The midnight hour drew nearer, and so the veil between worlds grew thinner in turn. Cressida had returned from the northern shore, from divining power from the moon's light, and her own had dimmed from exertion. In place of prayer, which required so much spirit, she tended idly to the church. She tidied the pews, then replenished the altar -- replacing the wilted flowers, pouring mulled wine into a goblet, nicking her thumb and spreading the blood along the metal rim. Stepping back, Cressida took her thumb in her mouth, laving over the wound until the metallic taste faded, and she turned toward the low creak of the wooden door.
"Blessed nightfall," she greeted, tucking the weariness away. It made her too mortal. "You're early. No one else will be here until at least a quarter to."