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Aldo is looking down at him, his eyes both kind and sad.

“Acceptasne electionem de te canonice factam in Summum Pontificem?” he asks.

What can Thomas reply? He closes his eyes and pretends he doesn’t feel the moisture gathering there. “Accepto,” he says, his voice raspy and not steady enough. He has to push the words through; it hurts. Forgive me, he thinks. Forgive me, he prays.

“Quo nomine vis vocari?”

His eyes overflow; a tear, two, five flow down. He bites his cheek and wills them to stop. “Ioannes.”

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder, shakes him and steadies him in the same choked breath. “A good name, Tommaso. A good name.” Tedesco’s voice is gruff, hoarse from the decades of smoking and vaping. And almost a month of grief, too.

None of this should be happening.

Innocent’s, Vincent’s papacy was everything Thomas had prayed for and more. In ten years, he changed so many things, and he had planned to change so many more for the next decade.

He never had the chance.

The so-called peace conference was already much too close to the fighting, but Innocent wasn’t fazed. He strode out of the barracks, his white cassock billowing and his shoulder-length hair whipping about his face, and climbed into a green Jeep with a large red cross painted on its door. The soldier sitting at the wheel froze.

“Good morning,” Innocent said. “I hear a mosque and several houses have been bombed. Can we go there?”

Panting, Thomas finally caught up to him.

“Your Holiness!”

“Dean, you shouldn’t be outside right now.”

The soldier made a small sound of distress, his knuckles white on the wheel. Thomas shared the feeling.

“You shouldn’t either,” he replied. “I’ll resign before I have to manage another conclave.”

Innocent’s eyes widened briefly, but the next instant he’d recovered his poise. The man, Thomas thought, was unflappable. “Oh, we can’t have that.” Whether he meant Thomas’s resignation or his own death was left unclear. “I’m only going where help is needed.” And, presumably, where his presence might—might—stop the bombing, if only for a short while.

They could hear the shelling, see clouds of grey dust rising in the sky. Thomas thought he could make out blood-red blotches in the clouds, just a shade darker than the choir dress he’d left in their hotel. This had only been supposed to be a diplomatic visit until the Pope decided, probably because the talks were going nowhere fast, that he wanted to get closer to the fighting. Closer to the shooting, the killing. So much death, he thought.

“Your Holiness,” Thomas repeated. He knew it was pointless, but he had to try. He did his best to ignore the not-so-distant sound of rockets and the whistling sounds he didn’t want to think too much about, but it was an abject failure. Why did the Prime Minister refuse them the right to bring the Swiss Guards to this meeting? They should never have accepted these conditions; as a matter of fact Cardinal Makinde, the new Secretary for Relations with States, had strongly insisted they didn’t, but here they were all the same. And while Captain Stefan was doing an admirable job and the Pope even listened to him sometimes, Captain Stefan was currently twenty kilometres away.

Innocent looked down, and Thomas was already too familiar with the stubborn fire in his eyes. “I’m going, Thomas.” He turned on his seat. “What is your name?”

“Paul.” The soldier took a breath. “I’m not taking the Pope to a war zone.”

“Then let the Pope take himself to a war zone, Paul. It won’t be my first. Just show me where to go on a map.”

“It might be your last,” Thomas ground out.

“I won’t die from a bullet; you know that.”

Well, Thomas knew about that particular belief, yes. It didn’t mean he shared it. “Your Holiness. Vincent.” The terror he’d fought to keep at bay was rearing up, roiling in his gut. The closest he’d even been to war were his childhood visits to his grandmother’s in Derry and the stories she told, but the Pope… The Pope was calm and collected, ready and eager to be of service. He was in his element, and Thomas was a fish out of water. A fish in the desert, he thought, looking around.

“Oh, Thomas. This is what I was elected for.”

Before Thomas could do more than shake his head, about ten soldiers came running, one of them clapping Paul’s hand. Paul, who swiftly slipped a phone back in his pocket, was apparently an enabler deep down. Thomas couldn’t even resent him for putting Innocent in the line of fire; he knew from experience how unstoppable the Pope was when there was something, anything, he could do to help.

