“We were remiss in granting our permission so freely. Now we have seen the consequences of too easy a path. The destruction it can wreak?—”
Oh, God.
The realization smacks me in the chest.
The library.
They think it’s my fault.
They think I did it.
“But we are blessed,” the prior at arms continues, “blessed that all may be absolved in the sacrament of confession. Please.”
He pauses. I look upward just a moment, and see that he's gesturing for me, one white-gloved hand.
“If you would,” he finishes.
I nod a few times, push back my chair and stand. I don't know what to do, flexing and clenching my fists, wishing I could grip the table or even had a sword to fling around. All the white-covered heads turn my way, but all I can do is stare into the blank space where the prior at arm's face should be.
"What is your name, my son?"
"Callahan," I choke out. "Callahan O'Brian."
"You are baptized," he asks. "Confirmed?"
“I…yes," I stammer. "Callahan Thomas O'Brian," I amend, throwing in my confirmation name. He doesn't move, doesn't nod, doesn't come closer, maybe doesn't even blink. There's no way to know.
"Your home?"
Somehow I know he means church and not city. “St. Ann. Boston archdiocese.”
"Your parents?—"
I swallow hard. "Sean and Margaret O'Brian."
There a long pause. One second, two seconds.
"Dead," I add.
There is nothing. No sound, no acknowledgment that I've answered the question.I should’ve saidpassed away,I think.Or gone to be with God, or something.
The prior at arms is staring at me. They're all staring at me. I think—I can't tell. And that's the eerie part. Whether they are or they aren't, I'll never know.
One of them murmurs to another. Something in French I don't understand.
And suddenly, a cold bolt of fear strikes me in the gut. Can they tell? I don't know if it's an issue to be gay. If we're supposed to be celibate, isn’t it basically a moot point? I think so, but I'm also just not sure. And asking for clarification…that's not going to happen. That's not going to help.
But if they somehow find out, if they somehow know…
Oh God, ifthisis where it all comes out about me and Lanz…
My stomach heaves. I want to throw up.
"Who did you train with?" The prior at arms is speaking to me again. "Who was your master at arms?"
"I... Camp Manawasset," I say, my face flaming. I dig my fingernails into my palms.
"Camp." The prior repeats the single word like he's never heard it before, and maybe he hasn't. Still, he doesn't move.
