When I slip on my skirt the next morning, I am pleased to find that yesterday-Des already had the hang of this whole school-survival thing. There are matches in my pockets. I put them there yesterday, I'm pretty sure; I have indistinct memories of stocking up before Exie and I snuck out to scrutinize willow trees, though sleep deprivation fogs those recollections whenever I try to retrieve them. I hope we took at least a moment to watch the stars.

It was cloudy out. There were no stars.

I heave a deep sigh and flop back on my bed. The sun is up and the sparrows have set about their morning symphony, but Clarice is still dead to the world. I'm possessed by the urge to prod her awake just to check that it's still her at home in there, and not some creepy replica with Colson II energy. That experience in the stairwell hasn't stopped wearing on me.

"Clarice?" I whisper.

She doesn't move. I lean across and poke her. She startles awake, blinks sleepily, and gives me a look far too innocent for what I know of her and her daytime activities.

"Is something the matter?" she says.

"No. Just checking."

Clarice doesn't reply as I retreat to my bed again and pull my knees up, hugging them. There's a protracted silence. Then Clarice moves to her main suitcase—she's somehow acquired a second bag since we arrived here—and begins digging around. The unwavering normalcy of her movements reassure the part of me that still jettisons all rationality when remanded of that night.

Clarice turns to me again, hand extended. "Here."

I blink back into focus and stare blankly at her. There's something thin and silver twined about her fingers. I offer my hand, and she drops it in my palm. It's a necklace. I have never been able to stand jewelry. When I uncurl my fingers, though, my hand stills. It's a cross. A little silver one like Exie wears. I furrow my brow at Clarice. "Where did you get this?"

"It was my father's."

I note the past tense. "I'm not taking a family heirloom."

"Oh no, it's not that. He got it when he started to believe a demon had possessed me. He got quite upset when it disappeared. I enjoyed watching."

It strikes me in that moment that if there are students in this place with a good relationship to their parents, I could probably count them on the fingers of one hand. I wonder how many tragedies there are among their stories. I'm sure even me and Exie's are comparatively tame.

"Anyway, you can have it," says Clarice. "It would make me happy if you took down an actual demon while wearing it."

It takes me a moment to process the implication there. "I doubt we'll end up taking down any demons here."

"Then I hope it protects you. Please?"

She's asking me to take the necklace. I accept it with a diffident hand and fasten it about my neck, taking care not to flinch as the cold metal slithers over my skin. I drop the cross beneath my shirt. My brain takes a moment to tell me that me and Exie match now. It sounds altogether too pleased about that, so I chuck a mental pillow at it and nearly bungle a thanks for Clarice as she returns to her bags again. There something like relief in her expression. I wonder if I have any artifacts from my parents that I could find that kind of closure for. For all their meddling in my life, though, I have remarkably few of their possessions. Both here and in general. I've been too good at ridding myself of those in private when my mother's not looking.

Clarice and I both prep for the day in silence. My mind is occupied enough that it takes her voice to draw me back to reality again.

"The bell hasn't rung," she says.

I look up to find her frowning at the wall above our door, in the vague direction of the school's ancient or not-so-ancient belfry. "What time is it?" I say.

Clarice digs through her first bag and comes up with an expensive-looking pocket watch. "Eleven," she says. "We slept in."

I grip my bedsheets against the impulse to jump up. "Did we miss chapel?"

"The bell didn't toll."

"I can sleep through anything."

"I can't. It didn't toll. They haven't rung it yet today at all."

They didn't yesterday, either; even breakfast was served at eight without a full-school notification, and I very nearly missed that, too. I've certainly missed it today. That's what I get for sneaking out at night with Exie.

Clarice's eyes meet mine. "We should check," she says, and I don't miss the way she lowers her voice with those words.

I would honestly prefer to barricade our door with several desks, but I have little faith that furniture can mount any material defense against a rotten semi-deific entity. My fingers migrate to my collarbone of their own accord. The silver cross is warm against my skin now, but slips just enough when I move to remind me of its presence. I could say a prayer, too, but piety still gives me hives, and might be too much anyway before we know this school's stance on chapel.

"I'm bringing matches," I say.

Clarice gives me a puzzled look. "You wouldn't normally?"

I laugh. "I feel seen."

"Oh. I thought it was normal." Clarice pulls out several matches of her own. "They're useful."

"Indispensable, in my humble opinion." I pause. "Or not so humble, really. Shall we go find Exie?"

