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His mouth tightened once more. “We will leave you to your prayers.”

“I will pray for the woman you are looking for.”

The young one made the sign of the cross again.

The tall one held my gaze for one long moment before turning away.

They walked back down the nave, their footsteps echoing beneath the high, damp ceiling. None of them spoke. The rain grew louder as they opened the doors. Wind swept in, making the sanctuary lamp flicker wildly.

Then they were outside. The doors closed behind them. I listened to their footsteps on the stone outside. Three car doors slammed. The engine idled. Still, I waited. A minute. Two.

After the car pulled away, I crossed to the nearest window and stood just out of sight, watching their headlights slide across the wet road. They paused at the corner, watching the church.

I remained still until the red glow of their taillights vanished beyond the bend. Only then did I breathe. The breath hurt. I looked down at my hand. The candle snuffer was still there. My knuckles were white around the handle. I set it down carefully, as though I could still do something foolish with it. Then I moved.

The confessional curtain opened with a soft scrape. The strange woman was slumped against the wall, her head tipped sideways, her dark hair stuck to her cheek with blood and rain. In the dim red light, the bruises on her throat looked almost black. “Signorina.”

There was no response.

I knelt in front of her and pressed two fingers beneath her jaw. Her pulse fluttered against my skin. It came fast but fragile. She was still alive.

“Can you hear me?”

There was no response.

I checked her pupils as best I could in the poor light. One eye was swollen almost shut, but she reacted faintly when I lifted her lid. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, and far too quick.

Shock. Perhaps concussion. Blood loss. Exposure. A fear that had pushed her body beyond its limits.

I looked toward the church doors.

The Coccicos would not go far. Not if they had tracked her here. The young one had seen the smear near the pew. Shame had driven them out, but suspicion would bring them back. And when they returned, they would not ask politely.

I slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her from the booth. Her head fell against my chest.

For years, that strip of white at my throat had been a wall. Between past and present. Between sin and service. Between the man I had been and the man I had made myself become. Her blood crossed it without effort.

I carried her toward the side door, away from the nave, away from the saints with their peeling eyes and silent judgment.

At the threshold, I stopped. I looked down at the woman in my arms. She was a stranger. A life placed in my hands without my consent. I should have called the police or my bishop. I should have done any number of clean, lawful, holy things.

Instead, I carried her into the night through the side passage, locked the church behind me, and went to the one place I knew she would be safe.

5

DEMITRI

The woman lay across the back seat of my car, wrapped in the old wool blanket I kept in the trunk for winter visits to the sick. Her blood had already seeped through the fabric in dark patches. Every few seconds, I glanced at her through the rear-view mirror, watching for movement. For proof that I had not carried a dead woman out of my church.

Her chest rose. Fell. Rose again. But it wasn’t enough.

Rain lashed the glass. The wipers scraped across the windshield with a dull, frantic rhythm. The road curved between cypress trees and low stone walls, silver and black beneath the headlights. Beyond them, the countryside stretched quiet and indifferent to the night I was having.

I took the bend too sharply, causing the tyres to slide. I corrected without thinking, one hand steady on the wheel, the other braced against the gear stick. The old instincts were still there, I realized, even after all this time.

In the back seat, the woman made a small sound. I looked up at the mirror. Her head had rolled toward the window. I tightened my grip on the wheel until the leather complained beneath my palm.

Santa Caterina sat on the hill beyond town, older than the road that led to it and less welcoming than most people expected a convent to be. It had been built from pale stone that had darkened with age and weather, its walls high, its windows narrow, its iron gate crowned with rust and thorns of climbing roses. In spring, the roses made the place look soft. At night, in the rain, it looked more like a fortress that had once been considered beautiful and now merely survived.