Despite his gentle charisma and the respect he commanded, Maurice remained humble and private, never once acknowledging how constantly the town leaned on him. His soft English accent carried with it not authority, but approachability, and his affable humor softened even the sternest town elders.
This blend of charm and humility lent him an aura uncommon in clerical circles—less like a spiritual superior and more like a trusted mentor or village sage. It was no surprise that townsfolk came to him for guidance on all manner of things, sacred and secular alike.
He wandered the Abbey grounds without a clear purpose, letting routine guide his steps. By the time midday approached, Father Maurice felt the weight of the day bearing down on him. The preparations for the 53rd edition of the Winter Lights Festival had only just begun, yet his energy was already waning—a testament to the sheer scale of coordination he now shouldered.
Unlike his early days in Corbeil-Essonnes, when he could fade into the calm of chapel rituals, today he was the fulcrum of an entire town’s celebration. And there were still days of chaos ahead. So many things needed to fall into place that the work already felt like more than one man should shoulder.
“You’d think after all these years I’d stop being surprised by the madness,” Maurice muttered to himself, half amused, half exasperated.
And as if he didn’t already have enough to juggle, the Archbishop of England’s office was due to call before the hour was out—a detail he should’ve remembered five minutes earlier.
He gathered his belongings and set off through the quiet, echoing hallways of the Abbey toward his private study, cutting through the main chapel as the quickest route, the familiar rhythm of festival chaos settling around him like an old coat.