The spire of St. Mary's Church pierced the near-solid azure sky of Rajasthan like a nail from the distant Victorian era, driven deep into the sun-scorched earth.
"Excuse us..."
Vesper pushed open the heavy oak doors. A wave of air—a mixture of old wood, incense, and a faint, almost imperceptible scent of mold—immediately enveloped him.
Theodosia followed close behind, removing her hastily bought straw hat. In the relatively dim light, her blended gold-and-silver hair looked somewhat dull.
Inside the chapel, pews were lined up in neat rows. The crucifix atop the altar at the far end glinted with a cold, hard luster. At this hour, only three local nuns, dressed in simple saris and matching headscarves, were there, working in silence.
They spared only a single glance for the two "outsiders" with their distinct auras before returning to the repetitive tasks they had performed countless times. Clearly, they were believers of the "normal world"—pious, ordinary, insulated from the storms of the magic side. They knew nothing of the undercurrents about to sweep through this place, and they had no need to know.
Vesper's gaze swept past them without any intent to linger or communicate. He signaled Theodosia with his eyes to cross the empty chapel.
They pushed through a side door, revealing a high-walled courtyard. In the center was a circular clearing paved with gravel, surrounded by low, sparse flower beds. The sun was so fierce that even the carefully chosen drought-resistant plants had leaves curling at the edges.
Standing by the flower beds was an elderly man in the black clerical clothing of a priest. His hair was graying at the temples. He stood with his back to them, holding a long-spouted brass watering can, unhurriedly tending to the plants.
He seemed to have sensed their arrival long ago, but he didn't stop until he had finished the last plant. Then, he straightened up slowly with the steady rhythm of the elderly.
His gaze swept over them, finally resting on Theodosia. He spoke in a warm, rich voice.
"Miss Theodosia, you've had a long journey. Thank you for your hard work."
Then, his gentle gaze turned to Vesper—shrouded in black—with a touch of polite inquiry and a lingering smile.
"Ah..." Only then did Theodosia realize that Vesper and the priest were meeting for the first time. She hadn't detailed the personnel in Rajasthan earlier, so she quickly made the introductions, her tone far more formal than it had been on the street.
"This is Father John Prakash Jatav. He was dispatched here from Canterbury Cathedral many years ago and is a vital pillar of the Anglican Church in this region."
Vesper gave a simple nod in response. His black mask obscured most of his expression, perfectly hiding a flash of fleeting confusion.
("John"—the most common of Christian names, nothing special. "Prakash"—meaning "Light" in Hindi, a name filled with hopeful expectations. But "Jatav"... that is a massive Dalit caste in North India, politically significant and traditionally associated with specific trades like tanning or shoemaking...)
A priest with a British face using a name branded with the deep social scars of India?
Was it a local disguise? A strategy to soothe or recruit local believers? Or was he a low-caste mage specifically recruited and trained by the Anglicans, who just happened to look British?
Where did such a man's loyalty to the Church—or the United Kingdom—truly lie? Was he a bedrock of faith or shifting sands of pragmatism?
The complexity beneath the priest's gentle exterior clearly went far beyond his leisurely gardening.
"And this is Ves—"
"Vesper Cian Carson. I'm just a 'temp' brought in for support as a Spiritual Item Crafter."
Interrupting Theodosia, Vesper's self-introduction was terse to the point of coldness. He pointedly emphasized his status as a non-core member and a mercenary-like outsider while watching for the priest's reaction.
But the smile on Father Jatav's face didn't flicker. He showed neither the subtle disdain toward logistical "Crafters" common among core members of the Church of Necessary Evil, nor the usual detachment toward those outside the inner circle.
His eyes remained calm, as if merely confirming an ordinary fact. That inclusive smile never wavered.
"Welcome, Mr. Carson. I hope the Rajasthan heat hasn't worn out your patience," he said sincerely.
But after realizing her earlier "lapse," Theodosia was clearly more concerned with the mission than pleasantries.
"Father Jatav..." She stepped forward, lowering her voice and getting straight to the point. "The report we received in London mentioned 'anomalous astral trajectories' observed here. Have there been any new developments before our arrival? Has the phenomenon reappeared, or have there been other irregularities?"
Father Jatav didn't answer immediately.
His clear, gray-blue eyes slowly lifted, looking past the high church walls toward the sky—an azure so pure from the scorching sun that it felt almost fake.
After a few seconds, he retracted his gaze and looked back at them, slowly shaking his head.
"No. The blue of the sky is perfectly clear. No anomalies. It is as peaceful as a nap before a storm."
He paused, seemingly weighing his words. His smile faded slightly, replaced by a trace of subtle gravity.
"Except..."
"Except?"
He shifted his gaze, sweeping between Theodosia and Vesper, lingering a moment longer on Theodosia's highly recognizable hair with genuine confusion.
"Early yesterday, some children were playing nearby. You know how sharp the eyes of children here are. They ran to me with absolute certainty, saying, 'The British have arrived.'"
He deliberately repeated the phrase in Rajasthani, his eyes resting on Vesper's all-black attire and Theodosia's gold-and-silver hair.
"They said it was a 'British lady with hair like it had faded,' heading toward the church. I thought they meant you two, but I waited all day and saw no one visit."
The priest's brow furrowed, a clear cloud of doubt appearing on his warm face for the first time.
"But now, here you are. So, that 'British lady' the children saw early yesterday..."
His voice was filled with genuine bewilderment and a hint of indefinable unease.
"Who exactly was she?"
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