CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 2

DORIAN

I stood by the altar after Mass, shaking hands and answering smiles. The sunlight touched the stained glass behind me, and I felt its warmth more than the air on my skin. I said thank you, God bless, and smiled politely. I spoke in soft tones. I nodded.

Everything heaped on me felt routine. I had done this before. In another parish. Another ship. Another building with worn wood and chipped paint. It did not matter.

"Father Vale!" the older priest called. His voice was loud. People turned. A few church members stepped forward to greet me.

"Good service today," one man said.

"You led well," a woman said.

I nodded. I said, "Thank you."

They pressed my hands and patted my shoulder. They smiled. They said I was a blessing to the church.

On the edge of my sight, I saw him. The twink in the choir. He stood a few rows back. He was small. Soft face. Pale skin. Curly hair. He wore the robe like a gown. His eyes were bright even though he tried to hide.

I watched him step toward his mother after the service. She kissed his cheek and held his hand. He smiled. He did not see me.

My heart ticked faster. That was new. I did not know that feeling.

I focused on the next guest. A woman with a donation box. She spoke, and I let her.

Then a group of priests approached. They wore loose collars and dark suits. They spoke quietly among themselves. Then they greeted me.

"Welcome to our parish," one said.

"We are honored to have you," another said.

I bowed my head. I answered. I smiled.

All the while, I kept looking at him. The boy in the choir. The twink. His mother guided him past the pews, and his skirted robe shimmered with each step.

His eyes turned toward me. They met mine for a split second. I saw the flush in his cheeks.

I looked away.

I told myself it did not matter. He was just a boy. A choir member. Nothing more.

But my blood thumped.

The head priest, Father Barnes, stepped forward. He patted me on the back.

"Dorian," he said. "Come with me to my office. I have a few matters to discuss."

I nodded.

I let the group of priests move aside. I walked beside Barnes. I felt their eyes as we passed.

The hallway was quiet. Carpet muffled our steps. The walls smelled of books and incense.

We reached his office. He unlocked the door.

"Have a seat," he said.

I sat in the chair by his desk. He held the door for me.

He sat behind his desk. He folded his hands.

"You have settled in well," he began.

"Thank you, Father Barnes."

He smiled.

"We have a few things to attend to. First, the youth retreat is next week. I need you to lead it. Then, we have the outreach to the hospital. You will join the team." He pulled a folder toward him.

I picked up the folder. I scanned the pages. I nodded.

"Very good." He tapped the folder.

I folded my hands on my lap.

"Second, we received word from the bishop’s office. They ask for a monthly report on attendance and donations. I will help you with that." He flipped a page.

"Understood."

"Third," he said, and leaned forward. "We have a need here. Our youth are strong in spirit but weak in numbers. I want you to consider new methods of outreach. Social media, music nights, any ideas you have."

"I will prepare suggestions."

He nodded. "Excellent."

He paused. He seemed to search my face.

"Dorian, there is one more thing." He lowered his voice.

I waited.

He looked away. Then back at me.

"We heard reports… of excitement in the choir area today. Of emotion. Of energy. I hope you will guide that."

I nodded slowly.

Barnes sighed.

"We want the youth to feel life here. But we must keep order. Keep discipline. You will help me monitor."

"Yes, Father."

He leaned back.

"Thank you. That is all."

He rose. He held out his hand.

I stood and took it.

He said, "Welcome again."

I nodded.

I left Father Barnes’s office and turned the corner. The hallway was too quiet. Clean. Dustless. It reeked of incense and stillness, like someone tried to force God into every crack. My mind repeated the instructions I’d just received like a command. Outreach. Youth retreat. Discipline. Monitor the energy.

I nodded to myself like that would make sense of the tangle in my head. Like I hadn’t heard the same speeches in every place I’d been stationed.

Then I almost collided with someone.

She stood stiff like a statue—perfect posture, crisp cream suit, gloved hands, pearls too white to be humble.

“Oh my—Father! Are you quite all right?” Her voice was cold and smooth. British. Upper-class. Like she’d spent her whole life practicing how to correct people without raising her tone.

I straightened. “I apologize, Mother—”

“Genevieve Clarke,” she supplied. “Head of the board.”

She extended a gloved hand. I took it briefly. Her shake was firm. Controlled.

“I’ve heard much about your work, Father Vale.”

I nodded once. “I hope it’s been helpful.”

Her eyes cut past me.

“Ezra, dear, come here.”

My chest tightened before I even saw him.

The boy stepped lightly, quiet as a breath. His robe shifted around his legs, still half-buttoned. Curls rested messily over his forehead. Big eyes, soft mouth. Skin that looked untouched.

“This is Ezra Monroe,” Genevieve said. “Our choir lead. And my ward. After his parents’… unfortunate accident, I took him in.”

I stared too long.

Ezra flushed under my gaze. A soft pink that started at his neck and crawled upward. He didn’t speak at first. Neither did I.

His name stuck in my head. Ezra. A pretty name. Too soft for this place. Too soft for what he made me think about.

I cleared my throat. “You sang well this morning.”

He ducked his head. “Thank you, Father.”

His voice was quiet. Gentle. I hated how much it made me feel.

Genevieve didn’t miss anything. “Ezra, why don’t you show Father Vale the sacristy?”

He blinked. “Now?”

“Yes, now. Be polite.”

Ezra nodded quickly. “Of course.”

He turned and led the way. I followed. His shoulder brushed mine as we walked.

I shouldn’t have noticed that.

But I did.

The hallway narrowed. He opened the sacristy door and stepped aside for me to enter first. He was close enough to touch. His robe swished near my leg.

“These are the vestments,” he said, hands fidgeting with the nearest hanger. “We keep the altar linens here too. The oils and wine are locked.”

I barely heard him.

I was watching the way his throat moved when he swallowed.

He turned to look at me. “Father?”

I blinked. “Yes?”

He shifted his weight. “Is there anything else you’d like to see?”

I took one long breath through my nose.

“No. Thank you.”

He gave a small nod and slipped out quickly, the door clicking shut behind him.

I stood alone. The scent of myrrh lingered in the air. I ran a hand through my hair and cursed myself under my breath.

He was a choir boy.

He was a child.

And I wanted him to blush again.

The door opened.

Genevieve.

She folded her hands in front of her. Her gloves were perfectly smooth. “I hope Ezra was respectful.”

I kept my tone neutral. “Very.”

She watched me too carefully. “He responds well to order. And he’s easily… influenced.”

I didn’t answer.

“I trust you’ll keep an eye on him. Guide him. He needs structure. Discipline. Nothing more.”

She smiled, but there was no warmth.

“I understand,” I said.

She stepped back into the hall. “I do hope you settle in well, Father. We’ve been waiting for the right person to lead this church.”

I followed her out.

And thought about Ezra the entire way back to my room.