THE LAST OF THE BAUBLES WERE BEING HUNG ON THE TREE, WHEN THE DOORBELL RANG.
The night had long since fallen, and with that, a surprising electrical outage. The power had cut throughout the convent when the clock had struck had three, earlier that day, and had yet to come back. As darkness fell, the sisters were forced to light their candles and say prayers that God saw fit to return the electricity before morning broke. Or else, breakfast would be rather simple and without cooked food.
Sister Bridget and Sister Augustus were charged with decorating the convent with appropriate Christmas decor, after much begging from the two - who were younger than all else, a tree was allowed. Sister Carla was in charge of the convent, and did not like to bend to the commercialisation of Christmas. In her eyes, it was a celebration of Christ and nothing more.
When the doorbell had rang, the clock had just struck eight. It was rather unusual, and completely forbidden, for guests to be permitted so late. With that in mind, the two dropped the tinsel back into the box and shared a glance.
In the end, it was Sister Carla who headed to the door, prepared to give Hell to whoever dared to disrupt the sisters at such a late hour, knowing they slept at nine. But alas, when she opened the door, no one was there.
Frustrated, the elderly woman leaned forward with her flashlight and shone it around the dark front yard, prepared to meet the eyes of a mischievous teenager, but found nothing. Stepping back and prepared to close the door, a soft cry interrupted her actions.
Looking down this time, instead of around, Sister Carla saw the real reason the bell was rang, heartbreakingly so. Without delay, she reached down to pluck the newborn off of the step, tutting at the recklessness people held. The night was freezing, had the child been left longer she would surely have frozen to death.
"How could anyone do such a thing?" She complained as she shut the door, keeping the warmth inside and clutching the child in her arms.
"What is it, Sister?" One asked curiously, stepping forward to catch a peak, reeling at the sight of the baby.
"No doubt a precarious teenager who is too afraid of their parents to own up to their mistakes," she ranted, tightening the blankets around her. Without doubt, the baby was adorable. As beautiful as a baby could be at that age. Her skin held a glowing shine to it, as if she were kissed on the head by God himself.
Her skin was dark, with large brown eyes that stared peacefully off at nothing in particular.
The convent no longer held a children's wing after ethical issues arose about their punishments in the 1990s, but there were still beds and cots left over. The night was too late to figure out the girl's fate at this hour.
It wasn't long before she was settled into a crib, with prayers being said for her safety and wellness, and redemption for the souls of those who abandoned her.
As the sisters slept soundly in bed that night, so did the baby. Who hadn't cried since being discovered, they recognised. Truly an angelic child.
Across the town, it was quite a similar scenario for one Constance Langdon. Although her grandchild slept soundly, she didn't stray from the side of his crib once. He was only a few hours old, and the first few hours were most crucial. She wanted the babe to bond with her, to see her as a motherly figure. For he was her chance at redemption- the beautiful boy with the milky skin and golden hair.
It was decided the girl would be raised by the nuns, as her parents so obviously wanted her to be; with Sister Carla as her legal guardian. Just so, the baby was given Carla's surname - Cromwell, and Christened with the first name 'Molly'.
As the years passed, the nuns doted upon her often. Rarely did they punish her, for she rarely gave them reasons to. She was the epitome of a child kissed by God, with her ever-increasing beauty and kind heart.
The only taint on the child was her terrible nightmares. Late into the night, Molly would scream at the top of her lungs over the horrifying images she would see, too frightened to confide in the sisters over what she saw. Plaguing her mind were visions of suffering, starving children and innocents murdered.
At the ripe age of five, Molly didn't understand what it was she was seeing, nor the significance of it. It was only as she grew, did she realise that it was God speaking with her, showing her the horrible afflictions of the world. Motivating her.
But as she developed, it wasn't just her looks and knowledge that grew. A power deep within, strong gifts that could only have been God-given started to manifest.
The second Sister Carla had saw it, she was quick to cast the girl out.
They had been attending a funeral mass at the time, when Molly was only six. They felt it was important the child should know from an early age the importance of death and life, and how easily it could be ripped away.
Therefore, before the mass could begin, the sisters and Molly were tasked with tidying and setting up the altar with flowers. Sister Augusta kept a watchful eye over the girl, so it was her who first noticed when she wandered off towards the coffin.
Usually, she would have rushed briskly over and led her by the hand away from the open casket, but the girl approached it in such a calm and dignified way, she was transfixed into watching the scene unfold.
Having knowledge they weren't aware of, innocent little Molly Cromwell reached her hand into the casket and gently grasped the corpse's hand.
The action was enough to snap Augusta out of her daze, placing the wreath of lilies down to head toward Molly. But the incident that would occur next would make her stop again, with a scream this time.
For the second Molly lifted her hand away, the man - who was very much dead moments before, shot up in the coffin with a gasp.
Her screams caught the attention of the rest of the nuns, who whipped around and erupted into shouts of horror. Protectively, Carla grabbed Molly's shoulders to drag her away.
