The sea had swallowed the cathedral three centuries ago. Somehow, the candles still burned.

Seraphine had long since stopped asking why.

She stood upon the great phoenix mosaic, its golden wings spread beneath her heels, and regarded the heart floating above her outstretched hand.

It was beating again.

A slow, stubborn rhythm that sent tiny vibrations through the goldwork encasing it.

“You're early,” she murmured.

The heart gave a particularly hard thump.

“Don't be difficult.”

Above her, pale blue jellyfish drifted between the cathedral's pillars. Their soft light played across her crimson hair and the jewelled crosses hanging from her gown. A small silver fish slipped through the empty eye socket of a marble saint.

Seraphine watched it go.

She remembered when this place had been full of people. The smell of incense. The arguments over seating. The old priest who snored during his own sermons.

Strange, the things one missed.

The heart beat again.

This time, she felt it in her chest.

Her expression changed.

“Oh,” she whispered.

For the first time in eighty-seven years, she recognised the rhythm.

She lowered her hand slightly, afraid that the smallest movement might frighten it away.

“Mother?”

The heart continued beating.

Somewhere among the pillars, a candle guttered. Seraphine stood perfectly still, surrounded by all the splendour of a drowned kingdom, listening to something she had believed herself too old to remember.

Then, very carefully, she smiled.

“You always did hate being late.”