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“What you just did,” he says. “But harder.”

I wrap my hand around him and his head falls to my shoulder. He gasps for air. “Yes,” he hisses. “That.”

His reaction thrills me, just as his lack of control does. During our entire acquaintance, it’s felt as if he’s had all the power. But now this beautiful man who speaks calmly before hundreds of people is dissolving at my touch. It’s almost thrilling enough to put my own needs aside, but when his hand slides up my skirt and his fingertips press to the outside of my underwear, I become greedy once more. I arch to get closer, my hand moving over him all the while. I was tentative at first but grow bolder, grip him harder until he’s like steel beneath my fist.

And he grows bolder too, his fingers sliding beneath my undergarments, circling and dipping inside me until it feels as if there’s a storm inside me. Until I’m so overheated and desperate it almost scares me. My head tips backward, my mouth falls open.

“Edouard,” I breathe suddenly, shocked and a little terrified. My muscles clench, clench and then I explode like a star, crying out before I manage to stop myself.

“Oh God,” he groans, thrusting hard against my hand, and then the fabric between us grows wet and his thrusts slow and then stop.

I realize what has happened, and it seems like a miracle to me. It’s a miracle that what we just did could produce a child if we wanted it to. It’s a miracle that he’s here with me, that he’s chosen me. And it’s a miracle that something this wondrous exists in the world and I had no idea until tonight.

I lean against his chest. “No wonder my brother and Amelie never leave their room. Is... intercourse...is it like that too?”

“With us,” he says, “I suspect it will be even better. But my God I don’t know how to go back to what we were after tonight. I don’t know how I’m going to wait until the church replaces me.”

I don’t either. I want more. I want everything. And as I stand here with him, it strikes me that we don’t have to wait.

He gave in easily tonight. I feel certain I can convince him to give in again.

Part Three

7

Edouard

I walk home blindly. Heedless of the night, of the stinging cold.

I feel like I’m burning alive.

I was with Marie only moments ago, my fingers sliding inside her. The moment when her muscles squeezed hard, my name rolling off her lips, was the most exquisite kind of pain. I came a moment later, like a school boy. It was half from the feel of her hand and half from the sight of her—head thrown back, eyes shut—as she gasped in surprise.

I get home and kneel on the ice-cold floor. For years I thought of this floor as punishment for my thoughts and desires. Now that I’ve acted on them, though, there is no guilt. What just occurred with Marie was God’s intent, too beautiful to be a sin. I’m finally able to feel grateful again. Life now spins out in front of me like some kind of fairy tale, too sweet to be real.

I’m going to marry her. One day we’ll have a home of our own, and children, and what we shared tonight...will be repeated a thousand times over. My experience with women is limited to some fumbling, frantic encounters in school, but my imagination far exceeds it. I harden at the thought of how much more I want from her, at how badly I want to hear that inhale of hers—sharp, surprised—when I push inside her.

When the time comes, I will taste and feel every inch of her, again and again, until I’m finally full. And I suspect, where Marie is concerned, that I can never feel full.

* * *

I walk to the parish hall for language classes the next morning. I don’t need to be here, but I am, and Irene buzzes beside me, saying things I barely hear as I watch the door. My stomach is in a knot, remembering how slick and warm and tight Marie was last night. Thinking of the sounds she made as she came. Focus is impossible.

The door opens and my head jerks toward it. The two Broussard girls walk in, their happy chatter turning to blushes and whispering as my eyes meet theirs. I look away, disappointed.

“Father,” says Irene. There’s irritation in her voice—most likely because I failed to hear her question. Irene is becoming a problem. I’ve long wished she’d volunteer less but have never been able to ask it of her, given that Marie is here nearly as much.

“I’m sorry,” I reply. “What was that?”

“I was saying that I made a chocolate tarte last night and wondered if you might like me to bring some by for you after dinner?”

I blink twice, not sure I’m following. “After dinner?”

She flushes. “Yes,” she says. “I thought you perhaps might enjoy company. It must get lonely for you here.”

I wince and try to soften it with a smile. “That’s kind of you, Irene, but if we believe God is with us at all times, none of us can be truly lonely, yes?”

I’m a hypocrite. How many nights have I spent wishing Marie were with me? How many nights have I prayed only to feel emptier than I did before I began? How badly do I wish there was a way she could stay in my rooms tonight?