Page 61 of Skotos
“There’s nothing here but letters,” he said.
“Instructions,” I added, flipping through a folder. “Routine assignments, requests for texts.”
Then Will froze.
“What?” I asked.
Rinaldi stepped forward.
Will leaned down, gripping a loose corner of parchment that had fallen behind the blotter.
It was a torn corner of a page, yellowed with age—in the margin, a familiar mark:the spear. It wasn’t a full drawing, not a coat of arms. It was just a sliver, but an unmistakable one.
Will held it between us like it might shatter. “He found something. Heknewsomething.”
I swallowed hard.
Whatever it was—whatever he’d learned—it had to be the reason he was gone.
29
Will
The spear fragment still burned in my pocket as we stepped out of Marini’s office and followed Monsignor Rinaldi back down the hall. The silence between us had shape and weight. Even the marble saints carved into niches above the doorways seemed to glare as we walked past.
Rinaldi looked even worse in the morning light—gaunt and pale, his cassock wrinkled like he hadn’t slept—or had slept in it while slouched over his desk. The cross around his neck swung in a nervous rhythm as he walked.
I nearly flinched at every nun or priest we passed in the massive halls. Their smiles, their nods—were they genuine? Or were they practiced masks? Did one of them betray us? Was the leak hidden beneath a collar or veil?
Suspicion wound through me like a wire pulled taut. Every footstep behind, every voice in the corridor, every whisper not quite heard—they all setmy nerves on edge, and with Marini still missing, the question wasn’t just who was following us, but who they would follow next.
When we reached Rinaldi’s office, he motioned for us to sit, though he remained standing.
Then something shifted. He didn’t speak. It was as if he no longer noticed us sitting before him.
He began pacing, muttering under his breath in a mixture of Latin and Italian, his hands tugging at the ends of his sleeves, his steps erratic and sharp. His lips kept forming the same words over and over, something about shadows or truth. I couldn’t quite tell.
Thomas and I exchanged a glance. The room felt colder than before.
After a long moment, I cleared my throat and said, “Monsignor?”
He stopped mid-step, blinking as if waking from a trance.
His eyes found us again, and his haunted expression slipped behind a practiced veneer.
“Can we talk about Father Marini?” I said, keeping my voice soft. “Is there anyone who had reason to harm him?”
“No,” Rinaldi said too quickly. “Father Marini . . . Lucien . . . was . . .isbeloved, perhaps more than any beneath this roof, save the Holy Father himself. He is a quiet man, dedicated, living for his archives. His world is down there among the parchment anddust. I cannot imagine any force on Earth that might tear him from those vaults.”
“He didn’t haveanyenemies?” Thomas asked.
“None that I know of, but . . .” He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. “There is one thing you should know, one of his few sparks of his life beyond these walls. Lucien had family—a mother.”
“Hehada mother?” I asked.
Rinaldi blinked and threw himself into his chair, covering his face with both hands. “Hehasa mother. Forgive me.”
“What would his mother have to do with his disappearance?” I asked.