Thus, ten minutes later, the Pope and his Dean were wearing helmets and bulletproof vests. The soldiers made approving noises at Innocent’s obvious familiarity with these, and they all had the grace not to mock Thomas’s awkward fumbles. So there they were, their hands almost touching on the heavily armoured vehicle’s seat that Paul was driving, surrounded by two lighter Jeeps.

It was only the day after that Thomas learned that a journalist, embedded within Paul’s unit, had been in one of those Jeeps, but also that Innocent had been well aware of her presence. He was anything but naïve, actually, and would do whatever it took to push his message. So, the Pope providing first aid and Thomas helping the imam get an old, hand-written Quran out of the rubble made headlines, and almost gave poor Captain Stefan a heart attack.

Thomas would have liked to believe that this would be the only time that their cassocks would have ended up torn, bloodstained, and dusty beyond recognition and repair in the service of the Lord, but he wasn’t delusional.

At least the Church’s relevance and popularity, and the Pope’s political weight, were beyond the Curia’s wildest hopes. Even Tedesco could only grumble and vape about it. Thomas, however, wondered if his heart would survive it.

Now, he knows.

His heart is shattered, yes, but it’s still beating strong in his chest. Vin-cent, Vin-cent, it drums, its rhythm unbroken for so long, too long. A few more years, and he would have been too old to vote, too old to be elected. Innocent should have been Pope for decades; he was elected so young. And now Thomas is old, older every day, every hour. But he’s not old enough.

Vin-cent, Vin-cent. His heart beats its tattoo against the letter he found on his desk, the letter that he’s kept tucked under his cassock for four weeks now, folded around a lock of dark hair.

If I am to die, it reads, I am aware it means putting an immense burden on you, my dear Thomas. But I cannot ignore what we have started, you and I, and I know you cannot either. We both understand what I am asking of you. I have reached the end of my pilgrimage, and yet you must keep on walking. Para la Iglesia, y para mí.

Lo siento, Tomás. Lo siento tanto.

He knew. Somehow, he knew, and he still went and—Thomas can’t even think it. He was there at the hospital, he helped dress Vincent, he held his cold body, he presided over the… the mass. The funeral. And yet, his mind can't accept it.

He’s sitting right where Vincent was expecting him ten years ago, refusing to put on his papal garments until Thomas came. And today, it’s Thomas’s turn to sit and wait, except he knows no one’s coming. He can hear them outside; Goffredo’s booming voice and Aldo’s hissed reply, Adebayo’s and Ray’s attempts at keeping the peace. Ray was made cardinal only a few months ago, and all the other cardinals are well aware that if there’s anything they want to hide, they can’t hide it from Ray.

Neither Thomas nor Vincent could, after all.

But to Thomas’s surprise, it’s not Ray who comes in. It’s a fruity-scented cloud, followed by the Patriarch of Venice.

“Tommaso,” he says. “Giovanni.”

“We’ve known each other too long.” He sighs. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it.”

“You will have to, eh?” Goffredo paces in the small room; he takes all the space. It’s comforting, in a way, familiar. Not always welcome, but familiar. “Elected on the first vote… You know why, Santità.”

“I do.”

“Even I, Tommaso.” Goffredo sits next to him, heavily. The bench groans under the weight of their years and their grief. “I voted for you.”

“Why? You’ll hate everything I’ll do.”

“I will, sì. But you were the right choice. L'unica scelta.” He puffs on his vape. “You have to get the Council done. You were Innocent's right hand already, and you've managed it well so far. Who else could do it?”

“I’m a manager,” Thomas whispers. “I manage.”

“Sì, sì, a manager, and our shepherd now too, eh? I am no sheep, but you were a good Decano for years, and a good cane da guardia for the late Holy Father. Fedele, Tommaso. Faithful and loyal.”

“I…”

“I did not share many of his ideas; you know that. Relativismo, pah! But Innocenzo was a good and pious man and so are you; I can respect that.”

Thomas knows he’s speaking from his heart. Vincent and Goffredo disagreed on many things, but they shared a commitment to the Church. And both had grown up in poverty, even if Goffredo preferred to hide his roots behind all the pomp and rich fabrics his position in the Church bestowed on him. It had shaped them in different ways, but they recognized that in each other.

“He enjoyed debating you.”

