Identity
He did not come to her that night. In the morning he came to her door. “Get dressed,” he said. “We’re going out.” She looked at him. He offered nothing further. She got dressed. The church was private — tucked behind an older street, its interior cool and quiet and smelling of stone and candlelight and centuries of things said within its walls that couldn’t be unsaid. He led her through the entrance and down a corridor and opened a door to a small antechamber and left her inside it without a word. She stood in the centre of the room and looked at the closed door. Then it opened again. Several women entered — carrying things, professional, unhurried. “Who are you,” Sera said. “Sir asked us to get you ready, ma’am.” The woman at the front set her case down with the efficiency of so
- Writer