My own words choke me the moment they leave my tongue. The all-too-familiar tightening of my throat and pain in my chest lock in further articulation, as an image of Exie dead on the floor threatens the fringes of my consciousness. Clarice, blessedly, doesn't notice. She's cracked the door and peered out, finding nothing amiss in the hallway outside. When we emerge, we're not alone. Students wander the halls in lesser numbers than the day before, like we're late to the chapel revelation and everyone else has gone about their day.

Exie is not among those people. I knock on her door and hear her startle inside, but it's not until I whisper through the wood that she comes to open it. I know from one look at her face that we won't have to explain ourselves.

"We were going to go check the chapel," I say in an undertone, while Clarice keeps watch. It would be thoroughly unsubtle if it weren't so consistent with her normal patterns of behavior. She's always watching things.

"Do you have a plan?" says Exie, just as predictably.

"My plan is to check the chapel. If anything goes wrong, then matches."

She purses her lips. "If we meet a teacher, will you let me do the talking?"

"Knock yourself out."

"Without trying to burn the school down while I'm talking to them?"

"I'd give it buffer time at least."

I can see her mental calculation. After a moment of carefully weighted arguments, she deems this an hill not worth dying on.

"One sec," she says, and retrieves a cute purse from underneath her pillow. I desperately want to know what she's got in there. This isn't the time for that, though. When she joins us again, we exchange a nod with Clarice and head towards the chapel with a mostly-successful attempt at nonchalance. We draw some stares from fellow students, but there's nary a teacher in sight.

There's no service happening when we reach the school's butt end, but the chapel isn't empty. Half a dozen students sit or stand in varying embodiments of worship, from prayer to bible study. I want to know how many of them had religion beaten into them by their families. Then I pull up short as the thatched-blonde haircut of Colson II registers in my pattern recognition. He sits in the front pew with head bowed, and just the sight of it sends such a visceral pulse of nausea through me that I'm actually glad I haven't had breakfast. Of course he's here. It wouldn't be creepy enough if he wasn't.

Now, though, I realize something else. There's one person in all this that we haven't spoken to—even indirectly—and that person is Colson II. The thought that grabs that one's coattails through my mind is stupid, and risky, but I'm content to take that risk and deal with the consequences later if it moves our search ahead.

Exie gasps as I stride away from her. I'm too far to intercept by the time she gets over the shock. Out the corner of my eye, I see her retreat to Clarice's side again, watching me with widened eyes. I drag my gaze forward again. There's plenty of space beside Colson II; he's alone at the front of the chapel. I sidle up beside him and sit in the pew an arm's length away. If he makes a grab for me, he'll at least need to try.

He doesn't respond. After a pause that would be awkward if he were anything resembling a normal human, I venture a question. "Who're you praying to?"

Colson II startles. Just like he did in class last time I spoke to him, he stares at nothing for a moment, like whatever ate his brain that night made off with most of his mental processing time. Then he turns those empty eyes to me and murmurs something. I can't make it out.

"Sorry?" I say.

He looks down at what I suddenly notice is a bible in his hands. It's closed. There's no angel on its cover, but I don't think he's reading it anyway. He repeats the murmur. This time, I catch something suspiciously like, "—let me into heaven." That's a clue.

"And you wouldn't be let in before?" I say, deciding to take a gamble on that interpretation.

"I was judged."

I stiffen. The Miranda Bible was all about judgment. But that means something did happen that night in the staircase, so I force a smile and say, "Like, disciplined by the school? For what?"

But Colson II shakes his head. "I was... judged."

"For what?"

"Everything."

"By who?"

There's an excruciatingly long pause. I don't think Colson II actually knows how to answer. That hunch is confirmed a moment later as he replies, "Judgment."

I resist the urge to groan. I need a different angle. "Is that where you got that dove in your pocket?"

He startles again. Then he puts a hand in his pocket and looks almost nonplussed to find the paper dove there—for it is indeed still there. He pulls it out. It's the first proper look I've gotten of it, and my heart skips a beat. It seems folded from a handwritten book page, complete with a glimpse of marginalia at one tip of its wing. The paper looks ancient.

"What is it?" I say.

"I think... a reminder."

"Of what?"

"That... he's watching."

Now I'm getting somewhere. Even somewhere I really don't want to be. Only my own stubbornness and the fact that Exie and Clarice are watching holds me steady. "Who is watching?"

Slowly, Colson II lifts his head. Slowly, his eyes find the pulpit, then the painting mounted dead ahead of us on the wall. Slowly, he lifts that gaze further to look the malevolent angel in the eye. He tips his chin. "Him."

Like this chapter if you were expecting a church service, too!

Comment who you think this angel is  👼