“Je comprende.” Kingsley did understand. When his father died, Søren had inherited nearly a half a billion dollars from him. The inheritance had been his father’s last chance to turn Søren away from the priesthood, knowing his son couldn’t keep that kind of money and still be a Jesuit. So Søren gave it away. Every last penny. And Saint Ignatius benefited hugely, to the tune of nearly twenty-five million dollars. “With so much wealth, you think the school would look like a palace now.”
“Father Henry put most of the money into a trust to take care of the boys who were wards of the state. There have been improvements to the facilities—subtle ones. But Father Henry never wanted the school to look ostentatious. Conspicuous displays of wealth offended him.”
“Interesting opinion for a Catholic.”
Søren glared at him. “We’re not having the Saint Peter’s Basilica argument again.”
“I’m getting you a pair of red leather shoes for Christmas. Why should the Pope have all the fun?”
“I miss beating you sometimes, Kingsley. I truly do.”
The two of them walked toward the main building that housed the offices of the monsignor, Father Thomas, and the other priests. Kingsley kept his eyes on the door and his mind away from the past. He’d indulged far too much in memories on the plane trip here. It was in the woods surrounding this school that the boy, Kingsley Boissonneault, had died, and the man who would become Kingsley Edge had been resurrected.
And it was here that his sister, Marie-Laure, had died, never to be reborn.
“Try not to think of her, Kingsley,” Søren cautioned. Kingsley would have killed him on the spot for that bit of advice but for the almost tender concern in his voice.
“It’s impossible not to. She was all I had after my parents died. The day they took me from her…”
Kingsley forced the memory back and away.
“I had bruises for weeks,” Kingsley said, his fingers twisting into fists.
“From Marie-Laure or from me?”
Kingsley looked sharply at Søren. The priest tried everything to avoid talking about that night they’d become lovers. And yet now, suddenly…Kingsley composed his features. “From Marie-Laure the wounds took three weeks to heal. From you…”
“From me?”
Kingsley gave him a grim grin. “I shall tell you when they do.”
Søren exhaled heavily and opened his mouth to speak. But the door of the main building opened and a man in a full cassock came bustling out toward them.
“Father Stearns,” the priest said breathlessly as he shook Søren’s hand. “I had no idea you were coming.”
“So nice to see you again, Father Marczak. We’re only here for a short visit. This is Kingsley Edge, a friend and another former Saint Ignatius student.”
“Very nice to meet you, Mister Edge.”
Kingsley shook Father Marczak’s hand and nodded. He was in no mood to mask his French accent today and had no patience for all the questions his accent inspired. Better to keep silent. He’d learned in his days as a spy that the less he said, the more others said to him.
“What brings you both here today? Father Thomas is at a conference and I’m afraid I’m a poor substitute.”
“We’re here for reasons of nostalgia only. Please don’t trouble yourself. We simply wanted to see the school again.”
“Of course. We’ve made some improvements recently, thanks to your generosity. New plumbing. New heating units. The roofs have been replaced on all the buildings…you can’t imagine how much we appreciate—”
Søren raised his hand to silence the thanks. Kingsley knew Søren would come to the school much more often if it wasn’t for all the effusive gratitude he had to deal with every time he visited.
“I’m only happy that I could help the school carry on its work. This place saved my life.”
“And you saved the school.”
“Then we should call it even,” Søren said, and Father Marczak smiled in acquiescence.
“Of course. I’ll be in Father Henry—I mean, Father Thomas’s office. If you require anything, don’t hesitate to find me. Feel free to roam the school. The boys love having their classes interrupted by visitors.”
“Thank you, Father. Speaking of visitors, have there been any of note lately?”
Father Marczak gave them each a curious look but didn’t ask for clarification. “No. Not really. A few students have visited in the last few weeks. And, of course, parents of prospective students wanting to see the school.”
“None of them seemed unusual at all? Suspicious? I only ask because I received an unsigned note on Saint Ignatius stationery asking about the school.”
Kingsley glanced at Søren. For a priest sworn to keep the Ten Commandments, the man could lie with the best of them.
Father Marczak shrugged. “Really, no. We did have a single mother a week ago. Asked many questions about the school—more than any of the other parents combined. Many questions about the history of the school and the students who’d graduated—what they did now, what they’d accomplished.”
