Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127249 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 636(@200wpm)___ 509(@250wpm)___ 424(@300wpm)
The place is clearly in need of renovations, so money is definitely an issue. Perhaps in these modern times, there are fewer believers and therefore less people to give the customary tenth of their earnings for the upkeep of the church.
“Give it to me.” I hold out a hand. “I’ll do it.”
Her knuckles turn white around the key. “I’ve got this.”
She’s clearly not keen on handing over something that belonged to her mother.
It takes a few attempts and some wiggling before she gets the key to work, but finally, it turns with a rusty squeak. She pushes down the ornamental handle and puts her full weight behind opening the door, but it doesn’t budge. The wood probably swelled from damp, and the door got stuck.
This time, when I grip her elbow and pull her away, she doesn’t argue. I put my shoulder to the door and shove. It scrapes over the floor with the sound of nails being dragged over a blackboard, relenting an inch. One more push, and the door gives way. Indeed, the wood has expanded, which explains why it’s difficult to move the door.
Leaving it open to prevent it from getting stuck again, I step into the somber interior. A few votive candles flicker beneath a statue of Mary with a crown on her head, their red glow reaching into the shadows. Wrought iron chandeliers hang from the vaulted ceiling, but the only light comes from the candles.
The musky scent of incense fills the air. A thin ribbon of smoke curls from a stick that burns in a holder on the altar, telling me the church is still in use. Right now, however, the main doors are closed and barred from the inside. Another door gives access to the back.
My steps echo on the concrete floor as I walk to the center aisle. Paintings depicting scenes from the Old Testament and gold leaf statues of patron saints decorate the interior. The church is an unexpected jewel amidst the newer buildings with much less character. Beneath the dilapidated exterior hides a beautiful gem. The pale moon that cuts wedges through the high arched windows cloaks the altar in silver light. Even I, who am not religious, am not untouched by the quiet melancholy and secretive mysticism of the place.
I turn to Tatiana, finding her still standing by the door with her arms wrapped around herself and that same melancholic vibe I get from the place etched on her features.
Her voice carries softly in the cavernous vault. “My mom used to come here to pray.”
Of course. Milena was deeply religious. But still… “She had her own key?” I should’ve known there was more than sentimentality to that chain and cross she always wore around her neck.
Tatiana’s expression is wistful as she looks at a painting of Christ on a throne with a halo around his head. “She donated a lot of money to the church. The priest knew her from when she was just a girl, barely seventeen, and already married to my father. He gave her a key so that she could pray whenever she needed to, even at night.” A sad smile plays over her lips. “Maybe he knew how much she needed her prayers answered.”
And this is the one place Pawel Teszner would allow his wife to visit at liberty. He’d never risk the ire of the bishop by forbidding his wife to pray. In the circles Teszner moved, even the criminal ones, the church had too much power.
Seeming to pull herself from her reverie, Tatiana walks with determined steps to the altar. “Come.”
I follow, taking in her slight frame under the coat and how she still walks like a queen, like someone who isn’t even a little scared. So brave.
“Here.” She stops behind the altar and kicks away the once plush but now worn rug that covers the raw concrete floor. “Help me.”
I stop her with my fingers around her arm when she makes to kneel.
My tone leaves no room for argument. “I want to know first.”
She purses her lips. In the milky moonlight, her eyes shine brighter than I’ve ever seen. They almost seem translucent, like the clear water of a green river. The haunted look reflected in their stunning depths makes her appear like a ghost—a beautiful, untouchable apparition that can evaporate before I get a secure hold on it, something that can slip through my fingers and drift away with the thin mist.
“I want to know, Tatiana. Who took you?”
She relents with an exhale that bends the ribbon of smoke from the incense. “I don’t know their names, but they had a Russian accent.”
The smoke disperses, becoming a loose, fluffy cloud that escapes to the ceiling where it dissolves into nothingness.
Suppressed violence taints my voice with anger. “The men who died in the explosion?”