When you're alone you are someone else entirely; the presence of another soul twists your identity to extremes. So it was with Baron Crossridge, who upon realising he wasn't alone felt betrayed by his own sense that he was. It was a sizeable church, and a person with a small, subtle step could easily have a presence without making it known; but Djura resented it as soon as he was aware of it.

Of course, it was unfair that he should feel this way; and more so that the subtle other should suffer the consequences.

Especially as she transpired to be not so subtle, an inadvertent vandal as the bronze idol fell to the stone floor as a result of her jostle. The clatter echoed accusingly for seconds to come.

The solitary man looked at her for scarcely a moment; just enough to note a small, slight child (or young woman?) who reminded him vaguely of his maid's daughter back in Canterbury.

Cane tapping coldly on the floor as he did so, Djura stood and made his way across to the fallen Mother and Child, dipping to pick it up. He observed it. The Virgin Mary's nose had come clean off.