The Sunday Roast

The Vanderbilt dining room was a study in cold perfection. The walls were a pale, icy blue, the chandelier was crystal, and the table was set with china that cost more than Cecilia’s birth mother had probably made in a year.

Rain lashed against the French windows, drowning out the polite clinking of silverware.

"Father Silas, we are so honored you could join us," Mrs. Vanderbilt said, flashing her polished, socialite smile. "It’s so rare to have a man of God at our table."

Father Silas sat across from Cecilia. He was wearing his cassock, the black fabric stark against the white tablecloth. He looked out of place, like a raven perched in a cage of canaries.

"The honor is mine, Mrs. Vanderbilt," Silas said. His eyes, dark and unblinking, were fixed on Cecilia. He didn't smile.

"Cecilia, sit up straight," Mrs. Vanderbilt snapped without looking at her daughter. "You’re slouching. It looks common."

Cecilia straightened her spine, gripping her fork. "Sorry, Mother."

"She can't help it, Mom," Lacey chimed in. Lacey was blonde, petite, and glowing with health. She looked like an angel. "It’s probably genetic. Bad posture runs in... well, you know."

Lacey giggled. It was a light, tinkling sound that made Cecilia want to scream.

"Lacey, be kind," Mr. Vanderbilt murmured, pouring wine. But he didn't look at Cecilia either. He never did. He looked through her.

Father Silas slowly set down his wine glass. The sound was deliberate, a heavy *thud* on the table.

"Genetics are fascinating," Silas said, his voice cutting through the dinner conversation like a scalpel. "For instance, greed often manifests in the jawline. Or deceit in the eyes."

He turned his gaze to Mrs. Vanderbilt. "I was looking through the parish records, Eleanor. Did you know that charity donations are public record? It seems the 'generous donation' you claimed to make for the orphanage renovation last year never arrived."

Mrs. Vanderbilt froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. "I... there must be a clerical error."

"And you, Lacey," Silas turned to the golden girl. "You speak of genetics. Is that why you were seen leaving the pharmacy three towns over last Tuesday? Buying tests that a 'good girl' shouldn't need?"

Lacey gasped, dropping her knife. It clattered loudly against the china. Her face drained of color.

"How dare you," Mr. Vanderbilt stood up, his face reddening. "This is my house. You cannot come in here and—"

"I am a priest," Silas said calmly. He didn't stand. He didn't raise his voice. He just radiated a terrifying, coiled power. "I hear everything. I see everything. And I see a family of vipers tormenting the only pure soul in this room."

He looked at Cecilia. For the first time all night, his expression softened. It wasn't kind, exactly—it was possessive.

"Cecilia is not 'common,'" Silas said. "She is burdened. Burdened by your vanity. Burdened by your lies."

"Get out," Mrs. Vanderbilt hissed, trembling. "Get out of my house."

Silas stood up. He loomed over the table, a dark tower of judgment.

"I will leave," Silas said. "But remember, God watches the wicked. And sometimes, He sends a wolf to deal with them."

He walked out of the dining room without looking back.

The silence he left behind was deafening. Lacey burst into tears and ran from the room. Mrs. Vanderbilt was shaking, clutching her pearls.

Cecilia sat frozen. A strange, cold fire was spreading through her chest. For nineteen years, she had been the punching bag. Today, for the first time, someone had hit back.

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