“Ha! Sì.” Goffredo pats his knee, casual and warm. “Don’t tell anyone, but he did teach me a few things, eh?”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Thomas replies. They both know that it’s no secret; Cardinal Tedesco would never say he has softened over the years, but somehow the Church is housing a halal soup kitchen in the suburbs of Venice. No one ever dares mention it to the Patriarch's face, of course.

Thomas leans his head back against the wall, and looks at the ceiling. This room is red, dark, stifling. It feels like a womb that he has to leave, to face the world as an old man and a new Pope.

“Tell me, now,” Goffredo says. “This election… He asked you to, no?”

“No, he…” But Thomas can’t lie. “He left me a letter. I think he… suspected. He suspected he would...” Ne, he won't say the word, especially not here, where Vincent held his hands and spoke to him of truth and faith and trust in the Lord.

“The Spirito Santo guided him so he could prepare.”

Thomas shakes his head. The Holy Spirit shouldn’t have taken Vincent; he’d had so much more to do. To—to give. Thomas flexes his fingers in the fabric of his cassock, digs them in his thigh, but the sensation doesn’t register as pain. It doesn’t register as anything, however hard he digs.

Goffredo takes his wrist, shakes it in warning; Thomas tries to relax his hand. “He trusted you like no one else, Tommaso. He trusted you to continue his work; you should be the one to finish what he started.” He pauses. “He loved you like he loved no one else.”

It’s like a knife in Thomas’s heart; he straightens and glares at Goffredo. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

“He didn’t—he was a better man than all of us put together!” Thomas hisses. “He—he—you can’t imply…!”

“I’m not implying anything; I know.” He puffs on his vape, pensive. "I heard you, in the gardens."

“He never—never!”

“Ah, ah, all this talk of relativismo and modernità, what was it all for then, eh? Solo parole?” The cloud of smoke thickens with every puff he takes. “No, no, I know he took his vows to heart, and you are too much of an inglese. But you are his Giovanni, sì? The beloved disciple, eh? You will make his words last. You will write them in marble. It cannot be anyone else. And then, you can rest.”

It is too much. Thomas closes his eyes tightly, but he can’t stop the tears from welling up. He can’t, he can’t do it without Vincent; he can’t. “I’m so old and tired, Goffredo. Every bone hurts.”

“It’s not your bones; è il tuo cuore.” He pats his own chest. “All our hearts, Tommaso; he touched all our hearts, but yours especially.”

What heart? Thomas wants to ask, What heart? It’s ground to dust, sharp-edged and glittering like tears, shrapnel that just digs in deeper and deeper with every step, every breath, every beat. He’ll never be free of it, and he’s not sure he wants to be. The pain is all he has left of Vincent, now.

“You are not alone.” Goffredo gestures expansively at himself, then at the door. “But me, ha! We all know where the Council is going; don’t ask me to preach what it will say. Ask them for that! It’s only a few years, Giovanni; I know you have them in you. He is watching over you, Tommaso. He is watching over la Chiesa, and over you.”

Innocent gave his Urbi et Orbi benediction in the afternoon, and in the evening he was already striding through hospital wards, his ill-fitting robes flaring around his legs.

“I am the bishop of Rome,” he said, “and Rome calls to me in pain.”

Thomas had no reason to follow and he was mentally, physically, and spiritually drained, but he did, of course he did. From the moment Vincent rose to his feet and spoke up, from the moment he asked, in that quiet voice that shut all the other cardinals down, “What do you know about war?”, Thomas knew he’d follow him anywhere, knew he’d lay down his life for him. A hospital visit was nothing.

They went from ward to ward, hospital to hospital, with an escort of Swiss Guards desperately scrambling to adjust to a suddenly spry and energetic Pope determined to escape their vigilance right after bombings shook Europe. Along with the Guards, the Pope was accompanied by one Dean of the College of Cardinals, several Sisters with medical training, one official photographer, and, thankfully, the ever-indispensable Monsignor O’Malley.

Ray and Thomas kept glancing at each other to reassure themselves they were seeing the same thing, even as Ray was on the phone to try and plan Innocent’s visits on the fly. Thomas found himself standing awkwardly at Innocent’s shoulder several times, occasionally translating for him; there were always many tourists in Rome, and the bombs didn’t discriminate. But soon, he and Ray were caught up in pastoral care as well, rekindling a sense of usefulness that years in the Vatican had dulled and deadened. Truly being a priest, following the Holy Father’s example, Thomas felt God’s presence again.

