“This is where the ritual must be executed,” Chance said as they entered the Sanctuary. The altar was draped in white cloths and on top of it were a vase of flowers and two candleholders with unlit candles—Fiona couldn’t help remembering Chance saying that unlit candles avoided moths, yet here the four of them were—and in the center of the altar was a thick white candle, capped with a brass crown through which the wick burned brightly. Fiona looked at it. In Sunday school, they always called it the Everlasting Light. After their long spell in the dark, its brightness cut at their eyes.
“Kinda hurts,” Strep said.
“It should,” Chance answered. “It’s His pain.” He leaned the bag against the back of the altar. “It’s why we’re here."