The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

darkness except for the few votives that flickered in a side chapel. She peered into the depths of the nave. As she stood, hands cupped over her eyes, the latticework stairwells of the choir and the gothic vaults of the ceiling gradually came into view. She sat in a chair near the doors where the votives offered the most light. Nothing stirred as she meditated upon the journey that had led her to this strange outing. Occasionally, a creak or pop reverberated in the sanctuary like a distant echo.

She bowed her head and a profound melancholy flowed through her. She had little propensity for religious feeling these days, her experiences with the church mostly relegated to childhood, but her morose feelings tonight threatened to swamp her. She had come dangerously close to falling in love with another man; her marriage was in tatters; her emotional and physical life with Tom would never be the same; and her best friend had betrayed her.

Could it hurt to pray? No. She bowed her head.

My dear Lady, it’s been years since I’ve been in church. I’ve not felt worthy of your love, your goodness, your kindness, and grace. I know I’ve sinned, and my greatest sin of all has kept me away from you for many years. I feel awkward and ashamed, coming to you at this time of war, when so many are dead, wounded, and suffering; but I, like the rest of the world, need your forgiveness and help. Because it’s been so long and I’m not a Roman, my prayer should be simple—a plea for absolution, and the benefit of your loving guidance. For years, I’ve struggled with my past. How different my life would have been had I listened to my heart instead of the urgings of a man. If only I’d had the courage then. I pray for—

The door creaked behind her.

She opened her eyes and turned.

A man in a long Army coat, his face obscured by darkness, stood in the shadowy entrance. She returned her gaze to the front of the church for a moment; when she looked back again the man had disappeared. She wondered if she had imagined the dusky figure—a phantom rather than a creation of flesh and blood. The hair prickled on the back of her neck and she cocked her head in attention. A chair scraped the floor to her left.

She rose and called out, “Hallo.”

No one answered.

She calmed herself, hoping a priest had entered for vespers instead of some supernatural creature conjured by her imagination.

A candle flickered and floated in the darkness to her left, the light rising and falling like a wave, coming ever closer, until she could see the illuminated hands and face of the carrier.

The man she was seeking held the votive. He sat down a few feet away and placed the candle on a chair between them.

She flinched, but quickly regained her composure and stared at the face illuminated by the flickering light. “Why are you spying on my staff?” Her anger echoed throughout the church. “Why have you followed me here?”

Private Darser, unmoving, locked his eyes onto Emma’s.

“I asked you a question,” she said. “I’ve seen you on the street. You must leave us alone.”

The soldier calmly withdrew his pad, wrote, and held it to the candlelight: I am still silenced, Mrs. Swan, but I’ve finally come to ask your forgiveness. That is, if you will forgive me?

Emma looked at the soldier blankly. Had she not just prayed for forgiveness?

The man dropped his writing instruments near the candle and reached for Emma’s arm.

She jerked away, but the soldier, nearly knocking over his chair, caught her at the elbow and held onto her with a fiery grip until she stopped struggling. Then, he caressed her arm as she sat erect and unforgiving.

“What do you want? Do you need money? Food?”

The soldier grunted.

Her hand constricting in pain, she quieted herself as best she could while hoping to escape from his grip.

He pulled up her sleeve, removed her glove, turned her arm over, and exposed the small scar on her left index finger—the wound she had inflicted on herself in Vermont shone silver in the candlelight.

He ran a finger over it, squeezed her hand, and then released her arm.

She recoiled, but even in the gloomy light she understood the expression in Private Darser’s eyes; he was pleading with her to stay by his side.

He picked up his pencil and pad. I know the horrors you’ve seen. I should have been a good father to our baby, but I couldn’t. I was too selfish and all-knowing. Life has taught me differently.

Emma shivered and rolled down her sleeve. “What do you want from me?”

Forgive me.

The awful memories of the last days with Kurt flooded her, and she rocked silently in the chair as those thoughts consumed her. She covered her face with her hands, before she had the courage to take them away and speak. “What you ask I considered years ago, but I could never find it in my heart.”

Private Darser eyed her forlornly and her anger subsided somewhat.

“However, I have prayed for peace—and forgiveness—and my prayers are still unanswered. You come to me like the devil you are.” She rose from her chair, approaching him. “I hated you for deserting me. You left me alone, with a baby I couldn’t have—then I hated myself.” In a sudden fury, she slammed her fists against his chest. “Why now?”

He shook his head and lowered his gaze as he wrote. Because of your reputation as a sculptress—an artist who makes soldiers whole again. I was told of your work in Paris. It wasn’t hard to track you down.

“So you found me and assumed I would forgive you. You believed the simple act of asking could wipe out all my suffering.”

Private Darser scribbled on the page. No!

“I would never have agreed to take you at the studio if I had known. And tonight, you think I can absolve your guilt because you sought me