The heavy silence that followed Father Daniel's command stretched like a taut wire. James felt the weight of seven pairs of eyes on him, his sleep-fogged mind struggling to process the request. Guest rooms? The words felt foreign, impossible. But Father Daniel's gaze was steady and expectant, and James realized he had no choice but to nod.
He gave a stiff, jerky acknowledgment and turned, leading the procession from the refectory. The four strangers followed, their footsteps echoing his own in the unnaturally silent halls. As they walked, his mind, finally shaking off the fog of sleep, began to catalog them.
The man In the lead carried himself with an unshakable air of command. His coat was of a finer cut than even Father Alaric's, and a simple but heavy silver cross hung at his chest. A Bishop, James deduced. The leader. Beside him was another priest, quiet and observant, whose robes bore the subtle insignia of the Order of Ursa. The third man was the easiest to overlook. Dressed in plain, practical grey, he was of average height and build, his face smooth and professional. He could not have chosen A better palette to be forgotten against these grey walls, James thought wryly.
The fourth was a woman, a Sister with a face so stern it looked as if it had been carved from granite. It was she who broke the silence, her voice crisp and sharp.
"And what is your name, boy?"
"James Thorne, Sister," he replied, not turning around.
"You were not at morning service." It was a statement, not a question.
"I overslept, Sister."
He heard her make a small, disapproving grunt behind him.
They reached the heavy oak door to the guest wing. James hesitated, his hand hovering over the cold iron ring. He braced himself for the stale, dead air of a tomb. He pulled the door open.
The air that met him smelled not of dust, but of fresh soap and a faint, clean scent of dried lavender. He stared into the corridor, stunned. The grimy runners had been replaced with patched but clean ones. The sconces on the wall had been polished, though their brass showed green with age, and through the tall window at the far end, sunlight poured in, unimpeded by the grime that had coated it for as long as he could remember.
The Bishop gestured down the hall. "Are the chambers prepared?"
"I… I believe so," James stammered, his mind racing.
The Sister moved past him and opened the first door on the right. James peered inside. The room had been scrubbed clean, though the walls still bore water stains and the floorboards showed their age. A proper bed with thin but clean blankets stood where a rotted frame had once been. The curtains at the windows were mended but faded. She examined the space with a critical eye, running a finger along the windowsill and inspecting it.
"Well," she said finally, her tone carrying clear disapproval, "it will have to suffice." She looked back at James. "Though one can see this place has been neglected for some time."
The two priests found their own rooms further down the hall, each making similar assessments with polite but pointed silence. Four separate chambers, all brought back from abandonment through sheer effort, but still bearing the unmistakable marks of an institution stretched thin.
It all clicked Into place. The frantic cleaning. The extra chores. Barnaby working them until their muscles burned. It wasn't random punishment. It was preparation.
While he had been out chasing shadows, Saint Ursa's had been preparing to welcome its guests. He felt a hot flush of embarrassment, a fool who had been looking for a secret language in the dark while the rest of the world was speaking plainly in the light.
That evening, an unscheduled bell called them not to supper, but to the chapel. A murmur of confusion rippled through the boys as they filed into the cold, candlelit space. The air was thick with the scent of old stone and melting wax.
The four strangers were already there, seated in the front pew. Before the altar stood Father Sam, looking pale and diminished. Father Alaric stood beside him, a portrait of smug satisfaction. Father Daniel was nowhere to be seen.
When the last of the shuffling feet had fallen silent, Father Sam cleared his throat. His voice trembled slightly. "Boys. Before our evening prayer, we have… honored guests to formally introduce." He gestured to the front pew. "This is His Grace, Bishop Lorcan. With him are Father Matthias of the Order, Sister Agnes, and Mr. Silas of the Board of Child Welfare. They have come from the mainland to… to be with us for a time."
"They are here to look after the welfare of Saint Ursa's," he continued, his words sounding rehearsed, "to assess our needs, and to see what can be done to improve our facilities."
A murmur went through the room. James observed the reactions rippling through the chapel—the younger boys' faces lighting up with hope at the mention of improvements, while some of the older ones exchanged uncertain glances, sensing something beneath the formal words.
Father Sam stepped back, looking relieved to be done. Bishop Lorcan rose and moved to the altar. He was not a tall man, but he possessed a gravity that seemed to bend the very light of the candles toward him. He waited, his sharp eyes scanning the faces of the boys, until the chapel was utterly silent.
"My children," he began, his voice not loud, but resonant and clear, filling every corner of the chapel. "It is a blessing to be among you tonight, here at this ancient and noble place. I have come to see you, to know you, and to ensure that you are being nurtured in both body and spirit."
His gaze was Intense, yet his tone was one of earnest compassion. "The Lord's love is a great and fearsome thing. It is a light that seeks out every dark corner, a fire that purifies. It demands that we constantly examine our ways, that we seek to understand His true words and His true love, and not be led astray by old habits or isolated traditions."
James felt a prickle of unease. The words seemed aimed over their heads, directed at the empty space where Father Daniel should have been.
The Bishop continued, his voice growing warmer, more passionate. "We must pray for the strength to guard our souls against the imperfections that can settle in the heart—imperfections of doubt, of laxity, of pride." He paused, letting the words hang in the air. "We must have the courage to prune the withered branch, so that the tree may thrive."
From his seat in the front pew, James saw Father Alaric give a slow, deliberate nod of agreement.
The pieces fit together now with a final, damning click. This wasn't just an inspection. It was a purge. The distress of Father Sam, the absence of Father Daniel—it was the quiet agony of the old guard being replaced.
This was not the work of some unknowable thing in the dark. It was the work of men.
As this understanding settled, the vague dread that had haunted him for weeks did not vanish. It sharpened. It coalesced into something tangible and immediate, a new kind of chill that settled low in his gut. It was the chill of seeing the triumphant, righteous gleam in Father Alaric's eyes as the Bishop spoke of cleansing imperfections.
James had been looking for a shadow. He had found an executioner with a prayer on his lips.