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Simon halts when we reach the center, mesmerized by the altar and the silent crown of light it wears. High above it sits a short, square tower with windows so this place—the holiest—is never in complete shadow. It’s something I never tire of admiring, so I readily pause for him.
“In a place like this, I could almost believe,” he whispers.
“You don’t believe in the Sun?”
He huffs humorlessly. “I believe the Sun exists. Only a fool would not. As for the Power that gave it to us, not so much.”
Blaspheme. I should recoil from someone saying such things, but he sounds lost, like he wishes hecouldbelieve. “Why not?”
Simon shakes his head. “If It were there, and It was truly good, why does It allow such misery and suffering in the world? Why does It allow people to act as they do?”
It was obvious days ago that Perrete’s murder wasn’t the first he’s seen, nor the worst. His cynicism is understandable. “Mother Agnes says our lives are like the Sun: a gift,” I tell him. “Once bestowed, the giver has no say in how it’s used or misused, otherwise it wouldn’t be a true gift.”
“That freedom is dangerous when it can destroy the lives of others,” he says.
“Yes,” I admit. “But it’s also necessary. You can’t truly be good unless you have the choice not to be.”
Simon’s mouth tilts up on one side. “I didn’t realize you were a solosopher.”
“It comes from being raised in a convent.”
His only response is to twist his hand and lace his fingers with mine. Though I doubt he can see my blush, I turn away quickly and lead the way to the next set of stairs. The floor of the south tower’s first open level is crisscrossed with dusty footprints and dotted with bird droppings from the pigeons snoring contentedly in the rafters two stories above. Moonlight slants through the high, arched windows unblocked by glass or shutters.
Though I’m a little practiced in moving in and out of moonlight now, I hold my breath and narrow my eyes as I step directly into it. I immediately feel Simon’s pulse through his palm and fingers, strong and rapid from climbing the stairs, and it jumps when he sees I’m leading him to the slanting edge of the roof.
“Is that safe?”
“Perfectly,” I answer. The stone gutter is several inches high on the right side and scaffolds run along the entire length. “When it rains, all the water from the roof drains into this, which is why it’s so wide.”
“Wide?” Simon mutters. “It’s not broad enough for a child’s pull wagon.”
“That’s why we don’t let them up here,” I say lightly. He frowns at my joke. “Just don’t look down. And lean a bit to the left, toward the roof.”
Though he’s shown no sign of wanting to let go, I squeeze his hand to let him know he can hold on to me. Then I step out, angling my left arm behind me. Simon pivots to a walk leading with his right, which makes him face the roof. That’s probably best.
Pierre’s silhouette crouches at the far end. Even without seeing so well, this place is familiar enough that I could walk it blindfolded, and I have to consciously make myself move slower than I’d like.
“What are these stone arms that arch out?” Simon asks as we pass the third.
“Flying buttresses,” I answer. “They channel the pressure of the building’s weight to the ground. Using them allows for thinner walls and bigger windows, which makes it brighter inside.”
“They look like giant spider legs.”
I nod in agreement. “That may have actually been the inspiration. Nature’s designs are often perfect.”
“You know a lot about architecture,” Simon says.
I grin. Much as I complain about showing patrons and high-ranking visitors around the Sanctum, I enjoy every second of it. “You have no idea. I could probably spend an hour describing the mathematical aesthetics of the triforium arches along the nave.”
“The what?”
“Exactly.”
Simon chuckles. “I wouldn’t necessarily mind that someday. Or anything else you’d like to tell me.” He pauses, then rushes the next words. “I mean anything about, um, architecture and the Sanctum.”
His embarrassment is so amusing, I’m glad I’m facing forward. I’m not sure I could keep a straight face.
“Then here is your first lesson,” I say. We’ve reached Pierre and the wider area around him. “These full-bodied statues are called chimera. Gargoyles are only heads or partial bodies and are for draining water. But these”—I rest my free hand on the stone back—“are purely decoration.”
