2:45 AM, The Cell of Sister Rose Carmelite Convent of Saint Teresa, Chester, England

Rose stared into the wolf's eyes, piercing blue-grey pools surrounded by thick black pelt. The creature rested on its haunches, its sides heaved silently, its tongue lolling from its mouth, teeth bared in a grin, the only sound the harsh repeated caw of an unseen raven. An open field of emerald green turf surrounded Rose and the wolf. Within the animal’s eyes, scenes flickered as if they caught the movements of her or someone else behind her in the field. She knew not to look around but instead look deeper.

She stared into the wolf’s eyes, feeling herself falling down into its world. Another world beyond the realm in which Rose dwelt and knew. There she was, one of three sisters. She was all yet none. She hovered between what they were as individuals and a single unified being, greater and more terrifying.

The sisters gazed intently into the roiling cauldron they tended. Rose was drawn hypnotically down into the roiling fluid and found herself back in the field watching through the eyes of the wolf. In the predawn light, men wearing the kilts and accouterments of Celtic clansmen were drawn up in a loosely organized mass on the far edge of the field, perhaps two or three hundred of them. Swords, spears, and a few axes were held aloft, catching the first light of the sun. Across the field from the warriors was not an army but a single man. All around him, the grass withered and died, and with each step he took the blight spread. The man smiled, stopped, and casually seemed to raise his foot before stomping down. As his foot hit the ground, a fissure opened and swiftly spread towards the clansmen, widening and deepening as it did. From its depth, tongues of flame licked upwards, and a roiling red glow lit the scene. The fissure widened as it raced across the field of green towards the clansmen. As it reached the first ranks of men, it was fifty feet wide with smoke and fire erupting from its depths. The stunned silence of the clansmen turned to cries of fear as the chasm engulfed those closest. Fear grew in Rose as she realized she was no longer an onlooker, but stood in the throng of fear-crazed men desperately trying to escape.

Rose was just another warrior struggling to flee the death that raced towards them, men falling screaming into its depth, the flames reaching for them. Pushing and shoving to escape, the body she inhabited strove to leave the field, when with heart-stopping speed, a terrifying apparition swooped down on the clansmen. The Banshee, clothed in ragged grey fabric, long white hair streaming behind it, soared over the fleeing men, who stopped their flight as the frightful visage of the Banshee loomed in front of them. Its mouth opened to let forth its shrill, head-splitting death scream. Rose felt the terror rise in her as she looked desperately for an escape path. Behind them, the earth was swallowing her comrades while in front, men reeled and fell to their knees as the scream drove thought from their minds. The cry grew in intensity. Rose fought silently to keep control of her mind…

Rose woke with a start, the Banshee’s scream ringing in her head. It took her a moment to realize that the noise in her head was the soft tolling of the bell for Laud, the early morning prayer. Her nightmare had been so vivid and real, her heart was pounding still. This was not her first dream or vision in which the three sisters had appeared, their power to control the arcane apparent to her, even from an early age. Her mother told her as she held her on her knee, soothing her weeping brought on by the dreams, that she saw the light of angels and there was nothing to fear from them. She had not had such visions for some time. When she thought about it, she had not since she took her vows a year ago.

In the darkness of her cell, she fumbled to light the taper next to her bed. The simple bed was a slatted wooden frame supporting a slim wool-filled mattress. Despite being basic, it was a comfortable bed. Best of all, she didn’t have to share it with her younger sibling.

The small space around her was briefly illuminated as the match she struck flared. She lit the tallow candle, the wick catching in the match's flame. The shadows were pushed back as the candle brightened. Like all monastic cells, the small stone room was austere with just the bed, a stool that doubled as a night table where a Bible sat, a small shelf, and a crucifix above the bed. Rose had only ever lived in two places in her life. For the first sixteen years, it was in the tenant farmer's house attached to the grain mill on the village's other side. Her parents still lived there with her younger sister. Her second home was here, the Carmelite convent. Rose had lived in the convent on the outskirts of Chester for the past four years. Three years as a Novitiate, followed by one year as a sister under simple orders. She removed her bedclothes and placed them on the shelf next to her habit that was folded neatly on a shelf. She donned the garb and then, once dressed, took her candle and opened her cell door. She joined the other sisters in the hallway.

The sisters formed up in two lines and made their way silently to the choir across the cloisters from the dormitory. They entered the side door and took their seats as the second round of bell ringing ceased.

