Somewhere in the seventy-two, there is an angel whose days are your days. This place will find it, keep your candles, and speak a little counsel each morning.
This shapes the voice of the app. You can change it any time.
One card each day, from the angels you have gathered. Tap the card to draw.
If you cannot get to a church tonight — if you are sick, or working, or far from one,
or not welcome in the one nearest you — this is here at every hour.
Light a candle. Say a decade. Sit at the back if that is all you can manage.
The doors do not close.
Your birth angel keeps your days; a second keeps your name. Weigh any name — yours, or someone you love.
Three triads of three, from the fire nearest the Throne down to the angels who walk beside us. The order is Dionysius the Areopagite’s; the eight Names in each choir follow the Kabbalists’ tables.
Your deck begins with seven. Witness each day's governing angel to gather the rest — all seventy-two, over a year of days.
Three steps: choose a deck, choose who reads it for you, then choose the shape of the question. The cards are drawn for you and read aloud on the page.
Tap a spread to draw. One reading a day passes the Veil; the Hearth reads without limit.
The climb is made in order. The first shore is open to all who arrive.
One hundred and five souls: the Seventy-Two of the Name, the Archangels, the keepers of the hours, the wardens of the Tree, and the Witnessed — kept as lore, history, and study.
The wooden bracelets sold outside every shrine carry a ring of little painted panels — one saint, one mystery, one intention to a bead. You turn it on your wrist and pray your way around. This is that bracelet. Tap a bead to take it up; add your own and it joins the ring.
Kept on this device only — nobody else sees it. It joins your ring and comes back to you as you turn it.
This nave is modelled on the Catedral Metropolitana de la Asunción de María in Mexico City — the oldest and largest cathedral in the Americas, begun in 1573 and not finished until 1813: two hundred and forty years, fifteen generations of masons, none of whom saw both ends of the work. It was raised on the ruins of the Templo Mayor, partly out of its stones, and it has been sinking into the drained lakebed ever since — the floor still runs downhill toward the west door.
Behind the high altar stands the Altar de los Reyes, the Altar of the Kings — a cliff of gilded churrigueresque carving that took Jerónimo de Balbás nineteen years. Nearby hangs the Señor del Veneno, the black Christ, dark (the story says) from drawing poison out of a man who kissed his feet.
If you cannot get to a church tonight — if you are sick, or working, or far from one, or not welcome in the one nearest you — this is here at every hour. Light a candle. Say a decade. Sit at the back if that is all you can manage. The doors do not close.
Six views of the building. It is worth looking up.






In a real church you put a coin in the box, take a candle, light it from another that is already burning, and set it in the rack. It goes on burning after you leave — that is the whole of the idea. These do the same: each one burns for days, and it keeps burning whether the app is open or not.
In every old church there is a side chapel where the photographs are: small frames, curling at the corners, propped against the candle rack. Bring someone here. Their picture stays on this device — it is never uploaded, never sent anywhere, and only you will ever see it. The Hearth will keep them in its prayer.
The great angel-pages of Scripture, kept open. Tap “read aloud” and the Hearth will speak them.
Books the councils left outside — kept here as history and testimony of what people believed and wondered, told as lore, not taught as doctrine.
The angel of secrets, keeper of the Book given to Adam. Counsel and lore — one question each day; the Hearth asks without limit.
Membership opens the Full Tellings, the locked heavens, the whole deck, and Raziel without limit.
For entertainment, comfort, and historical study. Not a substitute for professional advice of any kind.
How the angels speak to you.
The fire is one fire. It burns in other houses too.
Celtic Hearth · the old green world
Aethel · the mother temple
Veil · instruments for the unseen
Your own side-chapel. What is lit and left here is yours alone — kept on this device, shown to no one.
The oldest habit of the tradition: a word with your guardian, morning and night.
Light a candle with an intention. It burns for seven real days; return and re-light it to keep the flame.
Lit for someone. A name beneath a flame that never burns out. A remembrance that belongs to you alone.
Leave a prayer at the altar. It rises with the others each time you return.
Written by use: what you have witnessed, asked, lit, and climbed. Your own Book of Raziel.
Five questions. At the end, one of the nine choirs claims you.