The coffee hadn’t worked. Sister Isabella still felt lumpen and tired. She sank her face into her hands and exhaled loudly. She groaned behind her fingers and rubbed her face in the faint hope that when she pulled her hands away she would wake up and find herself in the warm comfortable surroundings of the Vatican, a gentle assessment waiting for her on her desk, not like the one she currently faced. Maybe an assignment to tease a wandering hand from a young Bishop, already spotted admiring the younger female members of the congregation with eyes too eager for one of his station or position? How she’d welcome such an opportunity now.
Anything to avoid another moment in the company of that Inquisitor.
She took another glug of her coffee and rattled the cup into the saucer, rubbing an eye.
“He drew a revolver,” she muttered disbelievingly, shaking her head and staring into the snaking trails of steam from the cup. “Who does that?” she asked, looking up at the Father watching her with a bored and vacant stare. “Pulls a revolver on a child? A chorister!”
Father Strettavario cleared his throat and sank his chin into his chest, so that the folds of his skin bunched like a beard of flesh. “Yes, you mentioned, last night. I thought I’d come and see you this morning. You seemed so … what’s the word?”
“Disillusioned?”
“No. Revolutionary. I thought you might consider leaving the assessment?”
“I can’t, can I?” she replied.
“No,” Strettavario answered coldly, ending any further discussion about it.
“I’m not revealing anything more of myself to him,” Isabella announced, looking over at the gown she wore yesterday. “I don’t want his eyes on me.” She slunk from her chair and gathered her travelling robe from the cupboard. It covered all but a circle of skin around her neck.
“He is being assessed. You must.”
“He’s a monster. Accept my report on him. He’s a pervert. A deviant. He can’t keep his eyes off me. Put that on record. Write that down, go on do it! I don’t need to perform that role any more.”
“But it’s not true, Sister Isabella,” countered her visitor, looking down his nose at her disapprovingly. “It would be a lie.”
“Does it matter?” she retorted, brushing at the robe to free it of dust. “You want your report? There, I’ve given it to you. Tacit is a danger to women.” She hung the robe on the door and looked back at him defiantly, her hands on her hips. “And about every other poor soul, as well,” she muttered to herself.
“Very well,” he said, writing something on the notes in front of him. “But we still need you to assess him regarding his faith.”
“He has none!” she roared, as if the request was in some way ludicrous, flicking her head dismissively.
“You can’t say that. Not without a thorough assessment.”
“But if he had faith, he wouldn’t behave in such an appalling manner. How can someone with faith be such … such a monster?”
“Actions don’t always indicate faith, be it faithfulness or faithlessness. We need you to continue your assessment of Tacit,” Strettavario continued, his eyes very serious. “He’s engaged on the murder case. We need to see it through to fruition, however that might end.”
“What about his methods? That poor chorister.”
“Yes, I know. He went out last night. Beat up some people he thought might have been responsible for the Father’s murder. People he thought might be useful to talk to. Orthodox Christians. Loosened their tongues a little.”
She shook her head. “Are they all like him?”
“They have a hard job, Inquisitors. Sometimes it’s hard for them to see the lines between right and wrong. They do the Church’s dirty work. It’s not always easy to stay clean. Of course, we want them to remain hard as iron; it’s needed in their line of work. But it’s our job to make sure they stay untarnished as well, as far as possible.”
“Untarnished? Well Tacit’s rusted shut,” Isabella hissed, turning to look out of the window. She rested a hand against the edge of her wardrobe. She thought of her mother and her pride when her daughter entered the monastery. She wondered what she’d think if she could see her now, flirting with wayward Priests and dabbling with murderers.
“You should give him a little slack,” said her hooded visitor. “Some think of him as a hero. Don’t be dispirited,” he said, putting the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “This is when you have the chance to shine, my dear. This is your job. Eyes are on you, important ones too. If you do well with this assessment, well, who knows where it might lead?”