It was late when Angelo dropped Mouse off at the flat and then headed off to finish taking the pictures of Santa Maria for Bishop Sebastian. He didn’t invite her to come, and she didn’t ask. Neither of them wanted to revisit the bloody altars and dark crypts of the other night.
Mouse was already regretting what she’d said on the ride home from Monster Park. Father Lucas had trained her well about keeping her secrets. Even Ottakar had never known the truth about her special gifts; he had never gone looking for answers beneath the surface of what he saw in her either. But Angelo didn’t seem to take anything at face value. He was curious and willing to look for answers in the impossible. It made her vulnerable—and a vulnerable Mouse was a dangerous one, too.
As soon as Angelo left for the church, Mouse crammed her stuff in her bag and called up the train schedule on Angelo’s computer. But as she hobbled around the flat looking for paper and pen to write a note telling him she’d gone and thanking him for the sanctuary he’d given her, she found herself in his room and lost in his pictures again. She lay on his bed staring up at the photo of the river and trying to understand what drew her to this man.
It was well after midnight when she heard the door close. She started to sit up, to call out to Angelo, to do what needed to be done so she could leave. Instead, she reached out with the gift that had brought her so much joy as a child and so much pain ever since. It had been a very long time since Mouse had searched a person’s soul, but, with a flutter of both dread and anticipation, she closed her eyes and felt for Angelo in the other room.
She saw his glow highlighted against the blackness of her mind. The intimacy of it tore loose a longing in her, a reminder of what she could never have but so desperately wanted. She made herself breathe normally, feigning sleep, as she watched the glow walk toward the bed where she lay curled on her side, hands tucked under her cheek. Angelo stood, looking down on her. He was so bright, even brighter than her memory of Father Lucas. The light blurred around the edges of his physical form.
He watched her for a long time. As he bent to lift a strand of hair that had settled on her lips, his fingers barely brushing her cheek, she almost spoke. But then the light emanating from Angelo changed somehow. She tried to figure out what was different about it—it was just as bright, just as full, but she knew something had shifted as he was watching her, and the idea of what that might mean frightened her.
“Good night, Mouse,” he whispered at the doorway.
Mouse lay thinking until soft light framed the shades.
Angelo was gone again when she woke, but as she came through the hall after a shower, still squeezing water from her hair into a towel, he was opening the door to the flat.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Did you even sleep?”
“A bit.” He seemed a little too bouncy.
“You’ve had espresso—and a lot of it, I’m guessing.” She smiled up at him.
“The elixir of the gods. And for people with a deadline.” He walked a step past her in the hall and tossed one of two black folders onto his bed.
“May I have a look?” She nodded her head toward the package on the bed.
“Ah . . .” Mouse heard the hesitation and worried that she had crossed another invisible line, but Angelo handed her the folder still in his hand. “Sure. These are the ones of the church. I’ve got to take these to the Bishop today. His office is hidden at the back of the Sala Regia at the Vatican. Would you like to come? After I’m done with business, we could stroll through the museums.” He looked down doubtfully at her still discolored and puffy ankle. “Well, as much as you’re able.”
“I’d love to.” So much for her plan to leave, Mouse thought.
“Good. We can talk art and then maybe have a bite to eat and let you see something of Rome besides me taking pictures.” He turned to walk down the hall to the kitchen but stopped midstride. “Do you have anything else to wear?”
Mouse glanced down at the blue Laura Marling concert shirt she’d worn for the past two days. She had grabbed a handful of underwear, socks, and another T-shirt or two when she’d fled Nashville, but she hadn’t thought she’d need anything after that night at Santa Maria. “Not appropriate for the Sistine Chapel, I’m guessing?”
“I doubt Michelangelo cares, but Bishop Sebastian is a little traditional.”
“Could you go get me something you think would be appropriate?” She was already limping toward her canvas bag at the foot of the couch.
“Wouldn’t you rather go?”
She turned at his silence and saw his raised eyebrows.
“Don’t tell me you buy into sexist stereotypes—girls and their shopping?”
“No, I’m just shocked that you trust me to pick something.”
