Page 21 of The Sinner and the Scholar
“I never thought nuns were thieves,” he says, tone scornful.
“We’re not nuns,” I reply. “We’re not married to Christ. We lie. We screw. We steal. We kill. And we’re unapologetic as fuck about it. We’re Sinners, Wesley.” I cock my head. “Or did you forget that when you had your hand on my breast?”
He blanches.
Tawny swallows a giggle.
Mercy twirls a lock of her copper hair, eyeing them, especially the priest. “I’d be happy to remind them.”
The pulse of every man in the room lifts. It’s not because they probably just shot their load at the sultry promise dripping from her tone, but because of the murderous intent in her eyes. Mercy can take them all on with one hand tied behind her back, whichever way she wants. We all can.
And they all understand, despite their charade of not speaking English.
As soon as the thought hits, I see no threat. They are nothing to us. Boys playing with cards and religion. We are the real deal. I shift Mary Magdalene’s gospel to my chest. Wesley’s whispered words follow me as I walk out.
“I would have shared if you’d asked.”
* * *
The following day,I walk into the archives bleary-eyed from staying up half the night studying the gospel. Most of the words, like the prophecy, are in Ancient Greek. But some words seem to be in another language, after all. I have a grating suspicion Wesley would understand them. But since our classes start today, I squish the book beneath my thin cot mattress and then mess up my blanket to hide the bulk.
Strolling into the classroom, I’m surprised to see the girls already in attendance, all wearing their Sinner uniform—black from head to toe—while I opted for a little silent protest by wearing my sweats. I even leave my contacts out and wear my spectacles. At the front, Wesley stands before a chalkboard he’s scrounged up from an ancient storeroom. The chipped wood looks like it might be infested with termites. The smell is musty and stale in here.
I walk toward Leila at the end of the long boardroom table. Cleaning a variety of daggers before her, she’s not the only one multitasking. Mercy brought nail polish. Tawny and Prudence brought food. Raven… a notebook?
“You’re late,” Wesley clips, checking his pocket watch before shoving it back into his three-piece suit vest.
I sink into the seat and pick up one of Leila’s daggers. It’s more like a hunting knife with its curved blade and serrated edge.
“Right, then.” Wesley gives a tight smile. “I was just explaining to the rest of the class what geomancy is and how it works. Does anyone want to fill in Dorothea?”
He called me Thea before, but now it’sDorothea.
Silence is his answer.
Crickets.
My lips twitch, and I stab the wooden table, then carve lines.
“You ladies are making me work for it,” he mutters.
I can’t help the pull between my brows. It’s not as though we dislike being taught. We suffered years of brutal training in the Art of War from martial arts experts worldwide.
It’s just that they’remen. Know-it-alls. Something about reading the derogatory and snide comments from the other Apostles toward Mary has put me on edge. The worst part is that Mary’s account was still so… I struggle to think of the word… she wasn’t naïve, but impervious. Tolerant. Hopeful. Vulnerable. Prey. The derision is picked up between the lines—it’s what’snotsaid as much as whatis. Mary’s not even angry over how the men spoke to her, and I wanted her to be. I wanted her to stand up for herself. To punch them in the junk.
There was no more perfect example of turning the other cheek than her. It makes complete sense why she was the preferred disciple. It had nothing to do with the fact that she was a woman or possibly Jesus’ wife. It had to do with her understanding him in a way no one else did.
That kind of connection is special, and I’m furious it was hidden from the world for so long.
A sigh punctuates rustling, so I glance up. Wesley clears his throat, shucks off his jacket, and hangs it on the back of the chair at the table. Then he proceeds to roll up his shirtsleeves. His fingers mesmerize me. Long, competent, and deft. I imagine them turning the pages of books in the late-night hours—fingers smudged with ink, just like mine. Without the bulky jacket, his trim body is on display.
Tattooed forearms are such an odd part of him that it throws me off. What kind of Vatican scholar looks like that beneath his clothes?
He scrubs the back of his neck, disheveling blond hair before going to the chalkboard and drawing circles with arcane symbols at varying points. Every time he lifts his arm, the outline of his appealing physique teases me through his clothes. Muscles roll in his back. Biceps flex.
“Girl, I see that look in your eye.” Mercy leans toward me with a quiet smirk.
I shake my head. There is no way I’d ever go down that road. Wesley is attractive, but Team Saint is here peddling rubbish the Vatican discredited decades ago. I’m not a fool. If the situation is so dire here, they would have sent more than one Saint. There must be something else going on. It’s no coincidence this merger has been forced on us under the guise of aid.
