The Golden Idol

Mercy sat in the dark for a long time.

Eventually, the silence became too loud. She needed to see. She needed to know.

She fumbled in her pockets. She found a single lucifer match.

Her hands shook so badly she almost dropped it. She struck it against the stone floor.

The flare of light was blinding.

Mercy blinked, tears streaming down her face.

The Tabernacle was a scene of horror. Everything was painted gold—the walls, the floor, the dead man.

Elias lay on the rug. His face, half-gilded, was peaceful now, despite the ruin of his skull. He looked like a broken icon cast down from an altar.

Mercy looked at herself. She was wearing the velvet gown. Her face was streaked with gold paint and blood.

She looked around. Gold. Everywhere. Millions of dollars. The vein in the wall glittered in the dying light of the match.

"I'm rich," Mercy whispered. Her voice cracked. "I'm the richest woman in the world."

The match burned down to her fingertips. She didn't drop it.

She looked at the iron doors, sealed by tons of rock. She looked at the empty oil lamps. She felt the air growing thin, the carbon dioxide pooling on the floor like invisible water.

She crawled over to Elias’s throne—a massive chair carved from rock and covered in gold leaf.

She climbed onto it. She sat tall. She adjusted the emerald necklace around her bruised throat.

If she was going to be a statue, she would be a beautiful one.

"This is what you wanted," she told the darkness.

The match flickered.

Mercy Vane closed her eyes. She imagined San Francisco. She imagined oysters and champagne. She imagined the sun.

The flame died.

Darkness reclaimed the Tabernacle.

Deep beneath the earth, surrounded by a fortune that could buy kingdoms, the Queen sat on her throne, filling her lungs with the heavy, golden air, and waited for the eternal silence to take her.