Mouse lowered her eyes quickly. “It’s only clothes.” She jotted down her sizes and handed over the note with her credit card. She realized her mistake when she saw Angelo studying the blue plastic, but it was too late to take it back.
“Emma Lucas?” He frowned as he looked up from the card.
Emma Lucas had been the person Mouse plucked from the pile of identification papers on her bed in Nashville. She hadn’t thought Emma Lucas would live long. Mouse tried to figure out how to give him an explanation without lying, but then his mouth pulled into a crooked grin.
“I suppose you couldn’t be Mouse to MasterCard, huh?” He cocked his head, looking at her, and she was afraid that he was about to ask another impossible question. Instead, he surprised her again. “I like Mouse better.”
An hour later, he handed over a shopping bag and seemed entirely too pleased with himself.
“Uh-oh,” Mouse said, trying to peek into the bag.
He snapped the bag shut. “No judging until you try it on.”
She pushed herself up from the couch and limped back to the bathroom, resigned to like whatever he’d chosen rather than risk hurting his feelings, but he’d actually done well—or someone in the shop had. The dress fit perfectly, lightly skimming her body, and the flared skirt hit just below her knee—Bishop Sebastian–appropriate she assumed. Angelo had also bought a simple pair of flats, easily manageable for her bad ankle. So much for the stereotype of men and their bad taste, Mouse thought with a grin.
As Mouse walked slowly up the steps to the Vatican entrance, Angelo matched his pace to hers.
“Have you ever been to the museums?” he asked.
“I came . . . a long time ago.”
“In a galaxy far, far away?” He teased. “Sorry, it’s just that you keep saying that, ‘a long time ago.’ You can’t be more than twenty-five. How long could ‘a long time ago’ have been?”
Mouse laughed but gave no answer.
As they approached the ticket counter, she could see glimpses of the art on the other side of the line of people at the security scanners. The rich air smelled of oils and polished woods and, though carefully climate-controlled, the place still evoked a sense of wildness. Mouse had spent many hours in art museums and never tired of them.
Angelo showed his credentials to one of the attendants at the counter, chatting casually in Italian, and then reached out his hand to Mouse. Without thinking, she wove her fingers through his and let him guide her into his world of high art, absolutist religion, and an uncompromising certainty of good and evil. It felt natural, holding his hand. He’d been right: She was starting to trust him. Perhaps too much.
As she had told Angelo, Mouse had come to the museums once, but it was shortly after they opened to the public in the 18th century. She had bypassed the crowds meandering through the various museums and headed immediately for every visitor’s ultimate destination: the Sistine Chapel. The beauty there snared her. Michelangelo’s vision told a dark tale of the Fall of Man and a judgmental God. She had wanted to be part of that story of humanity, but it read like an impossible fairy tale for her. Michelangelo’s tormented souls had the hope of redemption. Mouse had no place in the narrative or in this sacred space. She had fled into the library courtyard to a secluded bench and watched the other visitors transcend their humanity for an afternoon.
Fortunately for her, the way Angelo led took them through the Pauline Chapel rather than the Sistine, then back to the secluded offices until he finally paused before a large wooden door with a shiny brass nameplate: Bishop Bernardo Sebastian. Angelo knocked confidently and smiled down at her where she leaned against the wall for support.
“It would have been easier if you’d let me get a wheelchair,” he taunted.
She rolled her eyes at him just as the door opened. Angelo kneeled and kissed the ring of the older man who stood inside the cavernous office. The man looked to be in his sixties, trim and athletic with a sharp jawline and traditional Roman nose. He was quite handsome. He pulled Angelo into his arms, hugging him and smiling warmly. They exchanged pleasantries in Italian, forgetting her for a moment, though the Bishop kept cutting his eyes toward her. She listened as Angelo introduced her, doubting very much that they knew she could understand every word. Then he turned to her and spoke in English.
“Your Excellency, this is my friend, Emma Lucas. Emma, this is my mentor and friend, Bishop Bernardo Sebastian.” Mouse saw the hesitation play at Angelo’s lips when he said “Emma,” and the idea that he had trouble calling her anything but Mouse made the smile she turned to the Bishop genuinely bright.
