Plague Doctors: Beginning of the End-Chapter 19 - :"Good" little priest

The Cathedral of Saint Augustine rose like a mountain of stone and faith against the evening sky, its Gothic spires piercing the clouds as if reaching for heaven itself. Inside, the vast nave stretched into shadows, its ribbed vaults disappearing into darkness far above. Stained glass windows cast pools of colored light across the empty pews, their biblical scenes watching in eternal silence over the sacred space.

In this cathedral of grandeur and solitude, only two men occupied the space: the priest in his confessional, and the Governor of Olstrum in his fine tailored suit. The confessional booth was an ornate piece of dark oak, carved with images of saints and angels, its wood polished by decades of penitent hands. Through the latticed screen, Father Michael's pristine white collar gleamed against his black cassock, a stark contrast that matched the moral absolutes he was meant to represent.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned," the Governor's voice carried a hint of something that didn't belong in a confessional – amusement. His lips curled into a smile that would have seemed more at home in a boardroom than a house of God. He was the same man who had watched Dinah's execution from behind the tinted windows of his luxury car, his face then as now bearing the expression of someone savoring a private joke. "It has been seven days since my last confession and these are my sins..."

Father Michael shifted in his seat, the wooden bench creaking beneath him. Even in the dim light of the confessional, his discomfort was visible. "Governor... I mean, speak my son, the Lord listens." The slip revealed the complex dynamic between them – the spiritual authority struggling against worldly power.

The confessional's small space seemed to shrink further, becoming a cage of carved wood and unspoken tensions. Around them, the cathedral's vast emptiness pressed in, the rows of vacant pews stretching away like silent witnesses. Brass candlesticks caught what little light filtered through the stained glass, their flames dancing like restless spirits.

"I have..." the Governor paused, savoring the moment like a fine wine, "murdered an innocent woman." The words fell between them like stones in still water.

Father Michael's eyes widened, the color draining from his face. The shock of the confession hit him with physical force, causing him to grip the edge of his seat. The priest's reaction was visible through the lattice screen – a man of God confronted with a sin he hadn't expected to hear, not here, not from this man. The carved angels on the confessional's walls seemed to look down with newfound interest, their wooden faces frozen in expressions of perpetual concern.

In that moment, the cathedral's beauty took on a darker aspect. The soaring architecture, the play of light through stained glass, the ancient stones – all of it became a grand stage for this intimate drama of power and conscience, where a man of authority confessed to murder with a smile, and a man of God was forced to hear it.

Father Michael's hands trembled beneath his cassock sleeves, the weight of complicity settling over him like a shroud. The confessional's wooden walls seemed to close in further, threatening to crush him under the burden of his knowledge. He had been there, after all – had given the final blessing before they lit the pyre. The memory of Dinah's face, illuminated by the rising flames, would forever haunt the shadows of his conscience.

"Yes," the Governor continued, his voice dripping with satisfaction like honey mixed with poison. "Dinah." He savored the name, rolling it off his tongue as if tasting fine wine. "The one you burnt at the stake." The latticed screen between them cast crisscrossing shadows across his face, making his smile appear fractured and demonic in the dim light.

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The priest's collar felt too tight, choking him with the weight of his role in this macabre theatre. Every Sunday, he preached about sin and redemption from his pulpit beneath the soaring vaults, but here, in this moment, he felt further from grace than ever before. The carved saints surrounding them seemed to turn their wooden faces away in shame, their previously benevolent expressions now accusatory in the cathedral's deepening shadows.

A ray of dying sunlight pierced through the nearest stained glass window, casting a blood-red glow across the empty pews. The timing felt deliberate, as if God Himself were highlighting the crimson nature of their shared sin. Father Michael had blessed her death with words of scripture , had watched as the flames consumed her flesh, all while knowing – knowing in his heart that she was innocent.

"The Lord..." Father Michael began, but his voice cracked, betraying his spiritual uncertainty. In the vastness of the cathedral, his words felt hollow, echoing off ancient stones that had witnessed centuries of confessions. But how many had been like this? How many had forced a servant of God to confront his own damnation?

