crowd. He recognized several childless widows and rich spinsters of social renown. Whether they went on behalf of the adulterous fathers, brothers, and nephews who contributed to the Daughters’ trade or out of their true devotion, Tim could not know. That the Daughters understood how to appeal to the highest in society to serve either the lowest, or their own coffers, was certain. Perhaps even something to be admired.
But to what lengths would they go to avoid upsetting their apple cart?
A murmur of intrigue rustled through the crowd. Tim looked to the front, expecting to see Sister Juliet Tattersale, the current prophet, take the stage, and found himself staring into a sea of faces turned toward the rear. He swung about to watch what he assumed would be a procession...
And sighed. Profoundly. He waited to catch the eye of his lover and sometimes nemesis, his Hiero, inexplicably dressed as a Roman Catholic priest. Tim knew in his bones Hiero would not fail to notice him, just as he knew the fearsome attraction that linked them had drawn him into his orbit, fiery sun to Tim’s placid moon. That or Han had been tasked with following him.
The slips of gossip that slithered through the crowd in the wake of Hiero’s entrance had more hiss than bite. The Daughters’ religious beliefs skewed closer to the Roman Church than the Church of England, so Hiero’s choice of costume did not cause as much controversy as that of his companion. Head bowed and face bare of makeup, Tim almost failed to recognize Callie. Eschewing her blonde wig and finery for her natural chin-length black hair and a long white-and-gold cloak, she had dressed to provoke. A simple wire crown of stars, little more extravagant than a string of daisies, encircled her head. Tim couldn’t see them all, but he didn’t doubt there were twelve, calling to mind the Woman of the Apocalypse from the Book of Revelation. By the increased volume of chatter in the chapel, the patrons hadn’t missed this detail either.
What was Hiero playing at? He would not have gone to such lengths just to chastise Tim. Worry gnawed at his nerves. He couldn’t decide what scenario would be worse: if they had taken a new case without him, or if their investigation interfered with his own. Regardless, any action on his part would have to wait on the ceremony’s completion. That he had thus far escaped Hiero’s notice was the situation’s only blessing. At the chime of a bell, he settled into the most advantageous seat, with a view of the altar, the podium, and the wily Mr. Bash.
The procession he had looked for earlier began, with Daughters filing in from all corners, each bearing a basket of fruit, vegetables, or flowers. These were placed around the edges of the altar as tribute to the Messiah of the painting. The last of these gift-bearers carried an ornate box—the Northcote box, or so Tim had read, in which Mother Rebecca’s end-of-the-world prophecies were sealed, to be opened when all the Bishops of England were assembled before the announcement of the Messiah’s return, after forty days and forty nights spent in deep contemplation of Mother Rebecca’s writings.
Tim had to credit her ambition in trying to bring the British clergy to heel. But such was the mystery, and likely the appeal, of Northcote’s philosophies. She had the good sense to mingle in social reform with the apocalyptic fervor.
After setting the box in the middle of the altar, one of the Daughters opened the lid. Not the real box, then, but a symbol, Tim noted. A dove flew out, to the amazement of all. The bird circled above them three times before landing on the Daughter’s outstretched arm. As they took their place with the other Daughters at the sides of the stage, Tim could almost hear Hiero’s internal grousing about how the simplest forms of magic were the easiest way to sucker you in. He stole a gaze in Hiero’s direction and chuckled at his frown.
A cornsilk-haired waif in a gold-and-cream confection of a dress wandered up the center aisle, caressing the heads and cheeks of everyone she passed. She clasped the hands of those who reached for her, her elfin features radiating warmth, wonderment, and the vacant innocence of the touched. Sister Juliet, no doubt, and, if Tim’s instincts bore fruit, the reason for Hiero’s presence today. He would have taken an instant dislike to such an obvious charlatan, and it would be all the more impossible to dissuade him from exposing her for the sake of Tim’s case.
The one he couldn’t tell Hiero anything about.
“And the Lord Jesus said,” Sister Juliet proclaimed, standing before the altar with her arms outstretched, “‘Remember therefore from whence thou art fallen, and repent, and do the first works. He that hath an ear, let him hear what the Spirit saith unto the churches; to him that overcometh will I give to eat of the Tree of Life, which is in the midst of the Paradise of God.’ Revelations 2:5, 2:7.”
She pressed her hands to her chest and bowed to the painting. Everyone, the Daughters, the parishioners, performed the same gesture. Casting a bewildered glance across the field of bent backs, Tim caught Hiero’s notice. He kept his pious mien, but his dark eyes twinkled with mischief and, Tim hoped, some surprise. Tim permitted himself a smile, oddly reassured by Hiero’s presence despite its complications. Then everyone rose, and he was again surrounded by strangers.
“To overcome.” Sister Juliet moved to the front of the dais to face her audience. “That is our charge as daughters of Mother Eve, with whose original sin we are burdened. The first work of Adam and Eve, as instructed by the Lord God himself in the Book of Genesis, was to till the soil. The work of growing nourishment for our bodies does the work of nourishing our souls. That is how we overcome the sins we inherited from our great mother. And to those who overcome, the Lord Jesus Christ will give to eat of the Tree of Life and welcome them into the Paradise.”