The abbess took her place before the altar and opened the recitation of the morning psalm. Like the rest of her sisters, Rose repeated the Latin phrases, thus beginning another day for Sister Rose Caldwell.

* * *

6:40 AM, The Cathedral of St. John the Baptist Chester, England

The cathedral had been a holy site since King Aethelred founded a small sanctuary on this spot in 689. The original chapel was now but a memory. Upon the foundations of that early medieval chapel, the Bishop of Litchfield had made it a cathedral at the turn of the first millennia. The Bishop of Litchfield’s church collapsed in the 1500s. That cathedral’s rubble and ruins still littered the site. The new Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist was the tallest construction in the city. This gothic church had fallen into disrepair and received a renovation in 1580 at great expense, using the advanced construction methods of high gothic style. Naves, arched vaults, and buttresses were more ornate, broader, and taller, but it was still stacking stones in an intricate puzzle that forced them to defy gravity.

A master stonemason like Edward could see beyond the wear and tear on the surface of the stonework to where pinch points were stressing. The crumbling stone would eventually start a collapse after two-hundred and sixty-eight years of use.

“You see here boy, this section of the buttress is losing stability,” said Edward.

“Yes, Pa. Replace the stone here and here. The sandstone is highly porous and has been taking in too much moisture with the seasons,” stated Eddie pointing out the problematic stones.

“How do you know that, son?”

“Grandpa would tell me every Sunday when we came to church.”

The elder Edward chuckled, “My grandfather used to do the same to me. I craved to go play in the ruins of the old cathedral with the other children, and he would drag me around and point out all the problems and the worst of workmanship.”

“There is so much more to see up here, Pa.”

The two men were halfway up the scaffold. You could see all of Chester and over the old Roman wall and beyond into the country of undulating green hills at this elevation. Looking down, Edward the elder saw his employees showing up for work, “Yes, son, this is yet another of the joys of our work. We can be at heights that only the birds enjoy.”

“I was talking about seeing the stonework up close. Seeing what could only be vaguely made out from the ground,” said the younger Mason. The teen was apprenticed to his father, a master stonemason, and planned to continue his father’s trade. His family had been stonemasons for generations, and now Mason had become the family name.

With the commencement of construction, the Masons would have several years of work on the cathedral, shoring up the exterior walls, then doing work on the interior and the bell tower. Edward’s father, Eddie’s grandfather, said the work was needed back when he ran the business, but the church never sprang for it. There had been a small collapse recently, and that had forced the bishop’s hand. Every mason who came out to look at the building told him the same that Master Edward had said; the building would soon be beyond repair if they didn’t act now.

Edward climbed up to the next terrace of the metal and wood scaffolding they had erected. A zig-zag path made its way up and weaved through the thick wooden buttresses Edward’s men had installed to relieve the pressure from the stone buttresses scheduled for repair. This vertical maze allowed the Masons to walk up to various points on the outside of the church.

At the top of the scaffolding was the mechanical steam hoist Edward purchased upon being awarded the job. The first one in the county, for that matter, the first in the Midlands. He expected to cut his labor costs significantly by using the hoist to lift the stone blocks to the great height faster and with less labor. Once finished with this job, he would have paid for the hoist and have it for subsequent jobs. He and Eddie had talked through how with this device. They could go after similar high masonry projects and undercut the competition because of the reduced labor.

As he peered out, a falling motion caught his attention. He wondered if it was his imagination, “Eddie, did you see that?”

“What, Pa?” his son asked, pressing on a fragile stone in the buttress with his fingers.

“I saw something fall from atop,”

“Stonework?” asked the son with unease in his voice.

“No, slightly smaller,” Edward glanced down. If something had indeed fallen, it was too small to make out from here, Edward yelled down to his foreman, “John, look over here in the turf. I thought I saw something fall.”

John waved and responded, “Righto, boss.”

Edward made his way up. Now the scaffolding changed from the wide zig-zag to where each level ran horizontal, and a ladder was at the end to ascend to the next height. At each level, the walk ended with the ladder on the alternate end, making Edward walk the church's length on each level. He half-expected to find youngsters from Chester up on the roof fooling around. The scaffolding was too tempting for the young folk to ignore, and it wouldn’t be the first time he had to scold children for climbing up to see the church roof.

“I just saw something fall, Pa,” Edward stopped and looked over to see what it may have been. Eddie was two levels down looking above Edward to the roof while John was pacing around on the ground looking down.

