Chapter Text
Maggie had never seen a picture of the woman. Of course she hadn’t; why would Matthew bother with such a thing? Perhaps one had been on display at the memorial service Father Lantom conducted a year ago, but Maggie hadn’t been in attendance. It had been the holiday season, and she’d been busy elsewhere. Always so busy. The day this city ran out of people who needed help would be the day it crumbled into dust.
But after God had dumped the devil in her lap, and Paul, when pressed, had lent context to the things Matthew muttered in his delirium, there can be no doubt in Maggie’s mind as to whom she’s facing now. Who else could it be, standing silently in the center of the church laundry room on a cold, cold morning, before dawn even cracked the sky?
“Elektra, is it?”
The woman nods, glossy hair spilling over the blood-red lapels of her elegantly tailored black coat. “Sister.”
“Early Mass is upstairs in the sanctuary,” Maggie offers, just to see what reaction she’ll receive.
“Hm. Some other time. I have plans today.” Elektra’s gaze sweeps around the room. If Maggie were a betting woman, which of course she isn’t, she’d say that Elektra had been here before, and already acquainted herself with every trace of Matthew still remaining after his convalescence. “I’m asking Matthew to marry me.”
“Ah. I see.” She takes a breath. “Are you here to enquire as to when the church might be free? Sister Catherine is in charge of the calendar. I’m afraid office hours haven’t begun just yet.”
Her lips quirk. Maggie thinks she’s genuinely amused. “No.”
“But you do intend on a church wedding,” Maggie says sharply, and knows it doesn’t sound as if she’s simply concerned for the spiritual welfare of a member of the flock. Her far more human concern is bleeding through.
“Of course. Matthew will want one. And I,” Elektra lifts her chin, “I would pledge myself to him anywhere.”
Oh. Oh. She knew her son ran hot, had fire straight down to his core, but now she knows this girl is every bit his equal in fire and flame. That wasn’t just a sentence; it was a lightning strike. Steadily, Maggie says, “Matthew has never needed my permission for anything.”
“I know. But he craves approval.”
It’s both the truth and a subtle, well-placed blow. But Maggie happens to know a little bit herself about taking punches, and she lets out a deliberate breath while allowing her eyes to sweep Elektra from head to toe.
This is what she knows: this woman left, yes, but came back again and again; by all reports, even death could not keep her away. That was a woman Matthew needed. That was a woman he deserved.
“He’ll have mine,” Maggie says. As a token of faith, she smiles. “I look forward to congratulating him tonight, after Midnight Mass.”
An answering smile graces Elektra’s lips. “Thank you, Sister. We’ll see each other soon, I’m sure,” she says, then leaves swiftly and silently, like the beautiful ghost she is.
Turning back to her laundry - busy, busy, always busy - Maggie lifts her eyes heavenward. “You’ve given me a devil and a ghost,” she says. “What on earth will my grandchildren be?”