“Did she speak with an accent?” Søren asked, and Kingsley furrowed his brow. Where had that question come from?
“No accent that I noticed,” Father Marczak said. “Lovely woman, really, if you’ll forgive me for saying that.”
“Father Henry put most of the money into a trust to take care of the boys who were wards of the state. There have been improvements to the facilities—subtle ones. But Father Henry never wanted the school to look ostentatious. Conspicuous displays of wealth offended him.”
“Interesting opinion for a Catholic.”
Søren glared at him. “We’re not having the Saint Peter’s Basilica argument again.”
“I’m getting you a pair of red leather shoes for Christmas. Why should the Pope have all the fun?”
“I miss beating you sometimes, Kingsley. I truly do.”
The two of them walked toward the main building that housed the offices of the monsignor, Father Thomas, and the other priests. Kingsley kept his eyes on the door and his mind away from the past. He’d indulged far too much in memories on the plane trip here. It was in the woods surrounding this school that the boy, Kingsley Boissonneault, had died, and the man who would become Kingsley Edge had been resurrected.
And it was here that his sister, Marie-Laure, had died, never to be reborn.
“Try not to think of her, Kingsley,” Søren cautioned. Kingsley would have killed him on the spot for that bit of advice but for the almost tender concern in his voice.
“It’s impossible not to. She was all I had after my parents died. The day they took me from her…”
Kingsley forced the memory back and away.
“I had bruises for weeks,” Kingsley said, his fingers twisting into fists.
“From Marie-Laure or from me?”
Kingsley looked sharply at Søren. The priest tried everything to avoid talking about that night they’d become lovers. And yet now, suddenly…Kingsley composed his features. “From Marie-Laure the wounds took three weeks to heal. From you…”
“From me?”
Kingsley gave him a grim grin. “I shall tell you when they do.”
Søren exhaled heavily and opened his mouth to speak. But the door of the main building opened and a man in a full cassock came bustling out toward them.
“Father Stearns,” the priest said breathlessly as he shook Søren’s hand. “I had no idea you were coming.”
“So nice to see you again, Father Marczak. We’re only here for a short visit. This is Kingsley Edge, a friend and another former Saint Ignatius student.”
“Very nice to meet you, Mister Edge.”
Kingsley shook Father Marczak’s hand and nodded. He was in no mood to mask his French accent today and had no patience for all the questions his accent inspired. Better to keep silent. He’d learned in his days as a spy that the less he said, the more others said to him.
“What brings you both here today? Father Thomas is at a conference and I’m afraid I’m a poor substitute.”
“We’re here for reasons of nostalgia only. Please don’t trouble yourself. We simply wanted to see the school again.”
“Of course. We’ve made some improvements recently, thanks to your generosity. New plumbing. New heating units. The roofs have been replaced on all the buildings…you can’t imagine how much we appreciate—”
Søren raised his hand to silence the thanks. Kingsley knew Søren would come to the school much more often if it wasn’t for all the effusive gratitude he had to deal with every time he visited.
“I’m only happy that I could help the school carry on its work. This place saved my life.”
“And you saved the school.”
“Then we should call it even,” Søren said, and Father Marczak smiled in acquiescence.
“Of course. I’ll be in Father Henry—I mean, Father Thomas’s office. If you require anything, don’t hesitate to find me. Feel free to roam the school. The boys love having their classes interrupted by visitors.”
“Thank you, Father. Speaking of visitors, have there been any of note lately?”
Father Marczak gave them each a curious look but didn’t ask for clarification. “No. Not really. A few students have visited in the last few weeks. And, of course, parents of prospective students wanting to see the school.”
“None of them seemed unusual at all? Suspicious? I only ask because I received an unsigned note on Saint Ignatius stationery asking about the school.”
Kingsley glanced at Søren. For a priest sworn to keep the Ten Commandments, the man could lie with the best of them.
Father Marczak shrugged. “Really, no. We did have a single mother a week ago. Asked many questions about the school—more than any of the other parents combined. Many questions about the history of the school and the students who’d graduated—what they did now, what they’d accomplished.”
“Did she speak with an accent?” Søren asked, and Kingsley furrowed his brow. Where had that question come from?
“No accent that I noticed,” Father Marczak said. “Lovely woman, really, if you’ll forgive me for saying that.”
