63

“You can stop,” Livia said, as Thomas droned on about Hail Marys and Our Fathers. “They’re gone.”

He did stop, and silence filled the confessional. In truth, Livia was grateful. She’d been growing oddly uncomfortable. The need for penance was something she felt acutely, and she was experiencing more than a touch of regret for the days—so long ago—when she believed some prayers and a few good deeds could wipe a slate clean.

“We’ll have to wait before we go back,” she said. “The Carabinieri are still outside. On the steps.”

“Go back where?”

“To look for the poem, of course. Though this time we’ll get a ladder. I’m not going to let you climb on the Bernini again.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No, I’m serious. Shoes or no shoes, there’s no—”

“I mean, don’t worry, no one’s going to climb on anything. I have it.”

“You have— You found it? The poem?”

“That head was heavy, too.” She could swear she heard him grinning. “I lifted it off and the sheet of paper was wrapped around the iron bar. It’s a little rusty but I think it’s readable. I put the head back, by the way.”

“I should hope so! Read it to me.”

“How about, ‘Good work, Father Kelly’?”

“Good work, Father Kelly, now read it to me!”