Page 113 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

She snorts. “How much time do you have?”

“Whatever you need.”

Take all the time in the world.

More plucking and scratching sounds. “I suppose that’s why I waited until last.”

Heat clenches low in my belly. “There is no one else in line?”

“Nope.” She pops the p. “I’m the lucky last.”

Cristo. I close my eyes to compose myself, but imagine her lips making that sound. The pop of the p. Glossy, wet…

I should lock the church door and⁠—

“You alright in there, Padre?”

“It’s Father,” I correct gruffly.

“Why?”

“Padre is for monks. You know this.”

“It’s also for priests.”

Wretched brat. She drives me crazy, but I want to help her. I need to stop thinking of myself. Need to remember why I wanted her so desperately in the first place. Even if there is no us, I am her priest. At least for one more night.

“You can talk about the past,” I suggest. “You don’t have to mention anything recent. I am here to listen.”

“And judge.”

“Not that. Not anymore.”

Rain pitter-patters on the church’s roof.

No sound comes from the nave, or anywhere else nearby. It’s late. I should be packing, sleeping, and preparing for a long journey and a mission with a stranger who feels familiar. I should be planning what to tell the Cardinal.

And yet, I would sit here until the world stopped turning so long as she needs me.

I will miss this the most, I think. Sitting here in the dark, I can simply exist beside her. I will miss how the hunger is still there, but also how it’s not. It doesn’t strangle me like it did moments before she arrived. But I know Mercy is not feeling the same way.

She plucks at something higher up and hidden beneath her coat, and I’m reminded of the same motion she did at the archives. She still wears the cilices.

“What’s the point?” Her voice is raspier than usual.

“To confession?”

“To confess sins that happened so long ago.”

Oh.

“Well…” I smooth the cassock over my legs, thinking on it. “Sometimes we carry sins because their weight is the only thing keeping us grounded. We let them sit in our gut like stones. But…”

I rest my head on the panel separating us.

“But?”

“But often we have sunk so deep that it’s too dark to see the surface, where another hand is responsible for casting the stone.” I tug my Roman collar, my words hitting a little too close to home. “Do you remember when I told you what exorcists learn at the seminary?”