Page 22 of Lake of Sin

The holy sound of singing did nothing to dampen the eroticism of the moment. Even in supplication, or perhapsespeciallyin supplication, Oliviero looked divine and beautiful. My stomach lurched watching him drag the wet cloth up and down the man’s leg. I watched the priest as he tensed his calf, as the hair around his ankle became sodden, as he was forced to lean on Oliviero’s shoulder for balance. I stayed watching for nearly an hour as man after man stood and offered his foot, and Oliviero took them with kindness and washed them the way Jesus washed the feet of his disciples the day before his death. And guilt rose in me, because I could look upon this and understand its significance for the men gathered here, but I could tell I was not among them in any proper way. My nature was not this: I could never have participated in this innocently.I never had. Even when the abbot washed my feet and made me shiver with fear, I would watch the way my brothers peeled away their robs from their calves. I focused on the curl of dark hair against warm skin; I thought about my mouth as the cloth, just as wet and just as thorough as it kissed those men’s feet.

When there was no further movement from the seated brothers, I took what little courage I had and made myself step out from hiding. I walked down the aisle, eyes fixed on Oliviero. As I moved, murmurs rose around me. My naked form had caused a stir. And some of my brothers must still be here, for I heard:

“Alessandro?”

“Is that Don Alessandro?”

“O, our Lord God!”

I ignored them all. My eyes were fixed on Oliviero, head down in quiet prayer. When the aisle carpet ended, the sound of my bare feet slapped against the stone, and he was pulled from his contemplation by that and the sound of his congregation.

He recognised me instantly. I saw it in his eyes, a flare of surprise and hope and fear. His mouth parted softly. I saw him as the boy he had been, the beautiful young man so full of innocence. His hands, which were clasped in front of his face, let go of one another and gripped the air as he stumbled to his feet. He reached for both my hands.

“Alessandro?”

I didn’t reply right away. His recognition of me sent the gathered priests into tense silence. The creaking of pews filled the chapel as bodies shifted, leaning forward with intense interest.

Oliviero clasped my hands. He stood half bent, as if contemplating genuflection. “I never believed—the accusations. Has God returned you to us? Does He wish us to know the truth? Forgive us, we?—”

“Oliviero,” I whispered, “How long has it been?”

“Ten years,” he said without question. “I am nearly the age you were when you left us.” His gaze went past me to where some of the brethren had risen from their places. A few were on their knees in more fervent prayer. “This is no vision? You can see him too?”

I cupped Oliviero’s face and returned his attention to me. “I must speak with you.”

“Of course. Ofcourse—but I—the bishop must know. This is—a holy miracle! I?—”

“It is not,” I said.

I watched Oliviero’s face fall. I had to be truthful with him in order to be truthful to myself. Still touching Oliviero’s face, I turned to my gathered brethren, many of which I recognised and many I did not. I told them, “I must tell you what has happened to me and how it came about. I must do this for my own conscience, and for my future.”

And, of course, they all agreed. That was how faith worked.

Before I spoke, I asked Oliviero to divulge what had happened to my body.

He shook his head. “We never managed to clear the entrance to the cave,” he said, quite solemnly. “Both you and Bishop Fazio could not have your bodies buried properly. There were rumours. Accusations of foul play. But please know, we did everything we could, and we prayed for your immortal soul.”

Prayers that went to waste.

It was as Dantalion had suggested. They knew nothing. Itwasa particular torture, knowing I would be solely responsible for destroying the image they had of me.

“We must tell the bishop!” someone called from the crowd.

“Find him a cassock. Food—we must?—”

They meant well. They were still fuelled by a peculiar kind of innocence I had never possessed.

I looked Oliviero in the eye, passed my thumb across his lip, and said, “I was in Hell.”

I said it just quietly enough for Oliviero to hear. I expected—outrage. Some cry of panic. Instead, he looked me in the eye, pursed his lips, and went down onto his knees.

He was so close to me that his breath warmed all parts of my body on the way down. My hands fell away from his face, and I watched him curiously as he took his damp cloth and began to clean my feet. It was as if he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—believe what I had said.

“God returned you to us,” he whispered, conspiratorial; he didn’t want the others to hear.

“A demon returned me,” I said—louder. The novices in the front row bristled. I watched one rise from his seat in a panic.

“Alessandro,” Oliviero chided. Still, he washed, eyes downcast. Age had not made him any less beautiful.

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