Page 21 of Lake of Sin

A swarm of negative emotions swamped me, and I threw myself back against the stone, pressing close and breathing as slowly as I could manage. My breathing came shallowly, and I pressed my hands against my ribs, feeling the flare of the bone as it dug into my palm.

I closed my eyes. All I had to do was turn the corner and wrench open the doors. I would find Oliviero and confess my desires, and he would shun me, as they all would. I would at least be free of the shackles of my shame: I would be true to my nature.

In my head, I heard the rumbling of Lord Asmodeus’ voice.

My little lamb of a priest. Know that I am here with you, always. What do you fear from their judgement?

I opened my eyes, and my breathing slowed. “I fear the judgement itself, not the effect. God cannot touch me now. But my shame can. It has its hand around my throat.”

Replace that hand with mine. Let me squeeze the life from your shame. Prove to me you know yourself and show these priests what kind of man they worshipped with for decades.

I took a deep, centring breath and propelled myself around the corridor, barrelling toward the closed doors with ferocity. Against the wood, I splayed both my hands and felt nothing from the wood: no force of magic, none of God’s presence, nothing but the threat of a splinter against my fingers.

I pushed.

The doors gave way with a deep whine. They opened onto a stage of candles and holy light. I saw at the altar at the end of theaisle and before it the abbot, head bowed, murmuring a prayer. The pews were filled with novices, monks, and ordained priests joining him. My arrival sparked no interest—I could have been a priest late to the vigil; they did not even glance up—and so I closed the doors and slunk to the side behind one of the pillars to spy upon my cohort a little longer.

The doors opened again suddenly, and in filed two novices carrying a large vessel between them. Towels of cream linen were draped over their shoulders.

As they moved up the aisle, the abbot stood to greet them. It was then I saw he was—new.

Not the abbot who had served when I was here, though, without a doubt, I had visited this chapel many times. Again, the fear rose in me that I had been out of time and that the Earth had continued to spin without my presence. How long had it been?

Who was that man?

“Thank you, brothers,” he said, voice as sweet as the scent of a rose. The two novices deposited the vessel in front of him, heads bowed in reverence. “You may sit.” They dashed into the pews without another word, and my gaze fell on the vessel.

It was made of a lightly beaten bronze, and I recognised it as something used in a certain ritual: the Mandatum, a central part in the Holy Thursday celebration.

Jesus had washed the feet of his disciples. The abbot was about to do the same.

Around me, my brothers began to sing theUbi Caritas:

Ubi caritas et amor,Deus ibi est.

Congregavit nos in unum Christi amor.

Exsultemus, et in ipso jucundemur.

Where charity and love are,God is there.

Love of Christ has gathered us into one.

Let us rejoice in Him and be glad.

I watchedas one from the crowd shifted. He wore not the usual clerical cassock but a much simpler garb. His feet were bare. He approached the altar and bowed to it first before he nodded to the abbot, who let him approach.

And the abbot went down onto his knees.

When the abbot looked up, hair shifting from his face and candlelight finally making his appearance known, I gasped.

I recognised him. Beautiful blond curls, grown in a soft crown around his head. Those kind eyes, those sweet lips.

It was Oliviero! Only,older.

How long had I been gone?

I watched with rapt attention as Oliviero reached out and cupped the proffered foot of the priest. He took one of the linen towels, dipped it in the water, and brought it against the man’s foot.

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