A titter of light applause broke out, which more experienced parishioners shushed. Sister Juliet waited them out with the look of a patient teacher.
“To our Holy Mother Rebecca, the promise of Paradise after death did not go far enough to repent for Mother Eve’s sin. She wrote, ‘As she at first plucked the fruit and brought the knowledge of the evil fruit, so at last she must bring the knowledge of the good fruit.’ We must do the work of restoring the Paradise to Earth. Of planting a seed of virtue in every man,
woman, and child. Of nurturing a garden of devout souls, ripe with the knowledge of the Word of the Lord and of our glorious prophet Rebecca!”
A chorus of cheers rung out. Sister Juliet raised her arms as if to catch them.
“Our first work is Her redemption. With our every deed and action, we move closer to restoring Her garden, as Mother Rebecca foretold.” The Daughters fetched the baskets of fruit off the altar and began distributing them among the parishioners. “Our garden is bountiful, and we invite you to share in it. But our real work as Daughters of Eden is done not in our fields, but in our nursery. In our midwifery. In redeeming the fallen and their innocent babes, in bringing them the knowledge of the good fruit.
“And through this work shall you all be redeemed and earn your place at Her side. She will remake of this Earth a paradise where we will be blithe as the angels!”
To ecstatic cheers and shouts of “Hallelujah!” Sister Juliet stole a ruddy apple from one of the other Daughters’ baskets and chomped off a huge bite, inviting her congregation to do the same. Tim noticed many who took the fruit replaced it with a donation envelope. Some parishioners formed a line to speak to Sister Juliet. Just as Tim made to join them, a few of the Daughters rushed forth to usher them back to their seats. It seemed the return of Eve and the Garden of Eden to Earth weren’t the Daughters’ only ambitions.
A demure Daughter with coarse black hair entered, cradling an infant. By the sighs and “awws” of the crowd, Sister Juliet knew exactly how to play to her audience. Tim could only imagine how Hiero received this blatant heartstring-tugging. He felt his gorge rising at how cunningly they would use a child, especially given the reason his investigation had led him to their door.
“Look at this cherub!” Sister Juliet took the babe—a girl, by her pink bonnet—and cleaved her to her bosom. “A miracle the Lord gifted us through our Mother Eve. This little one will not know shame, or guilt, or be lured into temptation. She was born into our fold, and so we are charged with her soul’s care.” An older well-to-do couple were led to the side of the dais. Sister Juliet whispered a blessing on the infant’s forehead, then waved them over. “And so we can lift ever more children out of the unfortunate circumstances of their birth, we call on the faithful to share our burden.”
With a final kiss, she handed the girl over to her adoptive parents. “Mr. and Mrs. William Thornhill, will you raise this child in the light of Lord and teach her the ways of our Holy Mother?”
“Yes, oh, yes!” Mrs. Thornhill exclaimed, weeping as she embraced her daughter for the first time. Even Mr. Thornhill looked a bit misty eyed, clearing his throat and avoiding the crowd. More than a few handkerchiefs had been deployed around Tim; he repressed a sigh. Struggling to keep an open mind—and to protect his cover—he coughed into his gloves. He didn’t doubt the infant would be loved by the Thornhills, but he couldn’t fail to wonder if every child born under the Daughters’ care was so blessed.
“But when will She be born back into the world? When will the time be ripe for Mother Eve’s return?” Sister Juliet asked, seemingly of the heavens, or at least the ceiling. “The question has weighed on my sisters and me since we first heard Mother Rebecca’s teachings. In her sixty-five prophetic tomes, she wrote of the many signs that will herald Her return. Unexpected visits from the faithful living abroad. A vision of the Woman Clothed in the Sun. The floods. The cleansing of the Dragon’s fire. The sacrifice—”
An eerie whimpering echoed from the back of the chapel. A few heads turned, but Sister Juliet ignored the sound.
“Our beloved Sister Zanna examines each young mother brought to us and every babe born under our eaves for the prophetic marks. But even these signs cannot replace the feeling we each hold deep within ourselves.”
The whimpering intensified, underscored by a music-boxlike tinkling that spiked the hairs on the back of Tim’s neck. He watched for Sister Juliet’s reaction, wondering if this was all part of the ceremony.
“Our Holy Mother described it as a euphoric sensation, being in the presence of the One. A joy that shoots out from the very heart of you.”
A wild cackle scraped their ears. A screechy note was sung out. Sister Juliet reached out to her audience as if to grab back their attention. Some of the Daughters walked the perimeter of the room, searching for the culprit.
“‘Even as you rejoice, a yearning will carve a hole out of you only She can fill. When you are near her, you will know true serenity. When apart, a feeling of purpose.’”
The tinkling grew more melodious, ethereal music ringing down from on high.
