Page 68 of All Saints Day
“Fine,” I grumble, my side still throbbing with the dull ache of my wound. “But as soon as the sun is up, we call the Dottore.”
I agree to meet Azura Perla at the Saint Joseph's Oratory the very next day. I don't go alone; the other Saints follow me—each keeping their own safe distance.
I step from the bright sunshine of midday into the cool dark of the nave. The large building is filled with the hazy colors from the stained glass—the cavernous space redolent with scented incense.
Slowly I stutter to a stop in the votive chapel and turn my face up to look at the dancing candles in tubes of glowing red glass; hundreds upon hundreds of canes and crutches line the chapelwalls as a testament to how many people had been “healed” by brother Andre’s ‘saintly powers.’
I stand looking at the worn, curved pieces of wood, wondering if our Saints will have the power to heal this world—to save it from the Zeitnot virus in all of its iterations.
Even though my side throbs with searing pain, I shuffle up to the line of unlit candles with its small wooden box for donations. I stuff a folded dollar bill into the slot at the top of the box and reach for one of the long, skinny wax wicks stored alongside the snuffers for visitors to light their own votive.
Silently, I dip the long thin candle into one of the lit votives, gently carrying the small flame from one red glass tube to another.
Though it's not my god, not my house of faith—I close my eyes and make a silent prayer for Louise's safety—for the happiness and longevity of our pack against all odds.
Even though my eyes are closed, I catch Doctor Pearla’s scent; muscat and tuberose along with the sweet undertone of smoke from her expensive cigarillos.
“An interesting choice of place to meet,” I say almost under my breath.
“Dramatic, yes, but I thought it was appropriate,” she scoffs a laugh.
“It’s dramatic, I’ll give you that.” I open my eyes, allowing them to slide toward her.
“I've made a breakthrough,” she says so quietly that I almost don't hear her. “I will need space, and a laboratory, but as long as you've got those new samples from Louise, we should be able to see how viable our solution is.”
I swallow down the tears that prickle at my eyes.
Though I don’t speak the words aloud, I hope silently to myself,please don't let this be in vain.
Then, I slip the strap of my backpack off of my shoulder, unzipping the main compartment to remove a soft-sided insulated lunch box from within.
I see Doctor Perla's eyes widen at the edge of my peripheral vision.
She opens her designer bag and quickly spirits the lunch box inside.
“It's too dangerous for me to bring you. I'm so sorry, Sébastien. I know how important making this discovery is.”
I shake my head, watching Tin-tin slowly orbiting one of the side chapels with his camera and his touristy, teal windbreaker.
“I care not to be the one who charts this discovery. My only care is to get my fated mate back—to ensure that the plague that her parents architected, and that the Windmill perfected, doesn't destroy the world.”
“I'm understanding more and more why you've never found success as a scientist,” Doctor Perla laughs. “Too altruistic, too kind-hearted. Not vain enough. Well, maybe vain isn't the right word.” She clucks her tongue before sparing me an approving glance—the saucy old bird. “But not obsessed with accolades or fame, for certain,” she sighs, clearly standing in judgment of herself.
“Thank you, Dottore, for all of your help.” I reach for her hand and lean down to press a kiss onto her worn, leathery knuckles. “When all of this is over, I hope to take you out for a lovely dinner to celebrate the largest discovery of your career.”
“It’s a date!” Doctor Perla gives me a genuine smile, patting her buttery soft leather bag knowingly. “Well,Poverino—this is where we part ways once again. You'll hear from me as soon as I've made any developments,” she assures me, already starting her steps in the opposite direction.
“Gratzi Dottore, ciao.” I give her a small bow, the hunch of Caz's shoulders with his McGill sweatshirt and matching baseball cap just visible through the open doors of the basilica in the distance.
Chapter 25
Frank
Iawake after the attack at the log cabin by the Windmill on a tidy white hospital bed in the sickbay at the Country Estate.
In a high-backed armchair beside my bed, Susan Lowry sits asleep—her neck at a painful angle as she balances her pointed chin in one of her worn hands. The soft sounds of her snoring are just audible beneath the mechanical beeping of the machines reading my vitals.
I reach for the plastic controller with the little rubberized buttons that will help raise my bed so I can sit upright without having to strain against my probably broken ribs.
