Cora didn’t have time to consider what they’d agreed to, because Marie launched straight into her plan. “We should go to the cathedral, the big one. Bishops and cardinals are politicians, they like to clean up the streets. And if one of them’s a murderer, you know they’re getting bailed out every time.” Cora could see the logic of the plan. The church was secretive, and held great power. The fact that both Cora and Marie despised it was besides the point. “I’ll just clean myself up, and then we’ll be off!” There was a minute hesitation in Marie’s voice, and Cora could tell she didn’t want to leave the safety of the shop.

Cora cleared their throat. They were aware that this moment required a great emotional sensitivity, which they lacked. “Maybe you should…it’s the evening. It’ll be easier to get into the church without being noticed in the morning, when more people are coming and going. Why don’t you…drink some tea, and we can discuss our plans?” If Marie noticed the transparent nature of what Cora was trying to do, she didn’t challenge it. 

Neither of them were going to sleep, so they sat on mismatched chairs nursing mismatched teacups. Cora had never seen Marie so pale. Her blush had run so it was indistinguishable from blood. Cora tried to keep working with the tumbleweed, but their hands were clumsy and Marie’s haunted face was always in their peripheral vision. “You said…she spoke to you before she died?” Marie shook her head, retreating further into the blanket Cora had wrapped around her shoulders.

Cora searched around for a safe topic of conversation. “How are you society friends? Or your marks, I never know what to call them.”

“Oh, they’re fine. Terribly worried about the Duchess of G-’s ball, and whether florals are making a comeback from their previous designation as provincial trash.” Marie’s lip wobbled. “They’re having a wonderful time.” Cora wanted to hold Marie to their chest, but they sensed that it would cross some kind of line they were trying not to acknowledge the existence of. 

They must have fallen asleep at some point because they opened their eyes to Marie standing over them, blood scrubbed away and makeup applied. If one didn’t look closely, one could miss the red rims of her eyes or the ghostly pallor of her cheeks. Cora didn’t, but it would fool the world.
“Let’s go. I’ll talk to the servants, you’re androgynous enough they could take you for a priest. Act like you’re down for the country, they’ll reveal all sorts while they’re being condescending.” Marie talked fast, her eyes bright. “I’ll stop by the theatre and, um, borrow a wig, my hair’s distinctive. Plus a maid’s uniform, obviously. You’ll be fine, you blend in.”

Marie kept up a stream of chatter for the entire walk, as though mindless talking was the one thing keeping her upright. Quite possibly it was. On a normal day, Cora enjoyed Marie’s mindless talking; it brightened things up. They didn’t when it was frantic and desperate. Marie was in and out of the theatre in a whirl, emerging in a dull brown wig and sober dress. The petty theft put some colour back into her cheeks, which Cora noted with happiness.

The cathedral loomed over the city. It would have been intimidating but for its lack of a spire. When the cathedral was constructed, its spire was the tallest in the city. Taller, even, than the palace. This state of affairs was deemed unacceptable and the spire was cut down, leaving a stump in its place. Centuries on, no one had replaced it. It comforted Cora when they walked past the church.

They needed the comfort, small as it was; the cathedral brought back memories. Ones of queuing outside the gates with a gnawing hunger, hoping that one of the churchmen had cracked open a holy book that year. Ones of sermons about how poverty was a vice which the weak and lazy succumbed to, delivered by well-fed self-satisfied churchmen. Cora could see from Marie’s hesitation that she felt the same way.

They squared their shoulders and walked on through. They were no longer the scared hungry child, or the resentful hungry adolescent. The church held no power over them, and they were here to outsmart it. They brushed Marie’s hand as a last, silent gesture of support. They weren’t a physical person, but they knew Marie was. 

In the chaos of the morning, none of Cora’s careful fictions were needed. No one was keeping track of comings and goings. When they glanced back into the crowd, Marie was giggling with a bunch of kitchen maids. They swung the old travelling cloak around them and continued on. The building was much smaller than Cora remembered. It was big, but not the juggernaut that loomed over their childhood. There was a thin layer of dust over everything. 

