enter the gods

[Luc Wynn]

St. Paul's Cathedral was a magnificent structure. Being the seat of the Bishop of London had its perks, and among them was a robust staff to tend to the needs of such a grand house of worship. It was a far cry from the small chapels that filled the East Side, whose leaking roofs and groaning doors had long been a dire enemy to Luc. If he thought too long about it, the old familiar ire raised its head; instead, his time was more constructively spent preparing for Mass, tending to the needs of the bishop, and otherwise tending to the tasks entrusted to a curate. All those familiar problems from older, smaller, and more poorly-funded chapels were left to the small army of groundskeepers that helped tend to the cathedral.

... Except the groundskeepers were busy with their regular duties, and the door to the bell tower had screeched something awful that morning. So, Luc did what any enterprising young curate would do. He'd nicked a can of lubricant from the grounds store room, taken some rags, and was currently oiling the hinges as best he could without removing the pins entirely. It was the kind of half-measure he usually abhorred, but when needs must...

It was pure luck that he saw her through the gap in the door, making her way through the west door of the church. Tansy was a dear friend – the dearest he had, in truth – and the pleasure at seeing her was immediate and warm. Leaving his task for the moment (the hinges were much more quiet now, and anyway there was little more he could do for it anyway), the Welshman hurried after the young woman. Wiping the oil from his hands, he called quietly after her, "If you're here for the communion wine, you're too late. It seems the choir beat you to it." It was not the most respectful thing to say, but there was hardly any around to hear it but them.

[Tansy Robarts]

Technically — Technically — Tansy had not been required by any law explicit or presumed to keep a period of mourning for Aunt Bridget. Technically she might have returned to society at any time, sufficiently cowed by the results of her own recklessness and the firm hand of the old lady, a young woman sweet and sad but still quite pretty and a brilliant bargain for anyone willing to overlook her devious past. Tansy's own mother had pointed all of this out to her, if in not so many words, hands clasped to her bosom as she watched her eldest daughter, eyebrows dipped low with concern.

In reality, Tansy gave not a jot about what was or wasn't technically sound, or what the ton might have expected, or if she was meant to be prostrate with grief or blush prettily for suitors or pull the soil in over her own grave. They could all go spit, as Bridget had liked to say.

It had proved useful, however, to feign a deep sorrow to be left well alone, and this she had managed for near on a year before her parents' prodding had begun in earnest. Now, here she was, all but bodily hauled to London "to get a jump on the season," as her mother had said, prompting sorrow that was real enough if also ignored.

She could get away with going to church, and visiting Luc more so, even if it required some agitated flapping to keep her mother's presence at bay and behind the doors of the London house. What was the worst that could happen to Tansy's reputation should she been seen out alone? Oh dear, not ruination!

In an agitation, her shoulders sunk in relief at the sound of Luc's voice. "Damn," she said, and turned. "And Cook has locked the cabinet with the sherry, too."

Skirt gathered in her hands, she hastened to close the distance between them and then made a stop perhaps a two feet before him, abrupt enough that she briefly swayed. "If you only knew the restraint it is taking to not leap into your arms, friend."

[Luc Wynn]

It had been far too long since they'd had a chance to meet, to talk as they once had. Luc's smile was very real, broader than his normal half-smirk, and the way Tansy stopped before him urged a laugh from him. He could see very much that her words were not at all a jest, and he could not blame her. Even if it had been appropriate to embrace her, this was not the place for it.

"Your willpower is enough to awe even the saints, Ms. Robarts." Clasping his hands behind his back, he tilted his head back towards the altar. "Bishop Blakeney is away in meetings all day. We can talk in his office." It was absolutely not one of the reasons for which Luc had been entrusted with a key to the room, but it was also hardly an abuse of trust. His friendship with Tansy was the stuff of Biblical purity; he had no interest in her as a woman, and she had never shown that kind of interest in him as a man.

Besides, the bishop would never know, and Luc could pray for repentance afterwards.

"How long have you been back in London?" That much he could safely ask while they walked towards the stairs near the choir, that would lead to the offices of the undercroft. The black fabric of his cassock swirled about his legs as they walked, and he was careful to shorten his strides so as to not leave the much shorter woman behind.

[Tansy Robarts]

From the time Luc had decided to join the church, Tansy had felt a tension whilst in his company, the swinging back and forth between her friend and the untouchable man of God. Luc was still Luc: She knew that. But those black robes evoked a certain deep-seated propriety that she found difficult to dislodge.

"Not long," she admitted as they walked, and she cast in her mind the notion that they were young still, and just happened to be in a cathedral. This was not terribly successful, although it made her gladder still to be there, with him. "Three... Yes, three days," she clarified once she'd counted backwards in her head. "As much as I love you, it's under duress, so the days have run together a bit. Mum tried to argue about my coming here alone, as if it would make any sort of difference to anyone who happened to recognize me after all this time."

She sighed, wistful and more than a little weary, but then perked up and took hold of Luc's arm as they walked. "But enough about that. What a triumph in your promotion! You're much too good for me now; I'll have to find another husband."

[Luc Wynn]

At least she hadn't ignored him for weeks on end; then again, if she had arrived during the whirlwind of trying to move his things and settle in his new quarters and accustom himself to the bishop's schedule, he would have had to do the impossibly rude thing of ignoring her, or at least begging her patience until he had the time to think, let alone steal away for a visit.

"I'll try not to take it personally that you aren't thrilled to be in the same city as myself," he noted, sniffing at the end for good measure. He could hardly blame Tansy in truth; the ton had not been kind to her, and she had the means to live comfortably in the property she had been left. His own desires and temperament were not fit for such a life, but she did not seem to have that problem.

The reminder of their vow, made on entwined fingers all those years ago, prompted a laugh. "I'm yet a curate, Ms. Robarts," he faux chided, even as he unlocked the bishop's office for them. "I'm sure that, should you put your mind to it as your mother wishes you would, you'd find a much more enticing match in the year-and-some we have left on our little deal." Pushing the door open, he bowed her through with a flourish. Once the door was safely shut behind them, he raised his eyebrows at the woman. "Now, how about a proper greeting for your dear friend?"

[Tansy Robarts]

"Putting my mind to it is the trouble," Tansy was quick to shoot back with a soft snort of amusement as she swished past him into the tidy room beyond. She supposed the rank of Bishop demanded a degree of acknowledgment, but as her gaze swept the space, she certainly wouldn't have called it modest in the example of their Lord.

But then they were alone, and she was making a soft, relieved sound that almost became a 'yes,' and fell into Luc's waiting arms with a sigh against his chest. "I have missed you too much," she said, and could hear the steady, reassuring thrum of his heart beneath her ear as she squeezed. "I shan't let go now. You shall simply have to bear my limpet-y affections forever. I'm certain your flock shan't mind." She rubbed her cheek against the front of his robes and hated a little bit that they smelled more of censures and starch than what she recalled of her friend's scent. This was, she supposed, simply the way he smelled now.

"Oh my sweetest friend, I wish we were children again," she admitted, her eyes screwed shut. "Everything was so simple then, wasn't it?