**BOOK 1 IN THE TALES FROM DROMISSE SERIES**
Silvia considers herself the luckiest woman in all Dromisse. Her soon-to-be fiancé, Duncan Ora, is a candidate for Light Within, the greatest gift that the Almighty Gale can bestow upon someone. Then a ra...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Fists thump on the front door. Silvia stiffly answers it. A pair of cops stands on the other side, peppering her with questions and requests. Yes, she's Silvia Ora. Something has happened? Okay, she'll come with them to the station. Emily begins crying as Silvia retrieves her, and the pair shuffles into a police automobile that then blitzes down the road.
The cops shunt Silvia into a cold, dark room, and tell her to wait. So, she waits. And waits. And waits. An electrical whine from a hanging light echoes off the cramped walls. Emily's cradled body shudders.
Finally, a pair of rough officers walk in, though the expressions on their hardened faces melt with sympathy. "My name's officer Dean. Are you Mrs. Ora?" says an older man with a dark-and-grey streaked mustache, the wispy hairs wiggling like a loose mop. He sits in a metal chair that creaks as much as his bones. A ropy young man parks next to him.
Silvia glances between the officers. "Yes, I am. What's happened?" She bounces Emily in her arms. "Is everything alright?"
The ropy officer rests a few papers on the chill table between them. "Well ... it's about your husband, ma'am."
"At about nine-thirty this morning," Officer Dean clasps his fingers, "your husband High Priest Duncan Ora was delivering the sermon in the Grand Central Church. He splintered off on a tangent confessing to the entire congregation that he had committed murder." He thumbs the pockmarked side of his nose. "I remember your dear family. I remember the case concerning Cropsey not long ago, and I extend my condolences. But we would like to confirm a few details of this new development." He clears his throat and picks the papers with his fingernail. "Do you happen to know where your husband was on Fifthday last week, the night of the murder?"
Silvia's face contorts, and whatever strength she held before these officers withers. She stops bumping Emily while her insides whirl. It's true. Duncan did it. He really did it. He killed Johnny. She splays her fingers over the cool skin of her chest. Her suffocating lungs wring her lurching heart.
"He ... went out to prostration that evening." Her voice is disconnected from her body. Distant. "He'd gone twice that day, and I remarked how it seemed odd, but he convinced me to put my worries aside. He didn't come home until late. I don't know how late it was. I only barely remember him in bed when I awoke the next morning." Her breathing hitches. "Y-ou're not going to take him away, are you?"
Officer Dean rubs his slight mustache with a weathered finger. "I'm afraid we have no choice, ma'am. All the evidence points to your husband's guilt. And we have a direct confession." He passes the papers to the ropy officer. "I'm afraid there's no way to avoid it. He's going to jail."
Emily mumbles and lets out a babbling cry. "Shh," Silvia says as she kisses Emily's forehead. She forces her paralyzed arms to move up and down, up and down, rocking Emily gently. Focus on up and down. Focus. Breathe. Emily continues to cry. Up and down, up and down. Breathe—
