“Hey,”Rory said. “Watch your mouth.”
Arthur glanced up from his foot, one eyebrow up. “You can’t actually care if I swear in a—”
Rory narrowed his eyes.
“Oh.” Arthur blinked. “You do.”
Rory’s jaw tightened. “I said church was complicated. Not the same as saying I don’t believe.”
It sounded ridiculous as he said it and he tensed, ready to be teased.
But Arthur only shrugged. “Fair enough.” His touch was gentle as he swapped the scarf for a real bandage around Rory’s ankle. “Far be it from me to disparage a man’s faith.”
Rory furrowed his brow. “What, you don’t go to church?” he said, feeling stupid to have to ask. He ought to know something like this about Arthur.
Arthur smiled thinly as he secured the bandage. “Of course I do. Attendance is required for all members of any upstanding politician’s family. Whether anyone in our family actually believes, well. I wouldn’t place bets on it.”
For a moment, Rory wasn’t seeing the tiny monastery guest room but Harry Kenzie’s mansion, the endless rooms and grounds, the heirlooms and the priceless art. The world of a politician’s family, where keeping up appearances mattered. Rory swallowed.
Arthur looked up. “Are you all right? You’ve gone a bit paler and—oh.” Self-recrimination suddenly crossed his face. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about your faith.”
Rory blinked, confused. “You don’t gotta be sorry. Believing doesn’t make someone a good person, it’s actions that count.”
But Arthur just shook his head. “I didn’t think about what you and I staying here together was asking of you,” he said, which didn’t explain anything. “But you need the rest, so come on, let’s get you into this bed.”
Together they managed to strip off most of Rory’s still-damp clothes, which Arthur laid around the room to dry best they could in the cold air. Rory put his glasses up on the little wooden shelf with the candles and cross as Arthur arranged the second pillow under his ankle and the extra blankets on top, even spreading the raccoon coat over Rory.
The wind howled outside as Arthur blew out the candles but one, sending the room into near-darkness. Rory settled himself on the edge of the bed, nose nearly against the wall. He was so anxious his chest hurt, but he took a deep breath.There’s nothing in this room you’re gonna scry and get stuck in, he told himself.And you got Ace.
The thought was enough to settle the worst of his nerves again, and he closed his eyes.
A moment later, there was a scrape of wood against wood.
His eyes popped open. “What’re you doing?” He rolled partway onto his back, enough to glance over his shoulder. There was only fuzzy darkness beyond the candle, maybe a silhouette against the soft white glow at the window. “Did you just sit in the desk chair?”
“I can doze upright,” came Arthur’s voice from the desk. “You’re injured, you need the bed.”
“But I thought we were gonna share.”
“No, I apologize, that was thoughtless of me.”
Rory frowned. “Why would I make you sleep in a chair?”
“You’re Catholic.”
Rory scrunched his nose.
“You’re notnotCatholic,” Arthur corrected, which was fair. “And I’m your first—well.” There was a soft exhale. “I’ve had years to come to terms with liking men, despite what religion says it means for my soul. But this is all new to you, and I shouldn’t have made assumptions about your religion or your feelings. I certainly shouldn’t have thought we’d share a bed in a monastery, even just to sleep.”
Oh.
Rory looked up at the ceiling. The monastery was still, nothing to hear but the soft howl of the wind outside the window. His emotions were a stormy mess, but one phrase kept coming up from his memories, stronger than everything else.“Tu non sei il frutto del peccato, ma il mio tesoro.”
Arthur seemed to still. He stayed quiet, probably waiting for Rory to translate.
Rory bit his lip and tried to explain. “We went to church when I was little, my mom and I,” he started awkwardly, keeping his voice low. “Mostly with Irish folks and some French Canadians, ’cause there weren’t enough Italians in town for our own. The priest was one of those real people of faith, like Mrs. B., nothing but love in his heart for everyone. Then he died, and our church got a new priest.”
Rory licked his lips nervously. “It was pretty obvious that my dad wasn’t Italian and hadn’t married my mom. And the first day we met the new priest, he quoted the Book of Wisdom at me and said a bastard had no hope on Judgment Day.”
