The heavy oak doors of the cathedral's private study clicked shut, locking out the echoing chants of the morning choir. The room smelled of old vellum, frankincense, and the faint, bitter tang of dried silver nitrate used to treat the church”s ceremonial relics.
Archpriest Dominic Vermont stood by the tall, stained-glass window, the morning light casting brilliant crimson and cobalt geometry across his white silk vestments. He held a small silver rosary, sliding the beads through his long, immaculate fingers with practiced, rhythmic ease.
"You look pale, Cattleya," he said without turning around. His voice was warm, measured, and entirely terrifying in its fatherly gentleness. "Marcella tells me you spent the entire night in the lower pathology ward."
Cattleya stood near the center of t
