Jenkins wears a solid black, three-piece, wool suit today, with a flawlessly pressed white shirt and a solid black, silk bow tie. For his breast pocket he chooses a silk handkerchief with a black background covered with tiny gray polka dots. Dark suits aren't unusual for Jenkins, but the somber tie and pocket square tell Cassandra that something is up. Those are usually the most colorful parts of his wardrobe, and coordinating them is something he enjoys playing with every morning. Today he looks like he's attending a funeral.
Cassandra's worried about Jenkins. He's quiet and withdrawn all morning, even more so than usual, and he seems distracted; several times she's had to repeat herself when speaking to him. Whenever he speaks, his voice is stained with sadness, though he tries to hide it.
By lunchtime he's disappeared. Dinnertime comes and goes, and still no sign of him. She decides it's time for her to find out what's going on.
Three hours later Cassandra is no closer to finding the elusive immortal than she was when she started. She feels like she's been searching for days; she aches all over and she's starving. For all she knows he's back in the workroom right now, or puttering in his lab, while she wanders aimlessly through the dozens of hallways and rooms the Library contains. She might as well go back and wait for him.
Cassandra turns and starts back down the corridor when her nose catches a whiff of something. She stops and sniffs the air, making sure she actually smells something, and catches the scent again—rich, spicy, exotic. Incense?
She follows the sweet-smelling scent up the corridor. She turns a corner and halts abruptly in surprise. In front of her is a massive, iron-banded door of ancient oak. Cautiously she approaches it and discovers it's slightly ajar. The scent is strong here, obviously coming from within. She also hears the sound of a man crying. It can only be one person. Cassandra doesn't stop to think, simply grabs the door's cold, black handle and pulls it open.
Stepping inside, the Librarian is astonished to find herself in a chapel. It's small, with walls made of grey, uneven stone blocks. There are narrow windows of thick stained glass, each pane depicting the full-length figure of what Cassandra assumes are saints. In the front is a small stone altar against the wall, a primitive crucifix of antique Celtic origin hanging over it. A few feet in front of the altar is a dark oaken roodscreen dividing the altar space from the rest of the room. Throughout the chapel, scores of thin, beeswax tapers—more candles even than are in the Chamber of Memories—are burning, their honey scent mixing with the thread of aromatic smoke rising from a nearby thurible. The chapel is bare of furniture except for a single wooden prie-dieu in front of the roodscreen. That's where she finds Jenkins, kneeling, his face buried in his hands, a string of worn black rosary beads threaded through his long, pale fingers.
Deep, ragged sobs rack his entire body as he keens like a hungry ghost, as though his ancient soul is being mercilessly ripped from his very being.
The sound frightens Cassandra, she's never heard Jenkins cry before. She starts walking fearfully toward the weeping man, but stops after a few steps. She's afraid to speak, feeling she's intruding on something private and...sacred. She quickly turns around to leave.
"Don't go!" Jenkins chokes on the words as he lifts his head from his hands and turns to look at her. His eyes are red and watery, his cheeks glistening with tears.
Cassandra's torn between an irrational urge to flee, and pity for the grieving Caretaker.
He climbs stiffly to his feet, the prie-dieu creaking slightly beneath him, and holds his arms open. "Please?" he begs. Large tears slide down his weathered cheeks as he stoically tries to blink them away.
She can't possibly abandon him now. Rushing forward, Cassandra takes his face in her hands and gently pulls him to herself. "Come here, sweetheart," she said softly.
He leans into her arms, and the sobs return. His knees refuse to support his sorrow, and he slowly drops to the stone floor, dragging Cassandra down with him. The young Librarian wraps her arms tightly around the old Caretaker and holds him as they sit, whispers quiet reassurances into his tousled white hair. He encircles her slight body with his own long arms and hugs her back, burying his face in her long coppery locks, breathing deeply her calming scents of vanilla and apricot.
Cassandra begins to stroke the hair on the back of his head, and she hears a whimper catch in his throat. Unconsciously she begins to gently rock with him as she tries to soothe the miserable man. It's oppressive in the room, between the heat of the candles and the wool of his black suit. She feels his hot tears soak through the thin cotton of her blouse.
She lets him cry, continuing to rock him like an inconsolable child. She eventually breaks the embrace and holds him out so she can see him. Embarrassed, he can't look into her blue eyes. Moved with sympathy, she softly kisses his wet cheeks, then pulls the sleeve of her blouse over her hand and dries his tears with it. He glances up at her briefly, but can't maintain it.
She draws him to herself again, lays his head against her chest.
"Why are you crying, sweetheart?" she asks tenderly. "What's wrong? What is this place?"
Jenkins closes his eyes. He listens to the steady, calming rhythm of her heart and loses himself in it.
"Today is All Souls' Day," he murmurs quietly. "I come here every year to remember my loved ones, to honor them, to reflect, talk to them, pray for them, mourn their loss." He pulls away and indicates the candles.
"Each one represents someone I've lost in the last 1,500 years. Family, friends. This year I had to set out a new candle. For Charlene."
"Charlene!" the young woman sighs. "Oh! That's why you're so upset…" she begins, but he cuts her off with an explosive sound that is half-laugh, half-sob.
"No!" he manages to rasp hoarsely. "You misunderstand. The tears you see now aren't for Charlene, aren't for any of these—" He sweeps his arm around the room. He turns to look at her, his brown eyes dark with sorrow.
"These tears are for you, Cassandra," he whispers as he lays a trembling hand on her soft, smooth cheek.
"Because I know that one day, I will have to set a candle out for you, my beautiful, precious love—and that knowledge breaks my heart." He enfolds and clings to her, his powerful arms nearly crushing her, as if he can cheat Death of its prize forever if only he holds onto her tightly enough.
Cassandra has no response to such a confession, except to return his futile embrace with the same ferocious despair.