All night long and into the morning, Innocent prayed, he blessed, he comforted, and he even sprang into action when an old man started yelling at a hijabi nurse. Thomas watched with a mixture of awe and an ache he couldn't quite name, not yet, as the Pope himself made the old man’s first stitch with the nurse’s assent. That shocked the old man into speechlessness while the nurse finished the job and Innocent preached to him about fears, faiths, and incidentally how he’d trained with the Red Crescent back in Iraq.

That wild first night ended with the Pope in a birthing room, because a woman who had just lost her husband to the bombing begged him to hold her hand through her labour and her tears.

That was the first time he went viral: the new Pope with a cassock stained with a variety of bodily fluids, beaming as he held a newborn, and the new mother, Chiara, looking up at them with tears in her eyes that Thomas couldn’t really say were of joy or grief. The early morning sun was peeking through the window, delicately gilding the three of them like God himself was blessing the scene, and Thomas prayed with a fervour that had eluded him for years.

Innocent baptized the child the following week. Chiara named her baby Vincent, of course.

There is a lot of talk about how John’s a transition Pope, meant to solidify his predecessor’s legacy but never overshadow him, just here to make sure the Council he was managing—ha!—before his election reaches its conclusions as smoothly as possible. He certainly doesn’t disabuse anyone of that notion; he’s even quoted Innocent in his address to the crowd in St Peter’s square. But the College elected him also because they thought he’d be more dignified, formal, and at least in appearance more conservative, than Innocent.

Thomas is the traditional old white man who’s following in the slow, creaky footsteps of dozens of old white men; he doesn’t have decades ahead of him. Some may even think that between his age and his grief, he might be easier to… nudge, one might say. Of course, his reputation as someone who doesn’t rock the boat was shattered ten years ago with his homily during the Missa pro Eligendo Pontifice, but they still see him more as an anchor than as a whirlwind. They think they can choose where to drop him, like Innocent did.

But Innocent—Vincent—knew the storms that raged and ravaged inside of Thomas. Vincent was his anchor, as he was the Church’s anchor in a time of upheavals. And now Thomas is unmoored, and nothing and no one can give him peace but death and God himself. He will not be a tether to anything but Faith, Charity, Love. He will not do anything but remind his flock that what matters is what one does for one’s fellow human beings, that Christ lives in every soul. He will not rest until vanity is squashed in their hearts, which means he’ll never rest. Thomas knows only too well how one’s soul can die a slow, agonizing death when all that is left is the pretence of faith and empty rituals, when you can’t hear God any longer, when all you’ve got left is despair.

So, his first decision is to ask all the Vatican clergy to spend time every year ministering to parishes or missions in need. Sometimes they are in the poorer areas of a rich country, sometimes they haven’t had a dedicated priest in years, sometimes they're in a war-torn country. If their duties in the Curia don’t allow them to go far, then they have to find a mission, a charity, a shelter near Rome where they can go back to their pastoral roots. They can choose what they feel up to improving, but they have to do something. They have to care for the spiritual needs of their brothers and sisters in Christ, and not just the small, insular world of the Curia.

La Iglesia es lo que hagamos en adelante, indeed. They are priests; they are meant to help, so help they will.

There was a seashell on the Pope’s desk; a plain scallop that Vincent had picked up on a Mexican beach months ago, barefoot and smiling after a long day of meetings and visits and formal dress. As soon as he could, he’d taken off the heavy white garments of his position, kicked off his shoes and rolled up his trousers; Thomas had followed suit at his urging and they’d ended up talking into the night and under the stars. Adebayo Makinde had taken a picture of the two of them, their shoulders brushing and their feet caked with sand. Vincent had folded Thomas’s fingers around the shell; its hard edge had cut into his skin.

“Keep it, my friend. Something to remember me by when I’m gone.”

“What do you mean, when you’re gone?” Vincent’s half-smile had been too knowing by half and Thomas, his stomach in an ugly twist, had dropped the shell back in Vincent’s palm. “You’re much younger than I am!”

“Not all that much, my dear Thomas. But I hear you, and it will stay on my desk for when you are ready.”