The Governor leaned closer to the screen, his breath fogging the wooden lattice. "Tell me, Father," he whispered, his voice carrying the same cruel amusement it had held while watching Dinah burn, "what penance will you prescribe for this particular sin? How many Hail Marys does murder warrant these days?"

High above them, the cathedral's bells began to toll the hour, their deep, resonant sounds reverberating through the empty church like the voices of judgment. Each ring seemed to strike Father Michael's heart, counting out the moments until he would have to respond – until he would have to decide between his duty to God and his fear of the man on the other side of the confessional screen.

"Twenty Hail Marys, five Our Fathers," Father Michael's voice emerged broken and hollow, like wind through a ruined cathedral. Each word seemed to wound him, cutting deeper than any blade could reach. The Governor's soft chuckle in response echoed through the confessional, a sound that carried both victory and venom.

"Understood, Father." The Governor's satisfaction was palpable, thick as incense in the air between them. "I will... bring tithe on Sunday to thank the Lord for keeping my secret, well, a secret." The words dripped with mockery, transforming the sacred act of giving into something corrupt and tainted. The expensive fabric of his suit whispered against the wooden bench as he rose, each movement deliberate and proud, like a serpent uncoiling in paradise.

His footsteps echoed across the cathedral's marble floor, each click of his heels a reminder of temporal power striding confidently through sacred space. The massive bronze doors groaned open, allowing a brief shaft of dying sunlight to pierce the gloom before closing again with a sound like distant thunder.

Outside, his security detail waited with military precision beside a magnificent steampunk carriage. Brass fittings gleamed against polished black metal, and intricate gears clicked and whirred beneath panels decorated with gold leaf. Steam hissed from copper pipes like the breath of some mechanical dragon, the vehicle a perfect fusion of luxury and industrial might. The Governor settled into its plush interior, his guards taking their positions with practiced efficiency. With a burst of steam and the rhythmic chugging of its engine, the carriage pulled away from the cathedral, leaving only a cloud of vapor in its wake.

Inside the confessional, Father Michael remained frozen in his wooden cage of guilt. His heart hammered against his ribs like a prisoner beating against cell bars, each pulse a reminder of his continued complicity. Though he had heard countless confessions in this box, had offered absolution to innumerable sins, this one threatened to break him. His eyes, wide with the horror of what he had become, stared unseeing at the carved figures that surrounded him – angels and saints that now seemed to judge rather than comfort.

The weight of it all finally broke him. His head bowed like a branch too heavy with snow, and tears began to fall, each one carrying a fraction of his shattered faith. His fingers gripped the worn wood of the confessional walls, knuckles white with desperation, as if trying to anchor himself in a world that had lost all moral certainty.

"Forgive me, my Lord," he whispered into the growing darkness, his voice thick with anguish. "Your servant fails once more." The words disappeared into the vast space of the cathedral, swallowed by shadows and stone. Above him, the carved angels continued their eternal vigil, their wooden faces neither condemning nor forgiving, while the last rays of sunlight faded from the stained glass windows, leaving him alone with his shame in the gathering dark.

The mechanical heart of Olstrum pulsed beneath a sky heavy with industrial steam, its brass towers and copper spires reaching up through the perpetual haze. Charlotte's tall figure cut an imposing silhouette against this metallic backdrop as she approached the Presidential Palace, its architecture a grandiose fusion of Victorian excess and industrial might.

Her footsteps echoed off marble floors inlaid with brass gears, the clicking of her heels mixing with the omnipresent hiss of steam pipes that lined the corridors. As she reached the president's door, she removed her owl plague mask, revealing a face that held both beauty and something unsettling – like a painting where the proportions were just slightly wrong.

"Come in," the president's voice carried through the ornate door, its surface decorated with intricate mechanical scrollwork.

The office beyond was a testament to power and wealth in the age of steam. Brass astronomical devices ticked quietly on mahogany shelves, their gears marking the passage of time with mechanical precision. Gas lamps cast a warm glow through crystal chambers, creating an atmosphere both intimate and imposing.

"Uhm... you are?" The president's question hung in the air, his eyes studying the plague doctor who stood before his desk with an almost supernatural grace.

"Dr. Charlotte, Mr. President, pleased to meet you." Her smile was perfect – too perfect perhaps – as she extended her hand in greeting. The silver talons of her plague doctor's apparatus gleamed in the lamplight, each one a lethal work of art that she wore as casually as other women might wear rings.

The president's eyes flickered to her outstretched hand, then back to her face, his expression a careful mask of diplomatic patience. Charlotte's gaze followed his, and a small "Oh" of realization escaped her lips.

"Apologies, sir. Force of habit." With a subtle twitch of her fingers, the talons retracted into her gloves with the precise clicking of well-maintained machinery. The president's handshake, when it finally came, was hesitant – like a man reaching into a cage he wasn't quite sure was securely locked.

The conversation unfolded in the president's office like a carefully choreographed dance, each participant moving through their steps with precision, though only one knew the true rhythm. The brass mechanisms of a grand clock on the wall marked each moment with quiet clicks, counting down to something neither fully understood.

"Dr. Charlotte, well, tell me, what brings you here?" The president settled back into his leather chair, its brass studs catching the gaslight. Steam pipes hummed softly behind the wood-paneled walls, providing a constant mechanical heartbeat to their exchange.

When Charlotte spoke of Willem, her voice carried just the right measure of professional concern. "Well, Mr. President, I was informed that you sent someone to fetch Dr. Willem." The words hung in the air like smoke, waiting.

"The chief surgeon, yes, might you know where he is?" His question played perfectly into her hand, like a chess piece moving exactly where she had anticipated.

"That's why I'm here, sir. I'm afraid Dr. Willem has perished." Charlotte's expression shifted into a mask of sorrow so perfect it was almost real. Almost.

"What?" The president's surprise seemed genuine enough, though something flickered behind his eyes – something that might have been concern, or perhaps calculation.

She continued her performance, each word measured and precise. "Yes, he met his untimely death at the hands of driders. We found his body yesterday morning." The lie slipped from her lips as smoothly as silk falling through fingers.

"Willem, dead?" The president's voice carried a note of thoughtfulness that Charlotte filed away for later consideration. "Hmm, I hope an autopsy is being run and an honorable funeral arranged." He paused, adding almost as an afterthought, "He died so soon."

The president wasn't necessarily a friend of Willem's but Willem was a kind fellow, he was not cold or stoic, and that was a refreshing compared to his usual encounters with plague doctors.

"All you have said is currently ongoing or under preparation, Mr. President. I will see to it that it is all accomplished." Her voice was honey over steel, sweet but unyielding.

"Good, you're the one handling these events?" His question probed, testing. It was as if she was being vetted or nominated for something.

"Yes," she answered, the single word containing volumes of unspoken meaning.

The dismissal came smoothly, but then – that final question, like a key turning in a lock: "What did you say your name was again?"

"Charlotte, sir." Her smile was small, precise, calculated. A weapon in its own right.

"Keep up the good work, Dr. Charlotte."

She left the office with that smile growing wider, her tall figure casting long shadows in the gaslight. The mechanical city of Olstrum churned and hissed around her as she walked away, its endless machines providing cover for the wheels turning in her mind. She had achieved her first objective – introduction, recognition, placement on the board. Now it was time for Plan B, and like everything Charlotte did, it would be executed with surgical precision.

Behind her, the president's office continued its mechanical symphony of ticking clocks and humming pipes, while somewhere in the city, Willem's body lay cooling on an autopsy table, its secrets waiting to be discovered. But Charlotte knew better than anyone – some secrets were meant to stay buried, while others were meant to be weaponized. In Olstrum's eternal twilight of steam and shadow, the game was just beginning.