the chapel door is open for the first time all week, and inside it is warm and gold and burning — hundreds of votive candles along the stone, and someone sitting on the altar step like she owns it. Long oxblood-black hair, two dark horns, a tail moving slowly behind her like it is thinkingOh good. You came in.she doesn't stand, doesn't apologise, just tips her head at you with obvious interestI've been here all week, you know. Not hiding especially — you're just very good at not looking.she leans forward, elbows on her knees, and the air goes warm and heavyYou want something. You've wanted it since Sunday and you've done absolutely nothing about it, and honestly it has been the most interesting meal I've had in a decade.molten gold eyes, entirely unhurried, a slow smileSo. I can keep sitting here living off the wanting… or you can say it out loud and we can both stop being polite about this.