“John, look over this way,” Eddie yelled to the man on the ground.

Edward ascended the last ladder. As his head poked up through the opening to the top level, his eyes were at the roof level. He stopped his ascent. His eyes widened in disbelief. There crouched in front of him was a squat grey-skinned muscular creature no larger than a two-year-old child but muscular, like an athlete. Edward’s gaze met that of the beast. Black, cold, pupilless eyes met his own. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly as an identical gargoyle-like creature came up behind the other, its arms full.

"Master Mason, I found it. It's a lynchpin," yelled John. One pin of many that held the scaffolding to the church and gave it stability.

The elder Mason saw the second creature had its arms full of the lynchpins. By the amount it held, it may have been every one of the wooden fasteners. The first creature grinned toothily at Edward. The mouth a gash full of tiny sharp teeth. It uttered a low guttural noise and approached the edge of the roof, giving the scaffolding a thrust with its foot. The second creature flung its armload of pins over the side, then helped its twin push the scaffolding away from the building.

Edward clutched the ladder as the framework swayed outward. Below him, he could hear Eddie calling out in alarm as the framework of wood and metal swayed and distorted. He found his voice at last, but his despairing “No!” was lost in the sound of cracking wood and squealing metal as the scaffolding collapsed under its own weight.

The Mason dynasty's plans, dreams, and heritage ended among the headpieces of ancient graves as Edward Mason, Eddie, and their foreman John died under the twisted tangle of wood and metal. As the last pieces settled and a stunned silence fell across the churchyard, a chilling cackle of laughter faded away.

* * *

8:30 AM, The Reliquary at the Carmelite Convent

Chester, England

Rose’s day had begun at three a.m. when she joined with all the other nuns and novitiates in the first prayers of the day. The next three hours were taken up by simple tasks, preparing for the day ahead. At six a.m., they gathered again in the choir for Prime. Their voices rose in prayer and song for the next hour.

Now she was working in the reliquary, a cramped room more like a study or a library. The shelves lining the walls were crammed with books and scrolls.

The room was called the reliquary as it held the Relic of Saint Ostric, an old monk who had traveled with an early Christian king bringing Christianity to this land. On a catafalque in the center of the room, a wood and glass cabinet took pride of place. Inside on a piece of blue material rested an old intricately carved box. Its paint was peeling and almost nonexistent, just a few flakes remaining.

Inside the box was the skull of the Saint. This holy relic had been in the care of the Sisters of Saint Teresa since 700 A.D. when it had been moved in secret from Gilling Abbey in the East. The skull had traveled in secret again when the Dissolution of the Monasteries by Henry VIII forced the Sisters to flee Britain for France, the skull carried under the skirts of the abbess.

In France, the Order of Saint Teresa found refuge at the Carmel of the Trinity Monastery in Caen, where they remained until 1821. In that year, after many years of petitions by both the Order and members of the local Catholic communities, the Order was granted permission and given an invitation to return.

When the bell rang for breakfast, Rose had been sweeping the stone floor of the reliquary. She set the broom aside and made her way to the dining hall. The hall was on the other side of the cloisters, between the kitchens and the dormitory. The reliquary was a small antechamber connected to the chapel.

As she entered the long dining hall, she passed the small room where the contemplative sisters ate. Six of her sisters were focused on a meditative track and had taken vows of silence. They ate in a separate room from the rest of the monastery and were served first. Rose noted Sister Katherine carrying a tray on which the serving bowls for the silent sisters sat. Their eyes met, and each smiled at each other. Rose sat down at her usual table with Sister Judith. The pot of porridge was already on the table, and Judith served Rose, spooning a large dollop of the oatmeal into a wooden bowl. It landed with a splat, and Judith pushed it across to Rose.

“Why are you so sour-faced?” asked Rose, taking in Judith’s glum face.

“Those old Frogs were whining again about the food being cold. I told them to take it up with Sister Meredith. I am just the serving wench. Sister Angela and the rest of the old bags spoke in French. I know they were talking about me,” said Judith.

Katherine sat down at the table, and Judith slid a bowl over to her. “Bitten by a frog?” said Katherine to Judith. Rose almost snorted a mouthful of the porridge through her nose. In private, the three young nuns spoke with disdain about the clique of older women who had come to Chester to reestablish the sisterhood in England and treated the younger sisters with contempt for being English.

