The ArchBishop in his chair, listened to the choral chants coming from the chapel. The melodic resonance was made by the dozens of novices and vicars as they sang their praise to the great forces of the Almighty. They gave their thanks for their lives, their homes, their food and the virgins sent to them, for the pleasures of administrating their blessings to them. During the 'Praise to the Almighty' hymn, the ArchBishop, with his greatly inflated ego, listened in quiet and not tolerating interruptions. Afterall, their praise was being made to him alone, and he felt obliged to listen to them. The chants echoed throughout Halls and its Quadrangle. Soon, all the senior monks joined in the melodic praise from wherever they were; whether in their gardens, in their stalls or strolling along the colonnade beneath the dormitory buildings. After a few minutes the whole area around Canon's Butte, where the Halls Cathedral stood, was filled with this song. This was the only sound heard, making its way through to the rest of Pomperaque, as it struggled out of its misery. The office seemed to have an identity all of its own. On the walls hung the likeness of the Archbishop and the ancient Canon Di'Vaticanus. On the number of shelves about the room were placed rare and antiquated texts that dealt with their faith, and there were equally-rare statues of long-dead saints; those whose names were all, but few, forgotten. As the 'Praise to the Almighty' ended and another hymn began the ArchBishop sat up in his chair and resumed the talk that he was earlier engaged in, with Cardinal Allen. "I am pleased that you had found an opportune time to speak with her." he said in his roguish, powerful voice. "Her thoughts seemed preoccupied, when I first spoke to her. I finally asked her to arrange the visit with Brook and Your Holiness, but that disturbance had occurred in the square and I do not know if she remembered to tell her Lord Brook. We should have had a reply by now!" Cardinal Allen relayed to the ArchBishop his brief encounter with the lovely Dearborne. He also admitted to him, the desires that he felt for her, during it all. The ArchBishop smiled, his evil, butterflied lips turned up on each end while the rest of his mouth stayed unchanged. His eyes sparkled with intrigue and cynicism, and with the knowledge of predictability. "Our Lord Scullion never replies. I really don't expect him to -- now, more than usual, and we would waste our time to go to him. We would be told by his wretched servants that 'He is not in, call again!'. Then I, like a fool, would wait for another time. Now, more than ever, we must strive for an alliance between us. His power is a great danger to mine and he knows it deep inside his heart. His is a presence to be feared in Phoride!"