Still Water
Thick fog blanketed the front lawn of the Harlow house in the early morning. A black taxi screeched to a halt at the iron gate, tyres protesting on the wet tarmac.
The rear door flew open. James climbed out in a hurry, his woollen coat creased and damp. He strode to the stone pillar and pressed the intercom button hard. The buzzer rasped loudly through the fog.
The great oak door of the house opened. Diana Harlow stood on the threshold in a long emerald-green silk robe.
From James’s point of view her face was ice. Her chin lifted as she looked him up and down.
Behind her, Sophie came down the final steps of the main hall, her face pale.
James pushed the iron gate open and walked rapidly toward the front steps.
“Sophie. Please. I was stupid. I ended it with her.”
Sophie took one step back.
Her face was rigid. Her lips pressed into a thin, hard line.
James moved as if to enter the hall, one hand reaching forward. Diana stepped sideways and blocked him completely.
Her flat palm settled on his chest. Red-lacquered nails pressed into the fabric of his coat, holding him in place.
“The only thing you ended, James, was your access to the Harlow trust fund.”
James’s eyes were bloodshot. The muscles around his mouth twitched.
“This is between me and my wife.”
Diana took a measured sip from the porcelain teacup in her other hand. Her gaze never wavered.
“There is no wife here. Just a bank account you lost.”
She leaned closer, eyes narrowing.
“Do not scuff my marble on your way out.”
James’s hand clenched into a fist. The tendons stood out white across the back of it.
Sophie stepped forward, took hold of the edge of the oak door, and looked James straight in the eye.
“Leave.”
His pupils widened. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Sophie used both hands to slam the heavy oak door shut. The crash was sharp and absolute. The automatic metal lock clicked into place with final certainty.
She snatched her dark wool coat from the stand, turned, and walked quickly out through the side door.
Outside St Callum’s Church the midday light was dull and heavy. Wind tugged at the bare branches. Sophie walked fast across the gravel courtyard, the tails of her coat whipping behind her.
Her black-gloved hand closed hard around the large iron ring on the church door and pulled.
Inside, the nave was silent. Coloured light fell in long red and blue shafts across the empty stone floor. Sophie walked the centre aisle. The sound of her heels struck the stone with dry, echoing force.
She chose a pew in the middle, sat, and tore the leather gloves from her hands, throwing them down hard onto the wooden seat.
I don’t believe in God. Or I stopped believing somewhere around fifteen and never found my way back. But there is something about a room built for silence that a house can’t replicate.
Sophie covered her face with both hands. Her shoulders began to shake. A suppressed sob broke free and echoed in the high space.
From the deep shadow of the sacristy Daniel stepped out in a black shirt and white clerical collar. His feet stopped. His eyes locked on the trembling figure in the middle of the nave.
He walked slowly down the altar steps and along the aisle without sound, stopping at the end of Sophie’s pew. He stood looking down at her.
Sophie felt the light change as his shadow fell across her. She lifted her head sharply. Mascara had smudged beneath her eyes.
“This place is meant for silence,” Daniel said.
Sophie looked straight into the deep sockets of his eyes. Her chest rose and fell rapidly.
“Make me quiet, then.”
The fantasy began without warning.
Daniel stepped fully into the pew, closing the distance between them. The toe of his black leather shoe came to rest against the toe of her boot on the stone floor.
He lowered himself onto one knee on the cold stone, bringing his face level with hers.
His large hand rose. The fingers trembled slightly as they moved toward her cheek.
Sophie did not pull away. Her eyes stayed wide, receiving the warmth of his breath on her skin.
His thumb touched her cheekbone and moved slowly, wiping away the black smear of tears.
Daniel’s breathing grew audible, rising and falling hard beneath his shirt.
Sophie closed her eyes halfway and pressed her cheek deliberately into the heat of his palm.
His hand shifted, lifting her chin. Their faces were now only a breath apart in the shadowed pew.
Sophie’s hand shot up. Her fingers clenched hard around the cuff of his shirt, hard enough to leave marks in the fabric. The soft rasp of cotton and the sound of a man’s tightly controlled breath filled the small space between them.
Daniel’s eyes darkened. His lips parted as the distance closed to a single centimetre.
His fingers slid into her hair at the nape, tightening in the roots, holding her firmly.
He tilted his head, ready to press his mouth to hers—
A dry, formal voice cut through the air from somewhere distant:
“Harlow?”
Sophie’s eyes flew open. Her pupils contracted hard. She was staring into empty space in front of her.
She was still alone on the wooden pew. Both hands gripped the black leather gloves in her lap. Her chest heaved.
Daniel, in reality, had just stepped out from the sacristy beside the altar. He wore ordinary black clerical clothes, no vestments. He stopped when he saw her.
“Are you alright? I saw you sitting here since the morning service ended.”
Sophie swallowed once, long and dry. Her fingers loosened their grip on the gloves. She lowered her head, avoiding his eyes.
“I’m fine. Just… a sudden headache.”
Daniel kept his distance. He did not come closer.
“Wednesday.”
“I know what day it is.”
“Thursday is the day we agreed on,” he said quietly, without judgement.
Sophie looked straight ahead, not turning toward him. “I know. I just needed somewhere quiet.”
Daniel watched her for a moment longer, then sat down at the far end of her pew—seven or eight places away.
“The church is open to anyone. You don’t need a reason.”
They sat in the long pew, the distance between them deliberate. Silence held. Candle-light flickered near the altar. Their breathing was soft and separate.
Time passed. The light inside the church shifted, grew longer and lower, the afternoon deepening. Daniel stood, collecting a folder of papers.
“I have a four o’clock.”
Sophie did not look round. “Go ahead.”
He paused for a second before leaving, looking at her across the empty seats.
“Thursday still works, if you want it to.”
After a beat Sophie answered, “I’ll think about it.”
Daniel gave a slight nod, turned, and walked toward the sacristy door. His figure disappeared around the stone corner.
Sophie looked at the empty space where he had stood. Her fingers rose and touched her own dry lips lightly.
Thursday. I said I’d think about it. I’ve already decided.