Unforgotten(30)

As soon as he’s inside the cell, I feel a strange sensation come over me. A subtle undercurrent, pulling me toward him. I have a sudden uncontrollable desire to see his face. To peer under his hood. To look at him.

I duck and tilt my head in several directions but his features remain hidden.

“Who are you?” I ask. I’m gazing at him with such intensity that I instantly feel embarrassed. Foolish. I try to look away, but I just can’t bring myself to. This man—this hooded figure—has a magnetism that is making me dizzy. It’s unreal. Almost … magical.

“My apologies, Sarah.” His voice is deep and smooth with hardly any intonation. As though every word, every syllable, holds precise equal value in his mind. And the way that voice says my name sends a warm shiver through me. I don’t only hear it. I taste it. Feel it. Smell it. It’s like warm bread coming out of the oven.

“I am a member of the clergy of the Church of England.”

Clergy?

Another word I’m unfamiliar with. I want to ask what it means, but I know this will only cause the guard to scowl even deeper in my direction so I keep my mouth shut.

However, the man seems to read my thoughts. Know my limitations.

“It’s a religious position,” he explains without prompting. “I am here to offer you God’s blessing and hear your confessions before you are executed this morning.”

Confessions?

Once again, my mind asks the question, but he answers.

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me before you die? Any secrets? It is believed that if you die with a clear conscience you will go to heaven.”

The guard scoffs at this from the other side of the door.

Both of our heads pivot toward him and he wipes the smirk from his face.

“So,” the priest asks in his liltless intonation. “Is there?”

“No,” I say softly.

“Are you certain?” he prods.

I nod silently.

“Very well.” He walks toward me. The closer he gets, the hotter my blood feels inside my veins. As though it may actually start to boil.

I push myself back against the stone wall. Drawn to him and terrified of him at the same time.

“W-w-what are you doing?” I stammer, watching uneasily as he comes within a foot of me. I look up, trying to catch a glimpse of his eyes, but his oversize hood is draped low.

I could do it right now. I could reach out and rip it from his head. Gaze upon his face. My fingers itch and tremble with the anticipation of it.

“I’m blessing you,” he says simply. His voice mesmerizes me and I instantly lose my train of thought.

I follow his arm as it rises slowly and catch a glimpse of his right hand as it drifts toward my forehead. His skin is velvety. Young. Unblemished. The sleeve of his robe slips, revealing a hint of his wrist. It’s wide and smooth. With soft traces of light blond hair.

He seems to hesitate for a moment, his hand trembling slightly.

Then, after regaining control, his five fingertips connect with my skin and I feel a jolt of energy. A spark. Like something wonderful—beautiful, comforting, kind—is being transferred from his flesh to mine. And then back again. I close my eyes, absorbing it. Relishing this one glimmer of happiness. The first in days. Never wanting it to end.

I feel my grief miraculously lifted from me, like a blanket of darkness that’s finally been stripped away. A layer of grime that I’ve been struggling to see through, washed clean.

Everything before this moment feels like a long-ago dream that I’ve now woken up from. Refreshed. Renewed. A curtain of serenity drawn around me. As though the very source of my pain and agony and suffering has simply been blown away like dust from a neglected corner.

And then, as devastating as a stone wall crumbling around me, it’s over.

His hand is gone. His touch is gone. My tranquillity and reprieve are gone. The room feels darker, colder, emptier than it ever has before.

By the time I open my eyes again, the cell door is already being opened by the guard and the man in the black robe is stepping through to the other side. A world away from this one.

“Wait!” I call, rushing toward him.

The guard shoves his sword through the bars again, staving me off. I stop just short of its sharp point.

The door is closed with a bang. Locked. The priest turns back to me. “Yes, Sarah?”

There it is again. My name on his lips. His voice reaching through the bars to caress me. Comfort me. Hold me. It’s almost familiar.

“I—” But I don’t know what to say. I don’t know why I told him to wait. All I know is that I don’t want him to leave. Ever.

“Nothing,” I mumble, dropping my head.

Without another word, he turns and disappears down the long, dank hallway, his black robe billowing behind him. And even though I would do anything at this moment to convince him to stay, I have the disheartening feeling that he’s desperate to get away from me.