And all is dark within the vale of tears

[Christine Daye]

Evensong. Christine entered with the congregation, took gentle part in the service, but lingered as the others took their leave.

Quietly she walked up the nave, to the banks of candles. Carefully she fumbled a coin from her purse, putting it in the box for such offerings.

Her hands shook slightly as she set two candles side by side, lighting them with a taper. She sank to her knees on the cold stone floor, folded her hands, and prayed.

"Eternal rest, grant unto them, oh Lord. May your perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace.

Eternal rest, grant unto them, oh Lord. May your perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace.

Eternal rest, grant unto them, oh Lord. May your perpetual light shine upon them. May they rest in peace."

She sighed, and rested her head on her hands for a moment, an expression of deep grief on her face.

"Please, Lord, grant them peace... show them your mercy... bring your lost children safe to your arms... please..."

Then, giving way to her madness, she poured her grief into her voice, singing with all her skill, uncaring of who might hear.

"Lacrimosa dies illa
Qua resurget ex favilla
Judicandus homo reus.
Huic ergo parce, Deus:
Pie Jesu Domine,
Dona eis requiem. Amen."

When the last note faded into silence, she put her face in her hands, and wept.

[Revd Tweedy]

Before, the silence of the Abbey had been a living one: a low background of footstep upon the flagged floor, a small number of scattered conversations, spoken low, the quiet breath of a living building.

Now, the Abbey held its breath: the noiselessness was absolute. Only the shaking of one woman's shoulders disturbed the stillness.

The sound of her sob broke the spell: staring eyes blinked, heads turned away, goodbyes were muttered. Grieving was a wholesome part of a Godly life; but public grief was not a spectacle that decent people sought.


Tweedy knelt, wincing at the gunshot crack of bone from his knee, and prayed. The distance between them respected her grief - yet, close enough to offer tacit companionship. His one good eye fixed on the flickering of a candle.

[Christine Daye]

Christine's eyes flickered over to glance at Tweedy as he knelt, just for a moment, alerted by the cracking of his old joints, her face still mostly hidden in her hands.

She made an effort then, pulling back her sobs, and wiping at her face with her gloved hands, like a child, before pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket to dab at her tears, at her bitten lip.

Composure regained, at least temporarily, she looked at the two candles for a moment longer, placed close, side by side, apart from all the others.

"May they rest in peace..." she sighed as she crossed herself, grief still carving lines into her face. Then, softly, unwilling to disturb the peace and Tweedy's prayers any more than she already had done:

"...forgive me Fath... Reverend... I'm sorry for... disturbing you..."

[Revd Tweedy]

After a long moment*, the old man nods, smiling.

"'A course, Miss Daye," he says, grimacing slightly as he pushes himself to his feet.

"Your words soun'ed heartfelt, Miss Daye. What is it that troubles ye so?"

[Christine Daye]

"Oh..."

She waves a green-gloved hand, as if to wave her worries away, but her face twists and she bites her lip again.

"...oh... Reverend... I... I learned recently... that two of my... yes... they were my friends... were tragically killed... so young... I... I... came to pray... for their souls... for what it is worth..."

She dabs at her eyes again, trying to hold back the tears, keep her composure.

[Revd Tweedy]

"I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Daye." The old man motioned to the front row of pews, behind them. "Will ye sit?"

"I think," he added, thoughtfully, "tha' your prayers're worth a great deal indeed." His voice crackled a little as he spoke. "It can help, sometimes, wi' one's own grievin'.

"An they were your friends, that likely means you have some kindly memories of 'em. Happier times, eh?" He paused, seeking a sign of recognition in her face. "Will ye tell me a' one a' those times? About some a' the happiness you shared?"

[Christine Daye]

She sat gracefully on the pew, arranging her skirts carefully so as to not crease them.

"I hope so... for prayers are all I fear I can give at this time... if I were home, in Ireland, I could at least pay for Masses to be sung for them... but one does not do such things in England..."

She sighed, a soft exhalation of breath, and dabbed again at her eyes.

"Oh... yes... happier times... Rebeka... she was a dancer. We had such great plans to collaborate, with her dance and my music... I have no doubt that we would have been a sensation! But alas, it was not to be... as for dear George... he was one of the first people I met when I arrived here. And he was so kind, explaining to me about how things worked... who the right people were... that sort of thing... because I really didn't know hardly anything..."

She bit her lip again, trying to hold back the tears.

"I... I last saw them together... they were so much in love... anyone could see it... we were all at a Valentine's party... and there was a game... the gentlemen were trying to win favours... ribbons... handkerchiefs... that sort of thing... from the ladies... I... I was the only one who saw... she gave him her favour in secret... and oh... the look on his face... it was beautiful... transcendent... so much in love..."

She broke down for a moment, her shoulders shaking in silence as she hid her face in her handkerchief. Then, after a moment:

"... I... I will hold on to those... those moments... of them together... in love... of his kindness... of the joy she and I had together... planning something beautiful... I will remember... and I will pray for them... pray for us all..."