“My Lord Bishop.” She bowed slightly in his direction.
“Ms. Lucas. Lovely.” The Bishop’s accent was much thicker than Angelo’s, and she felt conspicuous as he assessed her. He didn’t even try to hide it as his eyes moved slowly up her body. “Please, come join me.”
He led them through the large office lined with dark shelves crowded with books. Small lamps created lit universes randomly in a corner, at a chair, around a table. The Bishop gestured toward a table to the left of an imposing desk outfitted with two computer screens and a bank of phones. A few books lay scattered across one end of the table they now circled, and a silver tray with tea service sat in the center.
“I was having some tea. Though I’m afraid I’ve none of your holistic concoctions, my son. Nothing prayed over or handpicked.” He chuckled and patted Angelo on the back. “Just plain Earl Grey. I picked up the habit during my stay in London some years ago. I suppose it was the same visit when I met you, Angelo.” He glanced over at Mouse.
She understood the Bishop’s strategy immediately; he wanted to remind her of the long relationship he’d had with Angelo, to position her as the outsider. She nearly laughed at the predictability of the Church considering a woman a threat. As Angelo and Mouse sat, the Bishop poured tea, and, as if in a scene from a Jane Austen novel, he offered lumps of sugar and a plate of small cakes and sandwiches. Mouse worked at not smirking. Angelo seemed uncomfortable, but she suddenly found herself much less intimidated by the Bishop than she had been.
“So, you finally have the pictures for me.” He extended his hand toward Angelo, but he was looking pointedly at Mouse as he spoke, his eyes narrowed. She felt a first wave of caution.
“Yes, Your Excellency. I think, I—I hope you like them.”
Mouse was surprised to hear the unease in Angelo’s voice, and she tensed on his behalf as she watched the Bishop flip through the photos. He paused only at the pictures of the church frescoes damaged by time and the elements. He shook his head and tsk-tsked as he studied them.
“We must work harder to preserve our treasures,” he said as he closed the album.
“The Bishop heads the pope’s Commission for Sacred Archaeology,” Angelo explained. “The pictures are for a book to help raise money to restore some of the less-cared-for basilicas.”
“They are powerful pictures, aren’t they, Your Excellency?” Mouse asked. She meant to make the Bishop give Angelo the praise he deserved. Despite her childhood in the abbey, Mouse had never learned naked reverence or blind obedience, but she was surprised by the flame of defiance that fired now in Angelo’s defense. She had thought herself long dead to pride, even if it was for someone else.
Her boldness did not seem to surprise Bishop Sebastian, and Mouse sensed displeasure underneath his benevolent smile.
“You appreciate our young deacon’s gifts.” It was not a question, but Mouse decided to treat it as if it were.
“Yes, Your Excellency. Don’t you?” She offered him his own polite smile in return, but her eyes sparked. If this man wanted to make her an enemy, so be it. Angelo shifted in his chair.
Bishop Sebastian cut his eyes toward Angelo. “He does indeed take pretty pictures, though I fear his hobby has rather gotten in the way of more important things, has it not, my son?”
“Please, Father, let’s not go over that again.” Angelo sounded wary.
“No, no, of course not. What is three months out of a life’s calling, after all? But now the project is nearly done, there is no more reason for delay. I’ve already spoken with Cardinal—”
“Angelo’s work is more than a hobby, Your Excellency, and his pictures are more than pretty.” Mouse wasn’t smiling anymore. She hated the man’s patronizing tone, talking about Angelo as if he were a child or a belonging, and she hated his easy dismissal of something Angelo held so dear.
“Of course. He is quite gifted. In many things.” The Bishop studied her for a long, quiet moment. “I believe Deacon Angelo said you were Catholic?”
“I was raised Catholic, Your Excellency.”
“You have left the Church, then?”
“Not exactly.”
“So this is what you have been doing, my son? Working to bring this lost sheep back to us?” Bishop Sebastian turned his attention to Angelo, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “You know that our Angelo is to be ordained soon, yes? If he does not put it off again, that is.”