Sister Maria, the Mother Superior, approached them with a stern look on her face. Rose and the two others got serious fast. “Why do you not sit with the other sisters?” said the old woman as she pointedly looked over to the other three tables filled with more senior nuns.

“They don’t want us because we’re not French,” blurted out Judith.

“All Carmelite Sisters have a heart filled with compassion. Even you, with your curt reply. Tonight, before bed, contemplate your compassion while you complete a rosary,” said the Mother Superior. She turned to Rose, “There has been an accident over at the old cathedral. Both the Mason men have sadly died. Rose, I would like you and Judith to go with Sister Honoré to their home for vigil and prayer.”

“Eddie Mason is dead?” cried Rose in dismay. The entire room stared when she had this outburst of emotion.

“Yes, and his father as well. Go and comfort them,” ordered her superior.

* * *

10:20 AM, The road to Chester

The three nuns padded into town, just the sound of the earth and stones of the path crunching under their feet. The way they took turned onto the main road that passed the Cathedral. Workers were pulling apart the pile of wood and iron used for platforms and ladders that the stoneworkers had constructed to scale the church.

To reach the Masons’ home, the Sisters the shortest route was to go into Chester proper, passing through the old Roman walls to reach the bridge that crossed to the south bank.

Originally a Roman fortress known as Deva or Deva Victrix, the city's heart had been constructed around 70 A.D. as a garrison for the 20th Legion Valeria Victrix and covered some sixty-two acres. Many remains from the Roman occupation were still visible, but the most obvious example was the walls that encompassed the city. The massive walls were nearly five feet thick at the base, and there were almost two miles of them circling the city.

Inside the walls, wooden and stone Tudor structures lined the streets. A mix of residences and shops, the streets were busy with the day’s trade. As the Sisters walked through town, those they met either averted their eyes or crossed themselves, though there were fewer now that performed that action. England was predominately Protestant, and the sign of the cross was not familiar to that faith. The townsfolk knew where they were headed, and it was a reminder of the tragedy that had befallen the town. Rose was aware of the covert glances or open stares of the townspeople, making her feel uncomfortable. It was as if they somehow blamed the sisters or thought they would bring further calamity upon them. They weren’t openly hostile, but she could see lips moving as they muttered to themselves or each other. The trio passed through the south gate and across the Old Dee Bridge, passing the field where the ancient Roman temple still partly stood.

Rose had played with Eddie and his sisters in that field near the old sandstone ruin. They had all grown up together as children, frolicking about Chester without a care. Now he was dead, and Rose wondered what life had in store for her as she watched the middle-aged woman she walked with. Sister Honoré, like Rose, had joined the order at sixteen, transforming from a village maiden to a bride of Christ.

Just south of the River Dee, Rose said, “It’s just ahead,” as she pointed to a path heading off to the left of the road. A group of men was congregated outside one of the cottages at the end of the path.

The men, workers for the Masons, stood outside the neat garden in front of the cottage. They made way for the nuns. While the Masons and most of their workers and neighbors were Anglican, it was the Carmelites' custom to minister to all the local families.

“Sisters,” said one man with a nod of his head and removing his cap. Rose and Judith took their cues from their elder, Sister Honoré. They all gave the men a nod and walked down the path to the house.

Inside the Mason home, the two daughters of the house sat with their arms around their mother, their grief all too clear on their faces. Two men attended them.

“Sisters, good of you to come,” said Father Wheaton, the local vicar.

“The Carmelite Sisters would like to pray for you and with you in this time of loss and grief,” said Honoré, in a heavy French accent.

“Rose, Judith!” cried Catherine, the eldest Mason sister. She ran to the two young nuns hugging both then breaking down in Rose’s arms.

“What happened?” asked Rose, looking at Catherine and wiping away the tears from the Mason girl’s face.

“Pa and Eddie were on the scaffolding at the cathedral when it collapsed. They were killed in the fall, along with John, the foreman. Their bodies were taken to the mortician. We were getting ready to go over there with the sheriff.”

Rose looked at the lanky county official who urged, “We should go, Mrs. Mason,”

“What will happen, to us, Rose?” asked Catherine in a panic.

“Why don’t we stay here while your mother goes with the sheriff and let them work out the arrangements? The circumstances look dire, but we will look for some good to come out of this. Isn’t that right, Father Wheaton?” Rose offered, but the words felt hollow as she thought of what would happen to her family’s prospects if her father was killed.

