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“Don’t mention it. Tomorrow, we'll go to Mass and try to glean some interesting information. Perhaps, in addition to finding this Sir Jones, the priest will say a few words for you.”
“And it's not dangerous?”
“Not that I'm aware of. You know, most of the time, churchmen don't know where the rituals they practice come from. So, to imagine that they're capable of pronouncing a formula that's followed by actual effects leaves me dubious. After all, why would we exist if they knew how to cleanse their followers of their sins?”
“So the Sin Eaters are their shadowy assistants?”
“Well, sort of. If we ignore the fact that they hunt us down like vermin to exterminate us, convinced that our intervention makes us guilty of one of the seven deadly sins: pride.”
“But that's unfair!”
The clarity of his gaze becomes blurred, as if carried away by vaporous whirlwinds. While I've come to resign myself and accept this painful state of affairs, I see that he doesn't. He's allergic to injustice, so much so that I can read his rebellion on his features as if it were a personal matter. A knight in shining armor from beyond, as it were. Something tells me that the horrors recounted in the Gospels should please him.
The time has come. I must take care of my children before they’re cremated. I'm not really happy about this way of destroying their poor bodies, already damaged by illness, but considering the price of a cemetery plot, I didn't really have a choice. Especially considering that I'll have to multiply that sum by three for the next forty years. At the very least.
Death has already become a regulated, sickening business, skillfully orchestrated by the state and its gangrenous address book.
I carefully prepare my belongings, keeping in mind how the “ritual” will unfold. I can't afford to forget anything. Not today. Not for those departed ones so dear to my heart. The first, and certainly the most important, ceremony of my entire existence.
I ordered three loaves of bread from the baker yesterday, ensuring that I had everything I needed. They're a reasonable size, so I can eat all three in a row without choking or risking dropping a few sinful crumbs on the crematorium floor.
On the way, I mumble the prayers I heard in my dreams. I hope I've understood them and transcribed them perfectly. Surprisingly, I visualize them without difficulty, as if I'd always heard and said them. I have the strange impression of knowing them intimately.
Eltz's journal
8
The Ghost
Carried along by a horde of worshippers, Believ enters the church and takes a seat in a vacant pew at the back of the building.
The parishioners watch her, suspicious and reproving. It has to be said that her appearance is the exact opposite of theirs: although she has left her leather suit behind and gathered her hair into a firm bun, she remains a dark stain that stands out among the colorful fabrics.
When the priest enters the vault, the congregation rises in a single movement to welcome him in a wave of fervor.
“There he is,” Believ whispers to me, pointing to a short, plump man sitting in the front row.
“Are you sure?”
“Certainly. That’s the man who received me at the manor when I met you.”
“So he's already seen you.”
“That's right.”
She remains silent for a few seconds, absorbed in her reflection.
“So I can't introduce myself to him and ask him questions. That would be suspicious, and he'd immediately suspect something. We'll have to spy on him.”
“Spy on him?”
“Follow and observe him. If he's your killer or had something to do with your body disappearing, he'll eventually give himself away.”
“You think so?”
“I hope so.”
Disapproving sighs fly around us. Apparently, chatting during the service is frowned upon. However, as I look around the room, I notice that among the devotees are a few uninterested specimens, dozing off or playing with their phones.
