“Girls are not taken to the altar,” the bearded priest in black said at her baptism with a dismissive wave of the hand. His face was as grubby as those of the icons. Mum kissed his hand. It was unpleasant to see her so severe and yet so meek and compliant. The memory lingered like a bad taste, like a subconscious fear of snakes, or a dream about which nothing remains other than a sense of shame and disgust. The doors of the cathedral were half-open, letting in the damp light of the dying day. Maria entered, stepping quietly, and bought three thin paraffin candles. She looked around, not knowing where to go and cautiously made her way around the perimeter of the church. The old building felt unshakable, its walls cold and mute. The quiet air was disturbed only by muffled voices and the shuffling of feet on the stone slabs. There weren’t many people around.

The faces of the icons looked down without reproach. It was good. Saints don’t care about daily tribulations, paint in hallways, letters, murderers. Saints don’t seem to care at all.

In one corner by an icon, she saw a woman and a daughter about Tykhon’s age. Both were dressed in dark clothes and headscarves. The daughter repeated after her mother, just one beat later, like an echo. The mother moved closer and prodded her daughter in the back, pushing her toward the icon, making sure her lips firmly touched the glass.

A chill ran down Maria’s spine. She imagined her mother doing the same with Tykhon. The sun had already set and the cool dark blue evening air flowed into the church through the open doors. It was time to go, but there, outside, everything was as unbearable as it had been before.

“I told you so Mum, I told you it wouldn’t help. That things would only get worse.”

The anxiety and nausea were threatening to get out of control. And then in a corner of the church she spied a flickering light. The only lamp among the many in front of a Virgin Mary with child that had a flame burning inside. With a sinking heart she rushed in that direction. She lifted all three candles to the lamp at once, squeezing her eyes shut, as though she was setting light to the wick of a dynamite. The candles splashed their red-hot paraffin, crackled and released a puff of oily-smelling smoke. An old woman quietly emerged from the nave.

“Dear, when you leave, please blow out the candles,” she said, and then giggled strangely.