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“The police are on their way,” Brother George whispered to the abbot as the monks gathered outside the chapel. “They said not to worry. It’s probably just a prank. Animal bones or something. I put the box in the workshop for when the police get here.”
The abbot’s eyes drifted away slowly. He wasn’t convinced.
The bells rang out a glorious tune, and the chapel doors burst open. It was vespers, the prayer of the shadows.
A monk hugged his harp, pulling at the strings as if he were spinning gold. The melody twinkled around the small chapel, the last remains of sunset beaming through the stained glass windows.
The monks prayed together five times a day, from dawn to dusk, each prayer in tune with the rising and falling of the sun. Vespers happened when the last bit of daylight touched the Earth, the last chance for the monks to meet the day rather than hide in the night.
It was usually Brother George’s favorite prayer. Now, sweat pooled beneath his collar. Margaux LeClaire’s incessant voice rang through his ears. And he couldn’t stop thinking about wash- ing the blood off his hands.
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