A haze of smoke lingered in the air from the candles burning in their sconces upon the walls. Wind slammed the door shut behind him, echoing through the room and enclosing him in its shadows. He doffed his plumed hat. The odor of beeswax, mold, and aged parchment tickled his nose as the air, kept cool by the stone walls, refreshed his heated skin. As his eyes grew accustomed to the shadows, stained glass windows appeared on either side of another massive door that separated him from the sanctuary. Taking a step toward the glass, he peered at the blurred shapes of several people sitting upon wooden pews or kneeling at the candlelit altar, praying to a nonexistent God.A waste of time, to his way of thinking—sending appeals upward in the hope some powerful being would hear and answer them. En fait, it was a selfish act. Better to spend one’s days helping the poor and needy as he did. He took a step back and gripped his baldric. If everyone would follow his example, the world would be a better place, and there would be no need for useless prayers.
