I like this particular chapel especially. I have since I was little and my mom brought me with her when she cleaned the compound. I still remember sitting in the front pew, my legs too short for my feet to touch the floor. I remember how at home I felt when she sat me here to wait for her while she did her work.

I walk to that pew now, taking in the usual shadows of the place. The only light comes from candles lit along alcoves in the walls and those on the altar. When I get to the center of the aisle, I bow my head, make the sign of the cross, then take a seat. I slip off my shoes. The heels are too high and the fit too narrow. I touch the familiar carving in the pew. Two initials. CY.

It’s the same seat I always take when I can get here. Right in the front row as if God could see me better for it. It’s not that I ask for anything. I know better than that. It’s not even that I pray. I just close my eyes and feel the silence here. The absolute absence of sound.

It’s better than any masquerade ball. Better than dances with a hundred men as Carlton brokers a union that will benefit the family. I don’t think it’s crossed his mind what I want. Don’t think he’s considered the fact that while it may benefit his—our—family, it has already taken me off the course I’d set for myself years ago.

But I can’t dwell. Not now. I need a reprieve and this chapel, these stolen moments, are it.

And so, I open my eyes and lift my gaze to the altar. One of the candles that is usually lit has blown out. I wonder if I did that when I walked in. I get up to relight it.

A creak along the back of the chapel startles me. I gasp, spin around. It’s darkest there, just before the baptismal font. Almost pitch black. I peer into the shadows but see no movement, hear no other sound.

“Is someone there?” I ask, feeling silly when no one answers.

It’s old wood creaking. That’s all.

I turn back around, trying to ward off the chill that’s clung to me all night. But I remind myself it’s always cooler in the chapel and resume my walk to the altar. There, I find the book of matches and strike one. The flame glows bright and I have to stand on tiptoe to reach the wick of the tall candle.

Soon it’s lit and I’m blowing out the match when the sound of laughter from just beyond the door disrupts the peace of this place. Before I know it, the chapel door slams against the wall.

I jump.