"It was her! The girl brought him back!" Augusta announced, her hands covering her mouth as her eyes filled with tears. The scene may have been astounding, but it was also absolutely frightening.
"Get a hold of yourself, sister," Carla shook her head, hiding the now-quivering child behind her, who was frightened by their reactions. "She's just a child!"
"Molly reached her hand into the coffin and woke him up! She toyed with dark magic!" Augusta was practically hysterical, backing away further and further.
"It's true! I saw her beside the coffin just before!" Another nun added, leading Sister Carla to appear as if she swallowed a bug. The ageing woman whipped around and backed away from the sobbing girl, eyes fiery and full of concern for their well-being.
The sisters came closer together, scurrying as far from Molly as they could, not at all phased by her wailing. Anxiously, they murmured to each other.
"A witch! She has to be!"
"She is no child of God!"
"Sister Carla, she cannot stay!"
And stay, she did not.
Sister Bridget decided not to wear her habit on her trip, so as not to draw suspicion. Although she did cover Molly's curly hair with the hood of her coat, just in case.
"Where are we going, Sister?" Molly whimpered in fright from the passenger seat, her cheeks still damp from crying. She was positively confused about the entire situation, and what she had done wrong.
"We are going to someone who will take care of you," Bridget replied sweetly, full of pity. The girl wouldn't be staying with them, that was sure, but she worried for what would be done to her now if she stayed under Sister Carla's authority.
"I'm coming home?" She asked, voice raspy from wailing.
"No, sweetie," she admitted, reaching over with her free hand and squeezing her fingers softly.
They pulled up in front of the vast white mansion after a two hour drive, just as afternoon hit. Bridget unbuckled her belt and headed outside, rounding the car and opening the passenger door, gesturing for the child to follow her. She took her small hand in hers, leading her hurriedly to the front door.
Witchcraft was wholly banned from the Catholic church after Cordelia Goode unveiled the society. Many Catholics chose not to believe in it, but one thing was for sure - those who practiced witchcraft were believed to be Satan worshippers, in the eyes of Christians. Therefore, they were excommunicated.
Bridget didn't hold a hatred of them as much as her fellow sisters did, although she never had a reason to toggle with them. Until now.
A blonde haired man opened the door, an eyebrow cocked in surprise.
"Hello," he began, full of suspicion as his eyes trailed down to the small girl. "Can I help you?"
"We're here to see Cordelia Goode," Bridget replied.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"N-no, but it's urgent... please..." she begged, "I'm risking everything by coming here."
"Let them through, Kyle," a cool-toned voice sounded from behind him, forcing the man to step back and reveal a blonde woman on the stairs, waiting patiently. "I happen to be free right now."
They were immediately led into a dining room, Cordelia eying the two curiously the entire way until they all sat around the table, Bridget anxiously wringing her hands.
"We need your help, Ms Goode," she started, sighing as she nodded towards Molly, "she needs your help."
"What can I do for her?" Delia smiled encouragingly at the child, waving gently in hopes of calming her. It worked, the girl sensing there was no danger here and allowing her lips to lift in a smile.
"I... I believe she's a witch," Bridget continued. "She was abandoned at our convent door step as a baby, and this morning... she brought a man back to life."
Delia's eyebrows raised in near amusement, leaning back in her chair.
"She is rather young to be demonstrating powers at all, never mind one as strong as necromancy. A witch's power manifests during puberty."
"Do you have a way of telling? Because if she isn't a witch, I don't want to think she is what the other nuns are calling her," she gushed, elaborating when Cordelia waited for an explanation, "...the Antichrist."
The blonde inhaled sharply, all of her psychic powers telling her that there was nothing inherently evil about the child who was tracing patterns in the wood with her index finger.
"What's her name?" Cordelia asked, standing up after composing herself and rounding the table to reach the girl.
"Molly."
"Molly," Delia called, gaining her attention. "Can I see your hand, pretty please?"
The girl immediately obeyed, holding her palm towards her. Cordelia placed her much larger hand over hers, eyes snapping shut as a vision flooded her mind.
Images of the girl's life flashed, but what was most overwhelming was the calming sense that rushed her body. Whoever this girl was, she was the purest spirit Cordelia had ever met. Her aura was warm, and simply divine-like.
She saw then the scene from the morning before, and sure enough, she had exercised her power of necromancy and resurrected a man who was dead for at least three days.
But as innocent as she was, power so great demanded to be investigated and controlled.
"I think you did a good thing by bringing her here," Cordelia dropped her hand, and turned to Bridget.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
Hello everyone!
I'm absolutely obsessed with Michael Langdon, and I felt it was about right I write a fic about him to give me a Langdon fix before the season ends and he leaves our screens.
This was just a prologue, he will be appearing shortly. And in case anyone wondered about their births, they are NOT related. Molly was born as the answer to the birth of the antichrist, so the more Michael grows in age and power - so will she.
I hope everyone enjoys the book!