P.G. Anne had insisted that Mary and Thomas spend the night. Needless to say, both of them were very confused by their hostess. Mary was, in addition to her confusion, disappointed that her hero, the woman she had for so long looked up to, appeared to be more of a crazy old cat lady then an inspiring, wise clairvoyant.

    Now, it was exactly one in the morning, and being unable to sleep, she chose to go out for a stroll through the immense, surprisingly symmetrical garden.  Most of the reason she couldn't sleep had to do with the painful thought of having to bare her soul to Thomas, the sweet, innocent man who only tagged along on her wild misadventures because he wanted to help people. He wanted to be kind and he wanted to care. Mary had long ago scorned pure kindness and caring, forcing herself to become distant and cynical, sarcastic and unfeeling. Yet Thomas had drilled his way into her feelings and she now found herself hating the idea of telling him her past more than telling someone her past, in general. She'd done things he couldn't forgive or forget, or even look past. She had sinned so much in her life. What she did to her mother... it was as bad as what she did at that mental institute.

    Her hand reached out to brush gently across the soft rose petals of a bush of Knockout Roses, but her fingers came away bleeding. Every rose head was attached to a stem of thorns.

    She felt Thomas before she heard him.

   "Mary?" He called quietly from the house. She touched her fingers to her lips, sucking at the wounds before burying her hand in her flannel shirt.

    "Thomas," she called back.

   He stumbled sleepily from the house, to her side. "I woke up and you were gone."

    P. G. Anne seemed to think it would be funny to make them share a room, and Thomas had insisted on taking the floor.

    "I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I disturb a lot of people," Mary's hushed voice echoed her thoughts.

     "You didn't disturb me, I just wanted to make sure you were alright. What are you doing with your hand?" He reached out, extracting her limb, covering it in his own. "That doesn't look like a very friendly wound," he mumbled, taking a tissue from the pocket of his button down night shirt.

   Since when are wounds ever friendly? The bitter, cruel part of Mary spat. But she couldn't help thinking, if he were not a priest, sworn to stay away from women, and if she were a normal girl... she'd find him, the kind of man to keep bandaids in his wallet and tissues in his pockets, standing before her, tender and giving a damn about her hand, with sleep mussed hair and funny looking green pajamas, she might just have found him cute. If she were a silly girl. Sadly she was not and never would be. And of course, he was a priest.

   "God must give all beautiful things some protection, must he not? Otherwise all the misguided in the word would taint the beautiful to the point of where it was no longer beautiful."

   And am I one of the beautiful or the misguided?

   Thomas released her hand a moment later, and her skin instantly missed his warmth.

   She turned away from him. "I think I need a priest to confess to." Why waste any more time? The sooner he hated her the better. This was something to get over with.

   Thomas immediately grew alert. At last, something he knew about and could help her with with a knowledgable mind.

   "Let's go sit on that bench over there," he pointed out a small, moss covered bench hidden between the chrysanthemums and the gardenias.

    Mary sighed, trying to prepare herself for his eventual disgust.

    "I just want you to know, that I understand if you don't want to try to free the Greenville House after this. But I either way, I need to tell you what I've done."

   "As a priest, I will not judge. As your friend, I will accept everything."

      Mary told him the story of her childhood and the asylum. Of he escape. Or her fury, her pain. And then the final sin she had committed.

   "I was nineteen, and I had been storing year of hatred up. Please understand that I didn't mean to, that I was blinded by anger and hurt.

   "I went to see my mother. She was moving. Again. I walked into her house, and I knew what was in every room. Not a sign that she had ever been a mother. She had kept nothing of mine to remember me by. Then I found her in the attic.

   "I saw the shock, the fear in her face, for she did recognize me. I touched her, a brief touch before she slapped me, but it was enough. I saw what she'd done. She told her new boyfriend, a pastor, that she was unmarried and had no children. She had burned all of my things. Everything that belonged to my father as well. She had prayed for years that I would die so that God would correct me in Heaven. She asked for forgiveness for carrying me, her demon child.

