It had taken half an hour of patient sitting before she had emerged from the bundle of blankets. Father Nigel had learned patience first of all on his road to becoming a priest, but it had taken enough to strain even his reserves to get her to come out all the same.

They both knew why she had been delaying it, feigning exhaustion and coming up with excuses. They both knew it was time for answers, answers that she had been hardwired to never give. He had helped her all he could, but to be able to help her more he needed to know more. Those secrets needed to come out.

She'd lit a small incense burner on her nightstand, claiming the smoke kept her calm. He'd seen her puff at odd little hand rolled cigarettes that smelled of the potpourri his secretary always had steeping at her desk. Normally he'd veto such things, but he had to remind himself that this was like letting a nervous parishioner drink a glass of wine instead of a different type of hand rolled cigarette that he'd been offered more than once during college ministry.

“Let's start with the basics. Explain why some people call you 'Three', but you insist that you don't have a name at all.” Nigel nudged his glasses up and stared at the curtained window, eye contact would probably make her even more nervous now.

She licked her lips and shifted uncomfortably. “It's an ironic joke. I don't remember a lot of the details, but it's my way of throwing my exile back in the face of... well.. whoever it was that relegated me to it. Three means I'm nothing, but I made it something. The title itself is like me calling you 'Father' I suppose. Your name isn't father, and you don't even have any biological children. Yet, that one word explains exactly who and what you are to the people who understand it.”

The priest nodded. “Which leads to the question as to why you never took a new name, or went by your old name once you left.”

“It was a matter of pride. I gave my name to someone else so they could live. Taking on one of my own seemed to cheapen it.” She shrugged. “Appropriate that I've forgotten what it ever was.”

Nigel folded his hands in his lap. “Is it hard to keep track of all the names people give you when you won't give yourself one?”

She almost smiled at that. “Not really. You'd be surprised at how many people balk when I tell them they can call me whatever they want.”

“What happens?”

The feline shifted again and winced hard. “Some come up with teasing names, things meant to mock me for not having one of my own, or to reflect their own frustration at my lack of one. Some people demand to the point of near violence that I give them something to call me. So to those people, I give them Three.” She moved again and the blanket fell away long enough to give Nigel a glance at a stained bandage wrapped around her chest.

Father Nigel nodded. “And everyone else?”

“Some people just call me 'Hey you', and some people come up with some interesting things. Like you, I still wonder where Clarion came from.”

He grinned. “Maybe I'll give that secret away when we're done. I'll probably owe you a secret when we finish.”

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Copic marker on a 4x6 postcard. The original is for sale for $25 if anyone wants it.