A Late Dinner

[Nora Saint-Clair]

Nora finished the last of the chicken, the savory lemon-pepper sauce a lingering comfort against the cold still clinging to her marrow. She picked up the whiskey glass Claude had set before her. The ice cubes had already begun to weep, thinning the amber liquid. With a flick of her wrist, she drained the glass, then reached for the bottle and poured a finger of the spirit into the glass, neat this time. No water to dull the fire.

She tossed it back, feeling the liquid heat slide down her throat like molten copper. It burned away the last of the Sanctuary’s incense.

"He has reason to be paranoid, Claude,” Nora said matter of fact. She set the glass down with a sharp clack on the wooden table. "The Atharim hunting their own,” she murmured, shaking her head. "I can… I can almost follow their twisted logic when they go after regular channelers. They see it as a duty, a grim necessity to keep the world from tearing itself apart. But to turn that blade on their own blood? On people like us?” She scoffed, a bitter sound. "That’s not duty. That’s a purge. It’s sickening.”

She looked at her hands, then toward the rest of her drink. "The Brotherhood hasn't mentioned anything about the differences between men and women yet. They’re too busy wrapping everything in metaphors about 'The Veil' to give me any actual mechanics.”

She considered the 'bull in a china shop' description. It made a strange kind of sense. "A bull in a china shop?” she repeated. "And addictive? They definitely haven't mentioned that part. Though, looking at the faces of some of those higher-ranking Veilwardens, I shouldn't be surprised. They have this look in their eyes: a sort of glazed, desperate hunger they try to pass off as 'spiritual ecstasy.’”

Claude offered a refill, mentioning a woman who could teach her. Nora looked at him, her expression hardening with resolve.

"No,” she said, her voice firm. "Not yet. If I’m going to do this, I have to do it their way. I need to see what they teach, how they manipulate people, and how they justify it. If I start learning from outside sources, I’ll lose the thread of the lie. I need to be authentic to the 'Seeker's journey,' or Seraphis will smell the deception.”

She reached out, patting Claude’s arm. His admission that he was accepting a part of himself hit her more than she expected.

"I'm glad you feel that way, Claude,” she said softly, her eyes meeting his.

She stood up, the exhaustion returning, but this time it was tempered by a sense of direction. She looked at the small apartment, then at the lantern.

"I'm going to get some sleep. Tomorrow, I have to go back and 'nurture the spark,’” she said, the irony thick in her tone.