   "I lost it. I felt the explosion of raw power and I saw traces of all the paranormal activity within a mile radius. I started talking to the ghosts that had crossed over or exorcised. I lied and made up that there were even more spirits than the property, in all its history ever saw. I drove her insane by seeing things that for  the first time, weren't there, that she thought were but couldn't see. She screamed, so loudly and so painfully that ny eardrums ache every time I remember. And then she suddenly stilled, her hand going over her heart as I began to chant nonsensical things, and prayers, and curses. Conversing as I could with the entities haunting the world. Her hand fell over her heart. Her eys widened, pleading. And then she fell. Her heart had stopped. I'd scared her to death."

   Mary drew in a long breath. "There you have it, my soul, bared. I have killed more than three people, allowed men to touch me in lust, even if I killed them before the worst happened, and convinced a ghost to aid my escape. I selfishly abandoned my fellow inmates... and I murdered my mother." Mary raised her eye's to Thomas's.

    His expression was unreadable and she stared at him for a long time. At last, unable to stand not knowing another moment, she reached out a hand for him. He jumped back. She wasn't surprised. No one wants to be touched by a murderer. Mary sunk into herself and waited for his verdict. How long would it take him to call the police, she wondered?

   "Did you repent any of the murders?" His voice was cold.

   "No," Mary choked out, beginning to cry. "And it gets worse. I didn't repent, and I told you everything because I wanted to be honest with you, and if I ever did feel even a little bit sorry for killing those vile people, it's right now, in this moment, and only because I know you hate me for it. I have never, in my entire life, since my mother sent me away, allowed another person to become close to me, to allow myself to like them. But foolishly, stupidly, I liked you and now I've lost you. Ask me again if I repent, Father, for yes, I do because I have lost instead of gained. What good is my freedom when I am chained down still, by everything concerning you?"

   "It would be wrong of me to ever - the commandment say thou shalt not kill. But Mary, I was the boy who used to mow your lawn, and I've seen you talk to those on the other side, and it was the most miraculous thing I've ever seen. I saw how your mother treated you. And from what you've described... I would lose my title over this, but I think you had every right to do what you did, as twisted as it sounds, as corrupted, as violating as it is to human nature. It is utterly wrong, disgusting, and horrifying, but so was their treatment of you."

   Mary, being Mary, could only respond by slapping her hand across the back of his and searching to see if this was the secret he'd been withholding. It was and he was clean now, except for his fear of her rejection.

  "I won't hate you for not telling me if you don't hate me for murder," she half laughed.

   "That is a deal I cannot resist," Thomas replied, smiling.

    Mary gratefully squeezed his hand. Her gaze drifted though, suddenly focusing on the edge of the forest.

   "What is it?" He asked, his eyes blind to what only hers could fin so interesting.

   "There are over a dozen blue orbs gathering by the line of trees, and they are not human spirits. Where are P. G. Anne's cats?"

  "No idea, why?" He uselessly strained to see, worried but aware he'd never see what she saw.

   "I might have found them. And this garden suddenly makes sense. But she is not making a mummy out of Sekhmet. And Thomas, I think I'm ready to face the Greenville House, so we'll have to collect a few supplies and get all the other things that we need to straighten out, well... straightened out."

   Thomas was confused by the sudden change of pace, but utterly delighted that Mary was apparently eager about something. He adored her lethargy, but loved her interest.

    In a shocking, out of character action, Mary briefly threw her arms around him before sprinting into the old cottage, grinning. Thomas, not wanting to be left with the invisible orbs, followed, wondering if she were possibly joking or not, her bright face dazzlingly shining in his mind, along with her dark past.

   But Thomas stopped in the threshold of the cottage, hand going to his heart. The thoughts on his head were not priestly in any way, and suddenly he realized something dreadful, that made absolute sense and offered insight into the old woman's words.

   He could never condone murder in anyone. He never cared about any woman before. Had never so desired to see someone smile, nor had his thoughts devote such a large percentage of their attention to one particular person.

But he was in love with Mary, and everything was about to change. He had to resign as a priest.