Thanks to my friend, iernotemo, for reading this over and correcting all the mistakes.

The hall was filled to the brim in a mixture of lights created by stained glass windows that, while entertaining to the eye, was also tiring. The priest, Father Turner stood at the altar, his arms animatedly describing hell and the apocalypse with reverent belief.

Father Turner had arrived in town just as many other priests had: silently. His stay had been a tad more exciting though, and with him he brought faithful followers who easily filled the front row with a small murmur at the beginning and calls of praise at the end of mass. He was a fervent believer in the old testaments portrayal of god, instilling fear into all of his followers and many of the townsfolk who were easily caught up and needed something new to gossip about. His god was a jealous, vengeful god in whom you were only given one chance.

Father Turner had many a time unearthed sinners, pointing to a member of his congregation. Today, in the humid heat of the hall he was still relentless, pointing towards the ill Lady Wilshaw who had just lost her husband and had only been able to muster her strength in the past week. It was her first visit to mass in a month and the priest pounced upon it as though he were a mountain lion.

"You," Priest Turner pointed with his long index finger towards the coughing woman. "God has punished you. He has claimed your health and will not return it to you. You will die in the hands of Lucifer, following your less than heavenly husband."

The claim was not the most outrageous of Father Turners so far and the front row shifted in their seats, eager to turn around and view the pure horror sprawled across the ghostly white face. He continued, "Lest this be a lesson to all, no matter your personal circumstances you must make time for god and not work on the holy day, like Lady Wilshaw's late husband and Lady Wilshaw herself. God cannot forgive those who do not make time for him and give him praise."

And so, Father Turner continued on in this manner, pointing at those who had wronged him and his lord. Taking it as his responsibility to ensure that those who had sinned were aware of their crimes and those who had not were surely scared in case their inner most secrets were revealed by this poor excuse for a priest.

Mass ended that day with little other noticeable event and leaving those who attended wearier in heart and spirit than when they had entered. Lady Wilshaw looked particularly put out by today's mass and was interrupted in her hasty escape by a delicate grip on her arm.

"Let me help you home, Lady Wilshaw," requested Mr Fluorite, a man who Priest Turner had many a time proclaimed the spawn of St. Lucifer himself. It was his unusually soft features, pale blue eyes and blonde hair that caused such rumours. He held himself like any man but there was a soft hint of an other worldly pose to him that haunted men in their dreams and caused sinful thoughts to roam through the male mind. Father Turner had many a time, during a slower sermon, turned his attention to the young male, listing his faults and claiming that Mr Fluorite had even tried to seduce he himself - an unforgivable sin whether it be man or woman.

It was not surprising though, if the priest did have such lustful thoughts about Mr Fluorite, for the man was as pretty as any woman in the village and more often than not prettier. No one would ever say such things however, not even the gossiping women brought attention to the fact. Mr. Fluorite lived alone and stayed mostly to himself, only appearing at mass and in town to buy his groceries. He was sociable whenever caught in a social gathering though, charming as could be and acting as though he were courting all the women in the immediate vicinity. He was known for his kind acts, always coming through for those in need.

So Lady Wilshaw was not at all alarmed by the gesture and placed her hand in the crook of his elbow faithfully, allowing him to guide the way to her modest home where she was as sure as hell itself to offer the man a cup of tea and bask in his heavenly glow a while longer. The walk through the town had them passing by the tea house - a quant affair whose business would have done well after mass, but due to tradition remained like the rest of town: closed. During the week it served deliciously light cakes and scones that crumbled easily. The tea was delightful and the atmosphere was always bubbling light heartedly

Mr Fluorite frequented the shop once a week after he had bought groceries, eating a light cake with black tea doused in sugar, all the while reading the local newsletter. He never left the shop until the letter was finished and always left it on the table for another customer to read in his absence. It was a peculiar habit that many of the women sitting in the cafe – whose window opened up into the square and most events – had discussed at length never coming up with a tangible answer.

Past the tea house you only had to pass one more building on the way to Lady Wilshaw's - the hardware shop. The owner, a man, whose stoic nature was considered a positive attribute in lieu of any other definitive personality traits, was Mr Doumeki. A definite foreigner, this would have made him odd enough, but his quiet nature and impenetrable mask of apathy pushed him over the line of being sociably welcome within the community. The fact that it seemed to suit him well enough meant that the town people needed to feel no guilt and could freely enter and leave the shop at will. Their stay was always rushed however and never interrupted by the man with oddly coloured golden eyes.

