Portia
Callahan marches me down the aisle much the same way as he marched me upstairs last night.
The priest clears his throat, his smile vanishing when he sees the dress, sees Callahan's hand around my arm.
The chapel is simple, the pews unadorned, the floors stone, some broken. If there are graves beneath them, they're so old their names and dates have been worn away by time.
The altar though, is something to see. Arched ceilings painted turquoise, like the ocean. I bet during the day when sunlight shines through the stained-glass window, it's spectacular. The altar itself is as simply made as the pews but the gold chalice and the other paraphernalia are as beautiful as in any church. I wonder if they lock the gold away at night. I would.
But then again, I don't trust anyone.
"Begi