Mouse appreciated the Bishop’s directness, and she knew she could quickly settle his fears on her account—she had no intention of being a stumbling block to Angelo’s calling. Yet Mouse found she didn’t want to give Bishop Sebastian the satisfaction. He was just another ambitious father driving his wayward son toward a vicarious victory; she’d been there before when Ottakar’s father had convinced his son to marry a woman who would advance Bohemia’s position in the world. Mouse had nothing to offer but herself. This was why Ottakar had cast her aside—to satisfy his father’s ambition. So little had changed in all these years. She had no doubt the Bishop would get his way, too, with a celibate son to serve his God. But Mouse grinned at the idea that she might make him squirm a little.
She looked up from her tea and held Bishop Sebastian’s gaze. “Angelo did tell me he hasn’t taken his vows yet, Your Excellency, but he didn’t say when he would.”
Angelo cleared his throat.
“I see,” the Bishop said. “I’m sure Angelo also told you how he came to us?”
Angelo’s mouth was pressed into a hard line when she turned to look at him.
“I assume he was called by God.” Echoes of yesterday’s conversation in Monster Park about Angelo’s vocation played in her voice. “Isn’t that how it always happens? But I believe he said you were rather influential in making that decision for him.”
“Ah, quite so.” His voice was clipped and deeper. He was on his guard and enjoying the game he seemed intent on playing with her. “God calls us all in different ways—though not always in such dramatic fashion. It is quite the story! But it is Angelo’s to tell if he wants.”
Mouse felt the sting of his message and looked again at Angelo, who kept his silence. So there was more to his story. Clearly he had his secrets, too, and he didn’t trust her enough to share them.
Bishop Sebastian took a slow sip of his cooling tea. “When do you return to—” He turned toward Angelo. “Where is it she is from? I don’t remember you saying.” Angelo opened and then closed his mouth; he had no answer.
“I’m on leave from a teaching position in London, Your Excellency.” Mouse grit her teeth. She felt Angelo’s eyes on her as he learned this for the first time as well. Though she easily gave the lie to the Bishop, she felt guilty that Angelo would believe it, too. A few minutes with Bishop Sebastian had almost fully eroded whatever foundation of trust they had built. He was playing a nasty game—and he was very good at it.
“Ah, and when do you return?” Bishop Sebastian asked.
Mouse had one more salvo. “I haven’t decided yet. I may stay for . . . an extended period.” She took a small bite from one of the sandwiches and let her eyes flick to Angelo’s face, but he was staring into his tea.
“Angelo, I notice that Ms. . . . or is it Professor, I suppose?”
Mouse nodded.
“Professor Lucas is obviously struggling with a bad ankle. I do not know how you could have been so inconsiderate, my friend, but surely she would enjoy the sights of our wonderful home more ably if she were in a wheelchair? There are some at the entrance, you know.” Bishop Sebastian continued to smile at her pleasantly as he spoke.
“She didn’t want one, sir.” Angelo’s voice was cool.
“Well, we must all accept help in our times of need. Perhaps this is meant as a lesson for our friend here, a reminder about the sin of pride.” He smiled at her and turned back to Angelo. “You go collect one of those wheelchairs for Professor Lucas, and I’ll keep her engaged here until you can come whisk her around our glorious art.” It was a clear dismissal, and neither Mouse nor Angelo saw a way out of obeying the Bishop’s command.
Angelo rose awkwardly, clearly angry, and rounded the table to kiss the Bishop’s ring again. Mouse turned to watch him go. When she turned back, Bishop Sebastian was staring at her, his smile gone.
“We haven’t much time, so I will be direct,” he said. “I know who you are, and I will not let you interfere with Angelo.”
So it was as she suspected. He was worried that she was going to tempt Angelo away from the priesthood. She relaxed as she anticipated an awkward but straightforward conversation to assuage the Bishop’s fears for Angelo’s sake.
“I don’t intend to interfere with him, Your Grace,” she said. “Angelo’s vocation is his to claim or not. Neither you nor I have anything to do with it. And I assure you—”
“You misunderstand me,” the Bishop said. “I know who . . . perhaps I should say I know what you are.”
Mouse felt her heart crawl up her throat.