The words echo in my head, overlapping, rearranging themselves in ways that oppose a few of these passages. Something about them doesn’t align with what I remember from Grand Minister Judiah’s private texts. It’s subtle. A difference in tone. In intent. Like two versions of the same truth told by different mouths.
I rise quietly and grab my notebook.
From the small wooden box beneath my bed, I retrieve a bobby pin and straighten it between my fingers. Then I slide on my slippers and draw my robe close around me.
The halls are empty at this hour. Wall sconces burn low, their flames casting warped shadows along the corridors. Crucifixes hang at regular intervals, Christ’s suffering etched in wood and bronze, and His gaze feels as if it follows me as I pass.
Every footstep feels louder than it should, though I work to remain as quiet as possible.
When I reach Judiah’s door again, I pause.
“Grand Minister Judiah,” I whisper as I knock softly once more.
Still no answer.
My pulse thuds in my ears as the seconds tick past.
I glance down the hallway, then kneel and slide the bobby pin into the lock. My hands remember this motion too easily from lessons the Order never sanctioned, but I, as a wayward child, because I was one of the youngest, learned them anyway.
After a few careful turns, the mechanism gives.
The door opens with a soft click.
Inside, his quarters are orderly and sparse, holding the faint scent of incense and old paper. I step in and close the door quickly behind me, then reach for the taper near the entrance and light it from the hallway flame. The candle casts a small, trembling circle of light that barely pushes back the shadows.
The bed dominates the room, neatly made, the linens smooth and untouched. Faded art lines the walls—painted saints and a small framed Madonna—all watching in solemn stillness as I step farther inside.
The wooden frame where his cassock hangs is across the room, and his stole is carefully draped over one arm, as if waiting for his return. Beside it sits a dresser, and there I set my notebook down as I look around.
The room looks much the same as the last time I visited, furnished with antiques and shelves filled to the brim with books and old religious relics.
I move first to the far shelves, lifting the candle higher as I scan the spines. Theology. History. Apocrypha. I slide volumes aside, then crouch to check the lower rows.
It isn’t here.
My gaze drifts to the narrow cabinet in the corner. When I reach it, I find it locked as well. I try to pick it, but the mechanism refuses to grant me entry.
My stomach tightens with unease.
I war with myself for a moment, then begin searching for a key.
If I’m already going to be burdened with the guilt for invading his space uninvited, I refuse to leave empty-handed.
I check the pockets of his cassock, my fingers brushing reverently over the wool and the embroidered symbols on his stole. I move to the nightstand beside his bed, rifling cautiously through his personal effects, careful to return everything exactly as I found it.
Nothing.
I cross the room to his desk, lifting a stack of papers, resetting them, checking beneath a rosary and a small wooden cross.
Still nothing.
My pulse quickens.
I tug at the top drawer and find it locked.
The key is beyond it. I just know it.
I pause to listen for footsteps, then kneel again. The pick slides in easily this time, though the lock resists at first before finally yielding. Slowly, I pull the drawer open.
