"The third bell is wrong," Captain Arthur said.
I looked up at the modest chapel standing at the end of the street. From a distance, Old Saint Orison's didn't look like a place capable of holding an underground ritual network, a hidden choir, and enough religious impropriety to make an honest graveyard turn itself over in disgust. It was small. Respectable, almost painfully so. Pale stone walls, narrow stained glass windows, blue banners embroidered with open hands, a bell tower rising just high enough to look important without competing with the grand temples closer to the palace. The kind of chapel elderly women trusted with their donations and children trusted with their prayers.
