Paulo Avis (The Little Bird)

Father Timothy Howard had risen spectacularly in the tiers of the church since his graduation from Seminary. Young, they said, to be a Bishop already. Eager, they said, to take on a project such as Briarcliff Manor. And capable, they agreed, to run it as effectively as he did. And while he appreciated their praise (almost to a fault), he tried to be as humble as possible, giving credit where it was due: to a nun. The nun. Briarcliff's curated and hand-selected (by himself, no less) administrator - Sister Jude.

He'd never met a more impressive Sister of the Church. Kind ones, yes. But smart? Not so much. Strong? Definitely not. Authoritative? Rarely - although a few Mother Superiors here and there had impressed him with their austere proclivities to control. No. Rarely was he impressed in general. Had met few he would trust with his Bible - much less his pet project.

This one - Jude - was a rara avis, indeed.

And she was shapely. Not that he noticed such things. He didn't.

But no matter her capabilities, or her...physical fitness, he recognized that even the most competent of leaders sometimes needed help. Jude was certainly an adept assistant to himself. He wouldn't be making Briarcliff half the success it was without her. Her bakery idea had won him massive accolades within the circles that mattered - the circles that selected Cardinals. The circles he most wanted to matter in.

And now that her idea was coming to fruition - that the Briarcliff kitchens were being expanded into an impressive (and expensive) functioning bakery, he had consulted the Mother Superior. With the added staff and responsibilities, Jude deserved some help.

He hoped that their meeting today would be as productive as usual. Honestly, he'd attempted to arrange it for later in the evening as the Sister was oft influenced (with very little suggestion) to cook for him. And her cooking was (probably) sinful. A gift from God.

Or the Devil.

Like her curves. Not that he noticed such things. He didn't.

Walking through the doors of Briarcliff today, he remembered the first day he'd walked through the doors of Briarcliff. The wretched stench of wretched people, many catatonic in their own filth. Mats matted with mysterious fluids littering the floors and hallways. Cells flooded from leaky roofs, stagnant water alive with larvae. A kitchen with a barely functioning stove and a drunken cook serving rotten food. People shaped cages. Straight jacketed zombies beating bleeding heads against mildewed walls. Mite infestation. He'd had to be treated for lice, himself.

A Hell-hole.

The Church had been right to intervene. And he'd been right to appoint Sister Jude administrator. Souls needed saving here. Mother Superior had not let him down with her selection of nun, and he had faith she would not let him down again. Or Jude.

Patients were much quieter now. For the most part more active. There was a common room with music. Tables, chairs, and games to distract them. Regular fresh food deliveries and sober staff. Increased security and hospital-trained orderlies. All supported by earnest Sisters who'd volunteered to be apart of something good: God's work.

A vast improvement still improving by leaps and bounds.

Today, it was bustling. Construction crews were in and out working on the kitchens, so extra security lingered at all doors, ensuring no escapes or injuries. He greeted the head of security - Frank McCann - at the base of the stairs. "Mr. McCann." A nod.

"Father." Frank nodded back. "Sistah Jude is expectin' ya. In her office, I believe."

"Thank you." He didn't know exactly what Jude had seen in this particular man, but she'd been insistent on having him as her direct report. Seemed a bit gruff to Timothy. Not at all manicured. Too much confidence on a handsome face. A rather strong build. Man's man, as they say.