Loving the Enemy (Seven Forbidden Arts Book 0) by Pauls Charmaine

Author:Pauls, Charmaine [Pauls, Charmaine]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780620655781
Published: 2015-05-07T16:00:00+00:00

It took her a week to crisscross a network of country roads that took her farther east, to a village called Huisnes-sur-Mer. Cycling into the village, she sought out the church first, since it was almost dark. As all the others, this one had a graveyard that surrounded it, but it was much bigger. She pushed her bike through the gate, the wheels and her shoes crunching on the gravel.

“Can I help you?” a voice called out.

Lily jerked. A man wearing a black robe and a white collar slowly straightened from where he knelt in front of a grave, a shovel and watering can next to him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.”

He dusted his robe and studied her. “Are you visiting a grave, or did you come for a confession?”

Lily recovered quickly. “Neither, I’m afraid. I’m looking for a job.”

“Ah.” He walked to her. He had intelligent gray eyes and thin, red hair. His eyes twinkled. “And you were going to ask the dead for one, were you? Or maybe you were going to pray, asking God to lead you to a job.”

She looked around and spotted a back gate that gave access to a dirt road. “Actually, I was just taking a shortcut.”

“Ah,” he said again, following the direction of her eyes. “That road leads to Paul Moreau’s farm, and I’m afraid you’ll find neither job nor shelter there.”

She was weary, and her bum was hurting from being in the saddle all day. “Isn’t there a rule that says priests must give anyone who knocks on their door shelter?”

He placed his hands on his hips. “Now where did you hear that?”

“The Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

He raised a brow. “You mean the old movie?”

“The book.”

“Mm.” He scratched his head. “Well, that’s fiction young lady.”

She sighed and shrugged. “It was worth a try.” She turned her bike around.

“Where will you go?”

“To the village.”

“There is a hotel.”

“How much per night?”

“Two hundred, I think.”

She whistled. “Wow. In that case, I’m moving on.” It was her bad luck that this church had a priest. The others seemed deserted.

“Wait,” he said, “what kind of job are you looking for?”

“Anything.”

“I can make use of someone helping out with the cleaning, and tending the graves.” He looked at her from under his red eyebrows. “But it is a rather somber job for a well-read young lady.”

“Seems fitting.” Maybe looking after the dead would be her penance for all the deaths she was responsible for. “I’ll take it. How much do you pay?”

He scratched his chin. “A hundred Euro a week. But it does include room and board,” he added quickly, “and confessions.”

“Deal.”

“Are you a member of the church, child?”

“No. My parents never went.”

“Well, we’ll have to baptize you first, then. I’m not allowed to take in a non-believer.” He shrugged apologetically. “That’s the only rule laid down by my sponsors, I’m afraid.” He waved his hand in the air. “They paid for the restoration.”

“Don’t I have to be Catholic to be baptized?”

“God won’t mind.” He walked back to the grave and gathered his tools.

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