Chapter 11
Back to the Altar
Angela reaches Saint Joseph's, the church dark and silent. She carefully places the Infant Jesus back in its spot, whispering a final apology and a plea for mercy. She feels a sense of release.
The wind howled like a banshee, snatching at Angela’s shawl and whipping her hair across her face. Each gust felt like a shove, urging her away from Saint Joseph’s, yet her small legs, fueled by a desperate resolve, carried her forward. The familiar silhouette of the church loomed against the bruised, stormy sky, its windows dark and uninviting. It looked like a sleeping giant, oblivious to the tempest raging around it.
Angela clutched the bundle in her arms tighter. The Infant Jesus, nestled within the folds of her worn blanket, felt both impossibly fragile and strangely comforting. She imagined Him shivering, just as she was, and a fresh wave of guilt washed over her. She’d meant only to warm Him, to offer Him a moment of comfort away from the church’s drafty stone. But now, with Aggie burning with fever and the storm lashing at their little cottage, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake.
The great oak door of Saint Joseph’s creaked open with a mournful groan, a sound that echoed the fear in Angela’s heart. She slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind her. The air within the church was still and cold, heavy with the scent of old wax and incense. Darkness clung to the corners, broken only by the faint moonlight that managed to pierce through the stained-glass windows, casting eerie, coloured shadows on the flagstone floor. It was a far cry from the bustling warmth of sunlight she’d imagined when she’d first conceived of her rescue mission.
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