The Vampire & Her Witch-Chapter 1400: Uninvited Guests (Part One)

The interior of the Chapel of the Rising Sun was smaller than the grand cathedral, but it possessed an intimacy that the vast, echoing chamber of the main temple could never match.

The ceiling was vaulted but low enough that the stone ribs felt close and sheltering rather than soaring and imposing. Ten rows of dark wooden pews, polished to a deep sheen by generations of worshippers, lined the central aisle, and at the far end, a modest altar of pale stone stood beneath the chapel’s crowning glory: a great window of colored glass that stretched from waist height to the peak of the vaulted ceiling, depicting a golden sun rising over rolling hills in shades of amber, rose, and deep emerald green.

On either side of the great window, smaller panels of stained glass filled the eastern wall, each depicting one of the Thirteen Sacred Constellations in delicate patterns of silver and gold against fields of midnight blue. Together, the windows formed a wall of color that would blaze with light when the morning sun struck them directly.

This morning, however, the overcast sky offered only a pale, diffused glow that seeped through the glass like watered wine, casting the chapel’s interior in muted tones of grey and faded gold. Gilded candelabras flanked the altar and lined the walls between the windows, their candles lit against the gloom, and a series of bronze braziers near the entrance and around the perimeter of the chapel provided enough warmth to keep the chill outside from invading the sacred space.

It was, under other circumstances, exactly the kind of quiet, sheltering space that Jocelynn had hoped for.

But the voices she’d heard from outside were louder now, and unmistakably agitated.

High Priest Aubin stood near the altar with his back to the great window, his ceremonial white and golden robes catching the faint light from the candles. Even at this hour, he looked like he’d taken meticulous care of his appearance, though looking closer, Jocelynn began to suspect that he may have worked through the night to make preparations rather than taking his rest the way a man of his advanced years should.

Aubin’s shoulders slumped slightly with fatigue, and his gnarled, age-spotted hands were clasped in front of him in the posture of a man who was exercising a great deal of patience and for whom it wasn’t nearly as easy as his serene expression suggested.

Before the High Priest stood two women. The first was broad-shouldered and plainly dressed in a dark wool skirt and a heavy cloak of undyed wool that looked warm and practical rather than fashionable. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a thick braid, and her hands, which she held at her sides in loose fists, looked like they belonged to someone who was no stranger to hard work. She stood with the solid, grounded stance of a woman who was used to holding her position against men twice her size, and she met the High Priest’s gaze without flinching.

The second woman was leaner, sharper, and carried herself with the unyielding resilience of someone who had spent decades surviving on will alone. Her auburn hair, dulled by age but still carrying traces of its former warmth, was pinned back in a simple style that spoke more of efficiency than vanity. Her face was narrow and lined, her cheekbones prominent beneath skin that had been weathered by wind and worry in equal measure. Her clothes were well-made but showed the careful mending of a household that could not easily afford to replace what it had.

Jocelynn didn’t recognize either woman on sight. There had been far too many distinguished visitors arriving in Lothian City the past few days, and she hadn’t had the time or energy to welcome them all, but their bearing, their posture, and the quality of their clothing told her that these were likely noblewomen.

Whether they were the wives of barons or the well-established knights of the march, Jocelynn couldn’t think of any other women who would stand up to a figure as important as High Priest Aubin without being cowed by his prestige. The list of women who would be willing to argue with him was even shorter.

"I understand your intentions, my ladies," Aubin was saying as Jocelynn stepped through the chapel doors. His tone was gentle but firm in the way of a man who had mediated disputes between stubborn souls for longer than either woman had been alive.

"I assure you," he continued patiently. "I have no doubt that your concern for Lady Jocelynn is sincere. But the lady was very clear in her wishes. This memorial is to be a private affair for those who knew Lady Ashlynn or at least came from their home in Blackwell, and I gave her my word that I would ensure her privacy was respected."

"We aren’t here to intrude, Your Worship," the broader woman said patiently, as if she was accustomed to negotiating with difficult people, though there was a warmth beneath the patience that softened the stubbornness of her stance. "We’re here to offer our support. There’s a difference."

"Support that Lady Jocelynn may not appreciate being surprised by on a morning like this one," Aubin replied, stroking his thin white beard with one hand. His tone was kind, but there was iron beneath it. He had promised Jocelynn peace, and he intended to deliver it, even if it meant turning away well-meaning baronesses at dawn.

It had already been a trying morning. He’d been here since well before first light, preparing the chapel and ensuring that the small courtyard behind the chapel was ready for the memorial pyre. He’d also turned away three other baronesses who had arrived earlier: Baroness Tosha Saliou, Baroness Brighde Rundel, and Baroness Lilee LeGleau, each of whom had claimed to have heard about the memorial and wished to pay their respects.

Those three, at least, had been easy to manage. When Aubin informed them that this was to be a private memorial and that Lady Jocelynn had not extended invitations beyond her own household, the ladies had made a great show of embarrassment at the ’misunderstanding.’ They asked only that Aubin pass along their condolences to Lady Jocelynn before they quickly departed.

If anything, Aubin thought as he ruffled his long white mustache with a skeptical huff, the three baronesses had seemed almost relieved to have an excuse to return to the warmth and comfort of their beds rather than spend a cold morning in a drafty chapel mourning a woman they’d never met.

Their appearance had been the performance, and his refusal had been the permission they needed to exit the stage gracefully.

These two, however, were proving to be far less accommodating.