Page 99 of The Black Table
“Sorry?”
“Waste of time,” he says, loud enough for me to hear. Then he’s on his feet, pushing the chair back in place, and grabbing hisjacket. Doesn’t bother to put it on, or ask for help, just throws it over his arm and leaves, the door to the B2 level swinging behind him.
Stunned, I sit in silence, until?—
Click.
The timer shuts off. And I’m left in darkness.
TWENTY-SIX
LANZ
Early Sunday morning,very early, and the chapel is cold and hushed. Not even the rectory staff is here yet to set up. No movement except for the gentle play of dust motes in the colored shafts of light streaming onto the flagstones and me.
I’ve been kneeling so long that I’m losing feeling in my feet. My fingers interweave on the bench in front of me. And yet I haven’t asked for a single damn thing—forgiveness, understanding, wisdom.
I can’t.
I woke up early as usual. My body’s too accustomed to our early morning warm-ups, but it’s Sunday, the one day we have off from those, and so I figured…I figured this was where I needed to be.
I messed up, I fucked up, big time. I shouldn’t have kissed her, even if I liked it, even if she liked it—which, there’s no way she could have—and I fucked up even more, because we got seen.
I’ve never been big on confessing my sins. Self-awareness is good, I guess, but the whole self-flagellation thing is a step too far for me—I torture myself plenty in my own mind. I don’t need to invite God or a priest to step in as well.
But right now, I need all the help I can get.
The problem is, I just…can’t make it all line up. Temptation, sin, wickedness, adultery—the words don’t mean anything to me, don’t apply to where I am, to who she is.
She’s not darkness; she’s light. She’s not degradation or corruption; she’s…a higher standard.
I shouldn’t have kissed her, I know that much. And yet I also know that if I were ever going to kiss her again—which I won’t—I’d have to be twice as worthy and three times as good as I am now. A better fighter, a better knight, a better man.
But Jesus. If this is what winning does to me, then I’m a goner. If this is what happens when I’m put to the test, I’m failing at every turn.
I let my head fall to my fingers and tense my jaw, when suddenly, I hear footsteps—a gentle rustle of movement to my right as someone slides in next to me, kneels.
I don’t need to look up to see who it is. Callahan.
It’s still silent, but a different kind of silence than before; the incense-scented air feels taut, electric, thick, even though it’s cold and dry in here. I press my lips together, run my tongue over my teeth.
Cal speaks first.
“Praying?” he says.
“Trying to,” I mutter. “Can’t think of any words to say.”
Cal gives a low chuckle.
“Should have been raised Catholic. Say Hail Marys in your sleep.”
He’s got a rosary in his hands, I notice now. I’ve never seen that before.
But then again, I’ve never been in this kind of situation either.
I clasp my fingers together a little more tightly and tip my chin up to look at the rose window and the stained glass scene beneathit—the altar silent and draped with a red cloth, the arches of the choir loft looming shadowy.
I made a mistake. Or several. Maybe. Does it count as more than one if it was a single action? Or was it even? Have I ever been doing the right thing? Or is this all just a selfish quest to get freed from my own fate? Is that why I treat the vows like an escape hatch, Cal like a loophole?
