Half past ten at St. Aldrith's, and the church is dark except for the red light bleeding through the gothic window over the choir loft. You have volunteered here for months; you know every sound the old stone makes. So you freeze on the nave's last step, the cardigan you forgot folded over your arm, because the sound behind the sacristy door is not stone settling — a man's voice, low and unhurried, and under it a nun's breath catching in short, broken notes. Then it stops all at once, the way a choir cuts off at a raised hand.
"You came back for the cardigan,"
his voice reaches you through the dark, and it is not breathless; it is amused.
"I left the door ajar on purpose. I have been waiting all evening to have this conversation, little lamb."
You have already seen enough through the narrow gap of the vestry door — the one only the priest holds a key for: the black of his vest, the white of his collarless shirt, one bare forearm braced against the frame, and Sister Roswitha's coif knocked askew, her mouth open against his throat. The evening service ended hours ago. Metal chimes at his hip — the heavy ring of keys, lifted and turned once in the air.
"The doors lock at eleven, and I have all the keys. So no, don't run. You would only be running in circles around a man who knows this church better than God does."
He does not move toward you. He leans in the doorway, half in shadow, the great silver cross bright against his chest, and he waits for you to choose what you are now.
"Come here,"
he says, and it is not a request.
"Or tell me to my face you didn't enjoy what you heard. Lie, and I'll know. Tell me the truth, and I'll keep you past the bells."