The middle-aged deacon knew what that was. Along the way, he had already seen similar traces and similarly frightened eyes no fewer than ten times.
His Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty, and his stomach churned.
It was nausea, fear, and, more than anything, the bewilderment and anguish of watching the edifice of his faith teeter on the brink of collapse. An identical holy water flask hung at his own waist. Now, the cold metal against his skin seemed to inflict a phantom sting.
He raised his head and looked at the butcher before him, whose face was plastered with smiles while his entire body remained rigid, then at the evasive eyes around them. The deacon opened his mouth, wanting to rebuke them, wanting to proclaim the Lord's majesty as he always had. But in the end, overwhelmed by a tangle of emotions, he said nothing.
He merely tightened his grip on the heavy scripture, barely concealing the storm within him behind his familiar mask of lofty indifference.
"Let's go." The deacon's voice was dry and hoarse, and he looked at no one. "To the chapel ahead. We still need to check on Father Ansen's preaching."
The group hurried through the oppressively silent market, as though fleeing the scrutinizing gazes that filled the air.
In the past, the scene would never have been like this.
He remembered it clearly. Whenever this white robe, a symbol of divine authority, appeared at the entrance to the alley, the vendors standing in the mud would stop their calls and scramble to greet him.
The butcher named Buck would humbly bend his burly frame, frantically wiping his greasy hands on his grimy apron, just for the chance to offer up his tenderest cut of loin and ask for a blessing.
The women would kneel devoutly