Bar Mr Fluorite, who tended to be sociable to all and could stand in the store for hours on end on his grocery day, discussing the benefits of the latest light bulb or paint, there was only one more man who could stay in the same room as Mr Doumeki for any significant length of time - Mr Watanuki, who at that current time was courting Miss Himawari. It was said he was blind sighted by the young maiden's beauty and proclaimed his love for her often enough, despite the black clouds that followed her and tainted the fate of all those close to her except from her family. The foolish young man, who was quick to temper around Mr Doumeki, was an idiot who let his mind guide his heart.

The two had an odd friendship that had spawned from one-sided hatred. At one time Mr Watanuki had believed that Mr Doumeki was also after the raven haired maiden's heart. The lithe, overcautious Mr Watanuki would go out of his way every other day to visit the hardware store to throw thinly veiled insults at the ever stoned faced Mr Doumeki. He would stand in the store until his chest heaved with exertion and his voice was raw, shouting at the man behind the counter: often his veiled insults escalated to shouts and screams befitting of a woman. Never before had anyone seen Mr Watanuki so ill-tempered and never with anyone else would he be as easily riled. Even to this day, after Mr Watanuki had ascertained that Mr Doumeki had no interest what so ever in the radiant Miss Himawari, Mr Watanuki could be heard shouting from across the street.

The two were close friends though, for it suited them both. The Watanuki family were well-known recluses. It consisted of Watanuki himself and his family's long serving Butler. His Mother and Father had died when Watanuki had barely reached the age of 10, leaving him in care of Sebastian. He had grown pale over the years since his parents had left him, absorbing himself in study. His pale complexion and startling blue eyes gave him a ghostly handsomeness that, teamed together with somewhat delicate features, could have been mistaken for ethereal beauty. It never threatened to rival that of Mr Fluorites nor garner the attention of Father Turner but passer-bys were always left slightly breathless in his wake. Some described it as a brush with death and others dismissed it as a shock, as though they thought they had seen an apparition.

He always attended mass without attracting attention, but his eyes would twitch and stare at nothing in particular and follow the most unusual of paths, pulling the interest of the congregation close by. It didn't garner enough attention as to cause the town to avoid him but no one tried to befriend him either. At the end of mass the Butler would pick him up and they would return home only to return later during the week to harass the local hardware shop.

Mr Fluorite could also be considered a recluse, yet of another nature. It was not that the town shunned him. Father Turner repeatedly attempted to turn the town against the young blonde but to no avail. The constant verbal attack actually gained Mr Fluorite more sympathy and attention, many took pity on the man and marvelled at the fact that he could repeatedly return to mass and not fear the questioning of his character. Mr Fluorite could do no wrong in the eyes of the town and yet he chose not to become an active member of the community. It seemed he would rather sit at home and read a book than socialise with the town.

And personally, Lady Wilshaw could not blame Mr Fluorite for she breathed a sigh of relief once her house came into view. A modest affair left to her by her husband, it was easily kept by herself and a maid she had known all her conscious life. The garden was well-kept and practical, with only simple flowers and bushes to decorate the lawn. Framed by a white fence, the pair stood in front of the gate both with pleasant smiles on their faces.

Lady Wilshaw played with a crease in her skirt and shifted slightly as the bone corset dug into her skin. "Won't you come in for a cup of tea, Mr Fluorite?" she inquired, her eyes imploring his.

"Sorry but I have previous engagements, perhaps this Wednesday?" he replied with ease, his smile sliding seamlessly onto his face.

"Wednesday would be perfect, Mr Fluorite. I will invite some friends," she provided before hastily adding, "Of whom none are gossips you would associate with the tea house," she assured the man as his schooled expression tightened slightly at the mentioning of friends.

"Sounds perfect," he grinned while slightly bowing his head, all the while holding onto his hat with one hand. He turned down the street towards his own house.

The tea would not be eventful, merely a polite social gathering but for some reason Lady Wilshaw was nervous. She worried about the coming Wednesday, a foreboding feeling settling in the pit of her stomach despite her excitement.

Once again thanks to my friend and thanks for making it this far.