Rev. John Fenwick Kitto knelt in the dim chapel, hands pressed together. His knees ached against the cold stone floor. He prayed for Lord Ashworth's soul. The wealthy patron funded the church, but his heart remained empty. Kitto had tried sermons, scripture, and gentle words. Nothing reached the man. He stood and walked to the altar. The polished chalice gleamed in the candlelight. The white cloth beneath it was spotless. St. Mary's Church depended on Ashworth's money for everything. The roof repairs, the candles, even the coal for winter. But Kitto wanted more than coins. He wanted to save the man's soul before it was too late. A letter had arrived that morning. Lord Ashworth was sick at his country estate. He refused to see doctors or priests. Kitto made his choice. He would go to him. Outside, he found a wagon and grey horse waiting in the courtyard. He loaded bread, wine, and his prayer book into the back. The journey would take most of the day. Lord Ashworth might turn him away at the door. But Kitto had to try. Some souls were worth the roughest roads.

The wagon rattled over rutted country roads. Kitto gripped the reins and squinted at the grey horizon. Cold wind bit at his cheeks. He had never traveled this far from Whitechapel before. The city's smoke and noise had faded hours ago. Now only empty fields stretched on both sides. He needed to learn these roads if he wanted to reach lost souls outside the parish. The estate gates appeared at sunset. Iron bars twisted into crosses and lilies. Beyond them, a stone manor rose from manicured grounds. Kitto drove the wagon up the gravel path. His heart hammered. He had prepared sermons and prayers, but Lord Ashworth might refuse him at the door. The wheels crunched to a stop near the entrance. A servant led him through marble halls to a private chapel. Gothic carvings covered every surface of the confessional that stood at the center. Dark wood panels reached toward vaulted ceilings. Red votive candles flickered in their rack near the doorway, casting shadows that danced across the floor. Kitto waited. His breath formed clouds in the cold air. Then he heard footsteps. Lord Ashworth emerged from behind the confessional, pale and thin. The man looked at him with hollow eyes. They walked outside to the gardens. A pond bordered by smooth stones reflected the last light of day. Flowers lined its edges in deep reds and purples. Kitto dipped his hand into the water. It was cold and clean. He spoke about baptism, about washing away the past. Lord Ashworth knelt at the water's edge. His shoulders shook. Kitto placed his hand on the man's head and prayed. The first step was taken. The soul he came to save had finally opened its door.