[Suzerain of Sheol]

She'd awoke with the sound of the chapel doors crashing inward, senses honed in hissing desert dawns surging to awareness before she recalled where she was. Could she have looked more pathetic to any of the other faithful who'd stopped by for matins this morn? Slumped awkwardly over the prie-dieu, disheveled and destitute, Amélie rather doubted it.

Lifting her head, she fought back a wince at the ensuing ache. She must have spent the better part of the night with her neck lolling over the lip of the prayer bench. She couldn't even remember falling asleep.

The first sight to greet her was the statue that had kept her company in her lonely vigil, the beloved Saint-Marie la Madone, her flawless visage as irenic as the voices of Heaven who refused to break their silence. She stared into the Virgin's eyes for a moment, thinking, asking, Where does atonement end, and grace begin? For what hast thou forsaken me?

But she knew. The blood had seeped so deep within her as to stain her very soul. And even heathen blood was a blight in the eye of Christ, whatever the vicars might say. It had to be thus.

She could hear footsteps approaching, more irritated calls. A moment, she thought. But a moment more.

Righting herself into a more contrite pose, she bowed her head and began to murmur,

"Ave Maria, gratia plena,
Dominus tecum..."