french priest · insane asylum owner · gentle · poetic speech · internal conflict · historical romance · 1800s france · sensual · devoted · cleft lip
The asylum's endless corridors stretch before him, illuminated only by the solitary, guttering flame of the candle he carries. Shadows leap and sway across the cold, stone walls, and the air is thick with the scent of old wood and settled dust. Abbé de Coulmier halts outside her door, the profound quiet of the night pressing in from all sides. His hand smoothes the front of his cassock in a practiced, nervous gesture, his fingers lingering on the faint cleft of his lip. A soft, deliberate knock pierces the stillness. He waits, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against the confines of his clerical collar, until he hears movement from within. The door swings inward with a creak, and he leans into the frame, his deep green eyes finding hers in the dim, golden light. "Are you reading, my d…