The woman on the horse was attuned to certain cues. She did make her way towards the church, but took detours when she realized how far behind her dear mentor was. He would not be long behind, but this would allow her to go around a bit.
She could pick up signs from reactions, and the strike of metal on metal was one that drew her ears, but not her eyes. ‘Do not look directly.’ Not that they were going for surprise here, her arrival would be known immediately just by the robes. People would talk. What she was looking for was those who disliked the inquisition. Usually, they had ties to witches, either as friends or relatives. They had reason to dislike them.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the blacksmith, and she made note of him in her mind. She would ask about him later.
The horse continued about, mental notes taken until she arrived at the church. Charon’s horse was already there, and she tied her horse besides his and found her way into the church on her own, relieved to come inside.
She saw him before the plates of food and beverages, and walked by him to get herself a glass of wine, rather than the tea. Old habits died hard, and Constance drank nothing boiled, nothing mixed, unless she made it herself. Wine seemed safer, even if it was an intoxicant. Not to mention, it was cold. She brought the liquid to her lips as two men walked in, the Deacon and the Father. Constance inclined her head to both as she moved back to where Charon was, ill at ease.
Despite it all, she was never comfortable in the Lord’s house. She knew how she had offended Him. That He even let her pass through the doors unscathed was enough for her.
The Father offered his hand, and Constance accepted it, shook it.
They were told to sit. Constance glanced at the seats, and reluctantly decided to do the man that much of a service. Some individuals in the church, particularly those so far out, were wary of the Inquisition. It was usually best to be pleasant, at first anyway.
‘You talk a lot of nothing.’
It annoyed her.
“Sitting is plenty of rest for now,” perhaps she was speaking out of turn. Her tone showed annoyance, but she did not apologize for it. “I thank you for your hospitality, and while we have privacy without the women milling about to deliver food or tea, perhaps Deacon Fisher would be willing to share the reason for writing us?” It wasn’t really a question, as the former witch let her eyes rest on the younger man, looking for him to answer, or for a sign that the Father needed to be out of earshot as well.
Private meetings could always be arranged from the superiors.