“And her purpose, and yours as her shepherd, is to—”
Behind, a thud. Tim caught a flicker of fury on Sister Juliet’s face before turning in time to see Callie prone in the aisle, clutching her abdomen and muttering feverishly. Father Hiero raced to her side, crooning to her in Italian as he helped her to her feet. Callie fainted into his arms, still babbling nonsense, the crowd riveted. A shudder quaked through her, then another and another until Hiero couldn’t hold her anymore. She slammed to her knees, crawling forward even as she thrust an arm toward the painting of the Messiah.
“Mother!” Even Tim startled at her scream. “Mother! She is my mother I am her mother she is my mother I am her mother...”
A posse of Daughters raced to silence her. Hiero, brandishing his robes like a cape, hissed them away with another burst of Italian. Tim bit his cheek to stifle a laugh.
Sister Juliet, perhaps recognizing when she’d been out-acted, bid them halt. She floated down the aisle to Callie, seizing her outstretched hand and clamping it to her chest.
“Daughter, have you been called to us?”
Callie grabbed the sides of Sister Juliet’s face and kissed her fiercely, first on the lips and then on the forehead, to audible gasps from the parishioners.
“Hear me, Daughter,” Callie, lit with half-crazed elation, implored. “I am the hope and the light and the spirit manifest. I am the Holy Vessel and the Queen of Queens. I am stalked by the Dragon and crowned by the stars. The bounty of heaven lives in me, loves through me, aches for the world. Prepare! Prepare!”
Callie convulsed as she reached out to a recoiling Sister Juliet, the better to show off the beads of blood pearling at her wrists and neck. Audible gasps from the crowd and the Daughters gave the tension in the air an extra charge. With a mercenary swoon, Callie collapsed into Sister Juliet’s arms as Hiero rushed forward.
“Sorry, I am so very sorry to disturb.”
Sister Juliet, still reeling, looked a bit peaked herself. Two of the Daughters hurried to support her; she grabbed for them to steady her. “She is with child?”
Tim rolled his eyes when Hiero nodded. Of course that would be their meddlesome plan.
“We will speak later.” Sister Juliet turned to her companion. “Let her take rest in the prayer room.”
“Forgive me,” Hiero objected, “but she is in my charge.”
“Come with me,” the demure Daughter invited, and all three disappeared through the back exit.
Tim stifled a growl of professional jealously and refocused on the task at hand. But Sister Juliet’s concluding remarks fell on deaf ears, as everyone in the chapel, Daughters and parishioners alike, were abuzz with speculation. Only Tim understood not one, but two frauds had been committed, and a child’s life hung in the balance.
Any hope of infiltrating the main house with their performance was lost as soon as they were escorted into the prayer room, little more than a storage area at the back of the chapel. Two Daughters eased Callie atop a dusty chest. Hiero did not miss how they gawked at her stigmata stains before rushing out. Maintaining the pretense of her indisposition, Callie slumped back against the wall, arms splayed and head lolling, still muttering nonsense. The wire edges of her starry crown had pricked blood from her temples and brow. Hiero would have taken a moment to admire her commitment if he were not still immersed in his role.
He unclasped his cloak and blankete
d her, tucking it around her belly to give the impression of a small bulge. He shoved up her left sleeve to reveal the large birthmark—quite natural, as it turned out—those so inclined might see as the shape of a tree. Hearing footsteps approach, he knelt in prayer before her.
The shy ledger-keeper from the embankment celebration found them thus. She inhaled to gather her strength in the doorway before pushing herself into the room. Hiero could only imagine what horrors in this woman’s past had scared off her confidence. Having suffered and overcome his own, he took an instant liking to her.
“Here. Some water.” Telling that the woman handed the glass to Hiero, not Callie. She flicked her watchful eyes once, twice, longer, to Callie’s birthmark. She swallowed a smile. “I am Sister Nora Hawfinch, Sister Juliet’s personal secretary. Do you think your... Does she require a doctor? We have a midwife...”
“Father Giacomo Coscarelli, late of the Vatican.” Hiero bowed. “May I present Mrs. Caroline Sandringham.” It had been some years since he’d used his Italian accent—The Gaiety’s Romeo & Juliet burlesque, Two Ignoble Houses Both Alike in Infamy, had fallen from popularity after their Juliet, a dizzy lad named Leslie, impaled himself with the wrong prop dagger and died a week later, killed by an infected splinter. “Alas, there is no cure for her condition. She will be restored when the Mother wills it.”
“The Mother, yes.” A slight stammer gave away her interest. “And you have come seeking Sister Juliet’s counsel?”
“I go where she leads.” Hiero remained on his knees so as not to tower over her. “We were headed to mass at the English Martyrs when she announced that we must go west. She navigated the streets as if they were her own. When your sister began to speak, all became clear. More I cannot say.” He cast a meaningful glance at Callie, going for a mix of awe and anxiousness. “But yes, we must see her.”
“She’s in great demand after services, as you might imagine.” Sister Nora worried her bottom lip, considering. “Perhaps it would be wise to set an appointment since your companion Mrs. Sandringham is unwell. That way we’d all have time to prepare.”