(Page 1 of 2) Carol 4 from Betrayed By God by Tristis WardSUMMARY: Continued from "Carol 3" and "Father Bedford" in that order.Father Bedford waits politely at the kitchen door of the foster home. The woman who runs this emergency shelter is not Catholic. She stands stiffly guarding the other door, the one that leads to the rest of the house were four of her charges are watching television. The newest teen has been upstairs since she was dropped off. She has monopolized the bedroom she shares with Sarah, insisting the smaller girl "take a walk or something" until she was done her meditations. In a way, the priest's arrival is helpful at getting her out without having to be too hard on her too soon.
Roslyn strides into the kitchen. She is a changed girl from the sullen, cranky thing that arrived in a jailhouse jumpsuit and bare feet. The clothes loaned to her from Maggie's extras fit her just fine. She is showered and her now curly hair combed. Despite her civilized appearance, though, she sizzles with what could be sexual potency, or something far more dangerous.
Her smile is startling in its quickness and by how its friendliness fails to throw off the aura of danger. She gestures to the table. "Sit, Ross." Without turning to look at her, she dismisses her guardian. "Leave us. This is private." She does not look even a little surprised when the woman wordlessly obeys.
"Are you comfortable?" Bedford asks.
"It will do. Have you come to your senses yet?"
"Has anybody bothered you?"
"Get over yourself, Ross. You're not my champion. It's the other way around." She pauses to allow her tone to come back down to something more agreeable. Her meditations were not complete when the tiny knock came to tell her he had arrived, and without her gear to help focus her, there is a lingering irritation. Then again, he looks even worse than when he chased her, minus the sweaty clerical clothing. "What's got you rattled?" she asks him.
"Roslyn. Can you hear me?"
"Fuck." She knows he merely does not want to believe what he sees in her. That name, that belief in an identity other than her, is just him trying to hold on to normal. She bites her tongue and tries very hard to stay civil with him. "Just tell me what you want to say."
He waits a long moment before replying. He seems to tip forward toward the table when he finally releases his breath and pulls his hand out from under the table clutching a piece of paper. "I was given this."
The paper is part of a pamphlet from a Catholic mass. There is faded typewriting on it about some upcoming service and giving to the poor. Roughly gouged along it is printing made with a pencil. The letters are deeply traced over and over along the same lines. "Yeah. "The Rose." That's me."
"Yes! Roslyn!"
"Quiet down, Ross. Jesus." She looks back over her shoulder to see if the housemother or any of the fosterlings are headed into the kitchen. "The Iron Rose. That's what the zealots call me in all their stupid prophecies. Where did you get this? Who gave it to you?"
He seems to deflate until he is once again bow-shouldered across the table. "...A man...or a demon. I can't tell. I thought it was a dream, but the note was still there this morning.
| 
