“From our bees,” says one of them.
“Ah,” Kingston says. “Of course.” He smiles. “Thank you.”
In perfect unison, the brothers all press a fist to their chests and nod.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.I swallow.
None of it seemed too weird at first. I could fence—fence well, it turned out. I was a good Catholic boy from a good Catholic family. There was scholarship money. And I wanted to…do good, I guess. To belong.
My mom used to say I’d end up in the priesthood, and maybe that’s just what you say to an intense little kid who hates when other people get hurt—I don’t know. I did like the order, the ritual, but the parish life aspect not so much. Hearing confession, attending to the sick and the dying…that sort of stuff all felt so personal, so private. Being there, even on God’s behalf, seemed awkward to me.
Then I discovered swimming, what it was like to use my body, and I couldn’t imagine that kind of life at all.
Then swimming brought me to Caliburn.
And then everything changed.
I resist the urge to glance right. To look at Lanz.
I’m sure that had nothing to do with it.
I took the vows in here. By the black table, in front of the throne, kneeling on the stone.
Kingston said that was enough—they could write to inform the Consistory, and the brothers would consecrate it on my behalf.
But what if it wasn’t?
“If I may interrupt?”
One of the brothers raises a hand. White, gloved.
Kingston nods. “Yes. Please. Of course.”
The brother nods in my direction. “Him. He is new.”
My heart thuds in my chest. I swallow once, twice, the dryness sticking in my mouth.
"Yes," Kingston says after a moment. "Callahan O'Brian. We wrote to you. His vows should have been consecrated."
"No doubt you were made aware,” Luther says, an edge to his voice.
"They were," Kingston puts in. "I did. We…”
“We were.”
This from another of the hooded figures. He stands, and I realize he's dressed differently, a red rosary hanging from his white belt. Kingston ducks his head. So does Luther. So, to my right, does Lanz. Now I have to glance at him.
"The prior at arms," Lanz says in the barest, smallest whisper.
I swallow again, and then remember, duck my head down, stare at the black wood of the table.
“We granted and permitted such a thing. At the time.” The prior’s voice is resonant, cool, firm, even through the mesh of the mask. “But things have changed, have they not? Things have…happened here.”
No one speaks.
“Laxity,” he goes on, “laxity is the loop through which the devil infiltrates.”
The air in the room is totally different now. Cold and intense. No more friendly gift-giving.