Cora managed to get all the way to the cardinal’s rooms without being questioned once. When their father had taught them, sitting by the fire, how to clip their words and pick up their aitches, they had never expected to use it; putting on airs like that with anyone they knew would have got them punched. Talking to a secretary, they marvelled at their father’s foresight. Sounding like a lord, they were above suspicion. Their cover story wasn’t scrutinised, and they were let right in to meet the cardinal. 

His receiving room was all mahogany and gilt. The cardinal was a big, jovial man, who used the church for the thin veneer of moral rectitude and fat paycheck. He wasn’t the worst, being lazy and greedy rather than cruel. Still, the big precious stones in his rings and the good silk of his robe rankled. Cora calculated the price of his jewellery, feeling the ghosts of old hunger pangs. He was delighted to meet Cora, heaping on condescending flattery. In no time at all Cora found themself sitting at the high table, surrounded by bishops and nodding along to a rambling story about fox-hunting. The incredible power of an upper class accent and some very good imitation silk.

“Of course, nothing much changes down at my parish.” The bishops jumped to reassure them that the country was very exciting, really far more exciting than Drallum (capital city home of kings centre of the biggest empire in the world). “Here, though, in the very heart of the city, you must be at the centre of everything. Directing the worship of thousands. Such a mammoth task, I give thanks that there are such worthy men to carry it out.” Beginning to feel sick from all the honey, Cora pushed on to their first real enquiry. “Do you ever feel a need to make reforms, or do you prefer to abide by the undeniable good sense and godliness of those you came before us?” Hackles raised at the dreaded word ‘reform’ then lowered again at the second half of the sentence.

“Mr Clarke, I think you hit right on the heart of the issue there. Where in the scripture do the gods call for reform? Little pickpocket demi-gods may enjoy chaos, but we are the Church. The heavenly father did not descend to earth and say ‘keep trying to change the social order I gave you’, now, did he?” Cora bit the inside of their cheeks to keep their retort back. “The church's role is to be steady, whatever those fools- whatever some may believe. However good they are at speaking, they never see-” The cardinal had gone red, and Cora saw that he had given away more information than intended (helped along by the fine vintage in his cup). 

Cora had mastered the art of becoming invisible (once literally, with a mushroom harvested from marsh caves), and it served them well. They melted into the scenery, until the bishops stopped watching their words with the newcomer. They also made sure everyone enjoyed generous amounts of wine. The quiet talk was about money, and horse races, and where the illegitimate children were stashed. Cora kept their ears attuned, ready to record the slightest detail.

The chatter stayed meaningless, until the cardinal leaned over to the bishop. His face was red with drink, but his eyes were clear. “They’re going to come after the church. We’ve convinced him of our allegiance…for now. Besides, he won’t be able to keep them leashed forever. We are not safe from them.”  Whoever ‘they’ were, the mention of them was enough was enough to turn the bishop greenish with fear.
“You do us no good bringing it up. All we can do is proclaim our loyalty as loudly as we can, and make some concessions. Do an expose on…I don’t know. Sodomy, bribe taking. Throw a few officials to the wolves and save our necks.” The cardinal nodded, unconvinced. Cora could hear the terror in their voices. These great men, who had nothing to fear from god or the law, were afraid. The child inside Cora felt a vindictive glee, but the rational part of Cora was wary. Anything that terrified the church should inspire horror in mere citizens. 

Head reeling from snippets of gossip and sips of wine, Cora found Marie in a confessional. In such close quarters, they could smell the cheap rose scent she poured over her clothes and the harsh carbolic soap she used on her hair, out of place against the soft dusty smell of the box. 

“Find anything?” she whispered.
“They’re not involved,” Cora replied. “They’re terrified. They know that something is happening, and they’re scared of being next.”

“You’re right. The servants see things, and everyone’s jumpy right now. Including the top brass.” Cora was disappointed. An evil churchman would have been a perfect, neat solution. A perfect neat solution that would have let them punch a churchman, so, ideal. What they had instead was a strange, nonsensical piece of a puzzle too big to be seen, with no edges, let alone conclusions.
“There was this boy, an acolyte. Jumpy. He keeps trying to tell his bosses something. Every time, they shout him down or hit him and have him thrown out. Every day, he comes back. I think he knows something.” Cora agreed that it was a good place to start. Apart from anything, they knew Marie. Like a shark, she would be fine for as long as she was moving. Momentum would keep her afloat.