March, 1872

The first mass of the day had long ended when the woman in the mourning veil entered the confessional. Standing at the back of the church, she should have been inconspicuous. Her saya was worn and her panuelo practically bare. The lack of an escort hinted that she was neither a woman of power nor wealth. Yet, despite her simplicity, the older women of the church sought to look at her obscured face. Her step was far too assured and her bearing far too noble for her to be a mere indio. Or maybe she was a liberated and therefore sinful woman who had begun to feel ashamed of her ways, which would explain why she had waited until all the other repentant sinners had finished reconciling with their God.

I know their speculations. They told me. The women of the church confided in me how they thought of her, despite that they do not know her. She knows how they think of her and eventhough she minds, she smiles in understanding. She told me once that they believe that it is their moral duty to speak of the ills of the people who enter the church.

I knew it was her the moment she spoke the requisite, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." Her voice is a soft and controlled the way I have always known it to be. And, for all her guardedness, I detected a catch in the tone she used.

"Isabelita," I greeted her with an unusual endearment. This did not lift her spirits. I was worried. I told her that she should have had me called to her abuelo's house if she needed to see me. It may be difficult to believe, but the most dangerous place for the two of us has always been the church.

She shook her head slowly. She told me we were treading dangerous waters if she had met me at her abuelo's home. I heard that peculiarity in her speech again and I urged her to remove her veil. She did so without complaint nor protest. She knew I was already suspicious. She knew that there was no point in hiding her tears.

How I wish I had seen it sooner, my beautiful Isabel in tears. With her eyes shining with sorrow and her expression bare and vulnerable, I had never seen her more exquisite.

I was speechless for a few long moments, watching her. And then, her words left me dumbstruck. "I am leaving, Danilo." She and her husband, Senor Eduardo were going to live in Madrid. That day, she came in only to say goodbye.

The church is a refuge for the repentant sinner, but for those who feel no remorse for their sins, it is a place for judgement. And as the old ladies scrutinized Isabel as she walked out of the church, I pondered repentance for what we had done.

Names of Characters

I put this here mainly because I know I will forget them.

1871
Maria Isabel Lopez (y Talusan) de Alonso
Fr. Danilo Calag
Eduardo Alonso (y Martinez)
Fr. Cirino
Don Miguel Lopez y Cedilla


2001
Anneliese Alonso
Jehosaphat "Tatu" Agcaoili
Tristan Sambilay

Introduction

Just too lazy to find a good beta, I guess. Instead of posting things directly to fanstory.com or fictionpress.net, I decided to publish here first to get feedback. A sort of testing the waters before jumping in with the sharks kind of thing. I'm also looking for some way to relieve myself of this accursed writer's block that I have.

Comments are always appreciated. Must you criticize, do it gently. My emotional stability is questionable these days.



This is not a historical piece. This is a squishy-mushy-gushy-wushy love story. Keep this in mind when you read.

Oh yeah, it's fiction, too.