“Something caused it to fall, I say,” came a loud voice from outside. An argument ensued.

Sheriff Alderton and Father Wheaton went outside to try and quieten the argument. Rose followed to see three of the workers arguing.

“I was there and seen that scaffolding come down as if it was held together with straw, and you were one of the blokes what put it together. What if we were all up there?” said the tallest man.

“I tell ya, mate. Someone is behind this. I saw half the lock pins scattered, not a one sheared or splintered. I put those in with Master Edward me’self, and that scaffolding was as solid as the church,” argued the youngest man.

“Gentlemen, no one serves their grief or that of the family by accusations and anger. We need to be here to pray for the family and the souls of those men,” urged the Vicar.

"We masons know how to hang a scaffolding," said the tall man with a scowl as he walked away.

Rose turned to the sheriff. “Do you think someone did this on purpose?”

“Sister, we will listen to what the men say and get to if there was sabotage or shoddy work, and if someone is at fault, I’ll pursue it. Don’t you worry,” said the sheriff.

* * *

5:00 PM, The Cathedral of St. John the Baptist

Chester, England

The Sisters had spent the rest of the day comforting Edward Mason’s daughters and wife on her return to the house with the vicar. The vicar told them that arrangements had been made to bury the Mason men, but it would not happen until the sheriff had finished his inquiries. The vicar left soon after relating this, clearly uncomfortable amongst the weeping women. By late afternoon, relatives had arrived, and the Sisters felt able to make their way back to the monastery.

Rose deliberately steered their route to pass the Cathedral. As a youngster, she and the other children would play in the old ruins behind the church, Protestant and Catholic alike. The Webers, Masons, Caldwells, Jones, and others would meet and play their imaginary games. It wasn’t until they were older and had knowledge of religion, trades, and class that they drifted away.

She always had fond thoughts of Eddie Mason. He would parrot what his father and grandfather would say about the stone works as if he were the local authority. He once led them all on an expedition to the quarry where they dared each other to stand at the edge—a scary prospect for a pack of children only a decade old. It seemed ages ago now; Rose could recollect more than just Eddie, who were childhood friends but no longer alive. Illness and accidents had already begun to take the lives of those she grew up with.

She stopped and said a prayer. Judith and Honoré joined her in the prayer. Men were sorting through the pile of broken wood stacking up the material; a few looked over at the nuns.

“Sister Honoré, I will have a few words with William over there,” Rose indicated William Mason, a cousin of Eddie.

“Sister, you are best to stay with us,” retorted Honoré.

Rose ignored her and walked over to William. “William, I was so very sorry to hear about the accident,” commiserated Rose.

“What a horror. Now we need to make sure the wood buttressing is sound, or the whole building could come down,”

“What about the lock pins?” asked Rose.

William cocked his head and gave Rose a stare. “You learn stone masonry over at the convent?” asked William.

“Just something I overheard. Some men arguing that there may be more to the accident than meets the eye. One of the men noted none of the locking pins were broken. Catherine was sure her father’s work was sound,” Rose explained, hoping to gain more information.

“I was up on that rack, and it was as secure and sturdy as I could see. Let me ask you a question. Do you notice anything unusual about the wall?” asked William.

Rose looked. She tried hard to find what he wanted her to notice, but it was the same old water-stained, umber sandstone she has seen her whole life.

“I haven’t gotten that far in the convent’s masonry course,” Rose responded.

“The scaffolding fell, but none of the walls gave way. When a scaffolding comes down, it is usually caused by the underlying building giving way. Besides that, Uncle Edward’s structure was overbuilt to support the steam hoist he had installed at the top. Come here,” William said as he walked over to the piles of wood. He began sifting through wicker baskets that held large wooden dowels.

“Ay, any of you lot find splintered lynchpins around here?”

The replies were shrugs and looks of confusion, "You know Sister, you might be on to something; if all of those pins were removed, that might be enough together with wind or a good jostle to get the entire frame to swing off the building. One would need to have some knowledge of engineering to know to remove those pins,"

“The fellow at the house said he saw dozens scattered on the ground,” mentioned Rose.

"I didn’t give it much thought, but when we cleaned up, those pins were all over the ground," said William. He paced a bit, deep in thought, “I can think of one or two blokes who might like to see that steam hoist end up like that,” William pointed at the heap of distorted metal and gears. “What I can’t figure is why leave such a blatant clue as to what happened here?”