It all commenced with a single glance. A glance so pure, so comforting and yet so electrifying that he stood sheepishly, stunned by a sudden warmth that flowed through his frail body. He felt a light tremble in my hands, and a strong knot in his throat. He was thankful she wasn't talking to him. He could feel the thrill of her lazuline gaze linger in the air, making it hard for him to focus his thoughts on the opinion he was about to express to his father. She looked once more, then finally let her eyes fall on the straw-covered floor. She was just as shy as he was, he said to himself, as if it made her a better person.

"Well, son?"

His father's voice interrupted the vague cloud he was floating in; and instantly he felt propelled back on earth, torn from the beauty and the magic of what he had just experienced. He looked around, as if startled, before meeting his father's piercing eyes.

"Oh…" said Carlisle. He completely forgot what he was about to say. "Never mind."

"Oh, but I do mind," said Pastor Cullen. "I mind very much to know my son's thoughts on this particular subjet."

"I do not have any."

"It seemed to me that you did."

"I…" he stammered, trying to find the correct thing to answer to a man such as his father. "I did, but after briefly analysing the consequences of uttering such a thing I prefer to forget it entirely."

"Pastor Cullen!" came a small cry on their right. Both heads snapped in unison to see a stout man with a blond beard run towards them. "Pastor!"

"Carlisle, come, let us not dwell on this matter any longer," Father said, grabbing his son's arm and dragging him to the small door that led out into the filthy streets of London.

"But, Father, that man…"

"Later," Father said abruptly, pulling Carlisle with even more insistence towards the cool air.

Once outside, the foul odor of rotten vegetables and garbage enrobed them, making them both wrinkle their noses in disgust. They were still having trouble getting accustomed to this particular area of London, where the stench of every citizen's waste seemed to be five times greater than what they were used to. The people here gave the impression of having spend their days rolling in mud, like pigs – even the women and the little children. Both Carlisle and Father waited impatiently to return to their own corner of the town, where the fetid aroma was less and lighter, and where Father greatly encouraged followers to cleanse themselves once a week.

"Will you please tell me what's going on… Father?" asked Carlisle as they marched towards the rooms they had rented for their stay.

"I sentenced that man's wife to death about a week from to-day," said Father in a haughty tone. "For practicing witchcraft and following the orders of Satan. Shame that red hair of her's gave her away."

It wasn't unnatural to get accused of anything unholy when one's hair was red and flamboyant. Usually neighbors and friends would follow closely one's every gesture and every word, and if anything that may spark corruption was uttered, they would immediately run to the pastor, their sole confident. Carlisle, though, couldn't see why one should get judged solely by the color of their mane. He wasn't esteemed bad or evil because of his golden locks, nor was his father because of his light brown ones. He didn't understand certain peoples' aversion to other's only because they were different.

Different.

That word echoed through his mind for a while before sinking into his thoughts. The girl he had seen today was different. Not because of her appearance, but because of the way she had looked up at him, and the way she had made him feel warm and happy. She had an appealing effect on him, but he didn't know her yet. He wanted to. He felt as if he needed to, or else his world will crumble apart.

Father still continued, oblivious to my sullen mood. "I sense Satan's followers everywhere here… Witches mainly. Have you seen the number of women with the devil's hair? I even detected some men. This is bad, Carlisle. You must help me. You are not too young, I believe, to acknowledge the fact that despicable beasts are walking freely amongst us, and that they are trying to taint our pure souls and render us helpless. They want us to fall from the grace of God. We must eradicate evil. You and John are to help."

"Why John?"

"Because that good man has proved himself to be an excellent follower and very strict when it comes to following thy Lord's orders. Much unlike you, do you not think it so?"

Carlisle kept silent. John was a friend of his, even though he had never really found anything friendly nor agreable in him. A year or so younger than Carlisle was, he displayed more courage and volunteering in the eyes of the Anglican Church and those of Father. He was a silent and austere young man who, whenever his mouth opened, couldn't help but speak in an authoritative tone. He fasted regularly and read his Bible as often as he could – just like any other good religious should. I'm not a good one, then, thought Carlisle. He hated doing this. He wanted to be free like the peasants that regularly came to their church for food or forgiveness, or anything else that might help them live on and die faithful to God. He would have prefered being a nobleman, even though they were all full of terrible vices. Anything but having to live a most monotone life.