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“No, you’re not.” Rinaldo frowned at her. He had a disapproving expression that was best done by fathers, and apparently that counted for the religious ones as well. “What happened? Was that one of your blackouts?”
She nodded weakly, struggling to slow her breath. She walked to the nearby wall and leaned against it for support. “Electroshock therapy. Sometimes what I’m saying or doing will trigger a memory.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.
Ally had her hand over her mouth and was looking at her with wide-eyed concern, pity, and heartbreak. “Oh, Maggie…”
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” She shook her head. She felt something squirming in her backpack. Algernon. She slipped it from her shoulder and opened the pack to peer inside. He was looking up at her with his empty sockets, his few remaining whiskers twitching. He reached up a little claw-like hand to her.
It seems everybody was worried. She smiled and reached in and scratched his head. She wasn’t brave enough to let him out of the backpack when she was in the holiest of all holy churches.
Pretty sure somebody’d have a problem with a dead rat running around. Not sure what weird shit they’ve seen, but it’s probably just rude anyway.
Maggie went to move from the wall and felt weak in the knees. Something was still wrong. She felt like she was going to be pulled under a riptide at any second. She didn’t want to lose herself into another hallucination—another memory—standing in the hallway like an idiot. “Can I sit down for a minute? Somewhere private? I think it’s going to happen again.”
“Of course.” Rinaldo looked left and then right, scanning where they were, clearly coming up with a plan. “This way.” He led them down the hallway a little farther before opening a door and stepping aside, gesturing for her and Ally to go in first.
She wasn’t sure what to expect. It looked like a small, private chapel. There were only a few rows of benches and a few chairs set up before a modest altar and a wood carved Christ on the cross.
Well, modest for the Vatican, anyway.
The altar had a rich red cloth draped over it, stitched like a tapestry and just barely worn at the edges. It was, like everything else around her, clearly very old. She wished she could spend more time to take in her surroundings, but…she could feel the press of something at the back of her mind like a dark cloud. Or like claws, sinking into her skull, digging in deeper.
The sight of the altar had only made it worse.
And like everything else in her life, she didn’t know why.
Sinking down into a bench off to one side, she put her bag in her lap and rested her head on the back of the row in front of her. Stop. Go away. Stop this. Not now. Please not now. I don’t want to deal with this. I can’t deal with this.
But just like the doctors she had dealt with her entire life—nobody listened to her silent plea.
“Maggie?” Rinaldo asked from near her. Or was he far away? It sounded like he was calling to her from the end of a long tunnel.
She stood in front of an altar. It was a church…entirely made of human bones. She smiled sadly up at the depiction of Christ on the cross. It was the least interesting thing to look at in the small chapel. The ossuary was filled with human remains—easily fifty thousand souls or more were on display.
Skulls were linked together and strung overhead like morbid festival decorations. Skulls were stacked atop each other into decorative pylons that filled the room. Skulls were used to create a huge and elaborate chandelier that loomed overhead.
She had never felt so at home as she did in this place.
Death was everywhere.
Memento mori. Remember that you will die.
Thousands of empty eye sockets stared at her. Thousands of long forgotten souls, all whispering to those who entered the same message—look upon me, and remember that beneath your life, you are this. Beneath all your trappings, your worries, your riches, your joys and your sorrows…you will become this.
Or at least…you should.
Marguerite now knew that was a bit more optional than people would lead you to believe. And sadly, so did the angry mob that had followed her here. She was going to die at their hands. There was no hiding from them—only stalling them.
Looking up at the depiction of Christ, she sighed heavily. She was sick of dying. She could remember so many violent ends. So many peaceful ones, too. She was sick of being dead. She wanted to be alive.
There was no telling if such a thing was even still possible.
But she had to try.
“I know you’re frightened. Confused. I was, too.” She smiled mournfully. “And you have every right to be angry, believe me. But you have to be strong. And you have to be patient. You’re playing against men who have sat at this poker table for a lot longer than we have. They have written off our agency in all this. They think we’re only a tool to be used in their endless machinations and schemes. And maybe they’re right. But maybe we can prove them wrong.”
She chuckled and shook her head. She didn’t know if her message would ever be heard. If her stamp inside her own mind would ever be found and discovered again. Her head was like a giant tome with all the pages torn out and thrown about the space until it covered the floor like fallen snow. Each page was worth reading—but in what order? And what if she couldn’t find them all?
But she had to try.