“I don’t understand,” Thomas had replied. I will never be ready, he’d thought.

“There’s nothing to understand, Thomas. One day, this will all be yours.” He never elaborated beyond that, and Thomas filed it along with the eerie premonitions that the Pope had sometimes. Thomas never liked them; they always left him unsettled in their vagueness, and even more so since Vincent seemed to know more than he actually said.

And they always came true.

In the months following his tour of the Americas, Vincent threw himself even harder into his ministry. He launched the Council and appointed Thomas to lead it, ramped up his political meddling, and occasionally, when he could escape Captain Stefan’s watchful Guards, attended mass in small churches in or around Rome. Neither priests nor worshippers ever recognized him at first, because he would only wear plain clothes—frayed jeans, a jumper that had seen better days, battered Converse. Sometimes, when he didn’t take communion, they never recognized him at all, and those times he loved the best.

But his little escapades stopped when a picture of him ended up all over the Internet and Aldo read him a respectful but firm riot act, while Captain Stefan looked at him with barely hidden betrayal in his eyes. How could he perform his duty to the Pope, he said, if the Pope didn’t trust his devoted Guards’ judgement?

No one asked Thomas to try and convince the Pope, because by then he was well-known as Innocent’s faithful guard dog. His right-hand man, his most trusted advisor, his closest friend, and the man who would never say no to Innocent's wildest ideas. Thomas learned, later, that the rumours and gossip went further than that. He learned, too, that Vincent had been well aware of those rumours, and had never confirmed nor denied them.

Sinking into an old armchair at the end of the day, Vincent had sighed and reached out to Thomas, taking his hand in his and squeezing gently. “Captain Stefan seems to think I have a death wish, and that I don’t take my own safety seriously.”

Thomas, who had occasionally accompanied Vincent but hadn’t been found out, hummed and squeezed back. “Well, you know you’re a target; it’s understandable he’d worry.”

“But you never did.”

No, he never did, not about visiting churches. Vincent’s unshakeable faith seemed shield enough, and after walking at his shoulder through recent battlefields and violent uprisings, on shaky rubble and on quaking earth, he’d started to share it. As Vincent kept repeating, he would not die from a bullet or a knife, fire or poison, hate or violence. He would not be stabbed or strangled, shot or drowned. Thomas had come to trust that.

What he’d come to fear, however, was Vincent’s more and more frequent hints at his passing.

“What do you mean, he knew he was going to die?” Aldo paces around the office, long, angry strides that belie his age, while Sister Agathe, Thomas's efficient second-in-hand, is typing on her phone. Tadek, Innocent's personal secretary, is whispering to Ray, who is holding a tablet and probably already working on to-do lists or schedules. They're ignoring Aldo, but they're not ignoring Thomas. They keep glancing at him, as if to make sure he hasn’t disappeared from one moment to the next.

“He used to say…” Thomas’s voice breaks. He digs his fingers in his thigh, but the slight pain isn’t enough; he can’t—he can’t—

“Here.” A warm, dry hand picks his up and wraps it around a warm, but not hot, mug. “Hold this instead,” Adebayo says.

“Thank you,” Thomas murmurs. He knows they’re managing him. He hates it; he’s the manager. He should be able to manage himself, to manage everything. That’s his job, what he does best, and yet he’s frozen inside and out.

“He’s in shock.” Aldo’s voice is closer; he’s stopped pacing.

“No, I…” He bites his cheek, starts again. “He always says he won’t die from a bullet or a knife. He has these… premonitions.” He takes a deep breath. “Had.” And then Thomas remembers it.

Before anyone can stop him, he gets to his feet and hurries to Vincent’s—the Pope’s—the desk. The Papal Apartments are so familiar by now, he could find it in the darkest night. It’s a good thing; his vision is too blurry to help him navigate any other space. He finds it and brings it back to the couch.

“He gave me this once,” he says, forcing his hand open to show it to the others.

“A seashell?”

“I remember. That was in Mexico, right? Last year?” Adebayo points to a framed picture on a dresser. “I took that picture,” he adds.

Thomas nods. “He said… he said it was something to remember him by when he’d be gone. But I didn’t want it; I didn’t know what it meant. So he kept it on his desk, and he said it would wait for when I’m ready.” One day, this will all be yours, