Utter quiet. That was what was reflected inside the church, with its stunning stained glass, less than twenty years old. The church had been restored, not two decades since, to its state before its hundreds of years serving Anglicans and their stripped down services, sanitized of the reek of papistry. But the incense had never really come out of the walls, not in all that time. Now it served Catholics again, as it had in the years before Henry VIII had set an eye on Anne Boelyn.
There was no immediate sign of Vanessa. Not until one listened, closely, and heard the sound of weeping. It was hard to make out the source, as sound bounced peculiarly in the high reaches of the chapel. But it came from the confession box, past the pews and tucked into an alcove.
The sound was soft, almost not there, and intermittent. This was the sound of muffled crying, a hand over the mouth. The door to the priest's box stood ajar, and there was no one inside. This was not the hour for confession.
The confessor's box was closed, its thickly woven grate shutting out all but the thinnest shafts of light. All that could be heard were muffled tears, and words, under the breath and through closed fingers.
"... et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Jesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei -" And it broke off, and there was a single sob, and quiet.
"What succor here?" came the voice. Still hushed, still to itself. He would need to come close to hear the words. They were still tear-soaked, still labored, still crackling from long crying, then suddenly harsh. "What succor, bitch, for you?"