The corridor of the Holy Seat Mansion was engulfed in an almost solid silence.
At eight-thirty, this time was usually filled with the sounds of papers shuffling, the brisk footsteps of administrative monks, and the intermittent reporting between various departments.
But this morning, these sounds seemed to have been severed by an invisible hand.
On the third floor, Abel from the Privy Scriptorium held the attendance book, scratching his nearly bald head in confusion.
At eight-thirty, monks should have been arriving one after another, the busiest time, yet at this moment, the workstations were empty.
He looked across diagonally at the Holy Machinery Court office, which was even more exaggerated.
All three desks were empty, and even the coffee pot, usually steaming, was cold.
"Where's Ryan? He said yesterday he would submit the peat allocation plan today." The young monk at the next table murmured.
Abel's Adam's apple moved, but he didn't dare to respond.
