“That,” she agreed, “is a very good question.”
Religious iconography was usually either very beautiful or strangely chilling. She was too far away to clearly peer at the altar painting, and the church was still vaguely full enough that even she was aware it was a place of worship and not a museum. It didn’t stop her absorbing it all in at a distance, though. Her good hand touched the back of one of the pews, fingers running over the outline of the inlaid crosses carved into their ends.
When her gaze swept to focus on the face that addressed her, she smiled pleasantly. The Father was elderly, his skin carved of canyons that made an impressive severity of his face. He looked just how she imagined her grandfather had looked in the stories Nana had told them growing up, the ones of how he had crossed a fairy mound and been swept into the realm of the aos sí. Those tales had always made Aylin cry; to think of him lost in such a cruel place. Somehow it never helped when Thalia pointed out that he wasn’t lost at all, for he was in the box on the mantelpiece.
She paused a moment, head canted in thought. Nox had said the Atharim had roots dug right into the Catholic church, something she hadn’t even known to be afraid of, but this man did not look like a killer, nor feel it either. He seemed more an old hound roused from slumber and perhaps not best pleased for the inconsideration. A small laugh left her lips. “I’m afraid I don’t really know, Father Ando. Perhaps nothing.” She shrugged a little, curious. “My name is Thalia Milton?”
Religious iconography was usually either very beautiful or strangely chilling. She was too far away to clearly peer at the altar painting, and the church was still vaguely full enough that even she was aware it was a place of worship and not a museum. It didn’t stop her absorbing it all in at a distance, though. Her good hand touched the back of one of the pews, fingers running over the outline of the inlaid crosses carved into their ends.
When her gaze swept to focus on the face that addressed her, she smiled pleasantly. The Father was elderly, his skin carved of canyons that made an impressive severity of his face. He looked just how she imagined her grandfather had looked in the stories Nana had told them growing up, the ones of how he had crossed a fairy mound and been swept into the realm of the aos sí. Those tales had always made Aylin cry; to think of him lost in such a cruel place. Somehow it never helped when Thalia pointed out that he wasn’t lost at all, for he was in the box on the mantelpiece.
She paused a moment, head canted in thought. Nox had said the Atharim had roots dug right into the Catholic church, something she hadn’t even known to be afraid of, but this man did not look like a killer, nor feel it either. He seemed more an old hound roused from slumber and perhaps not best pleased for the inconsideration. A small laugh left her lips. “I’m afraid I don’t really know, Father Ando. Perhaps nothing.” She shrugged a little, curious. “My name is Thalia Milton?”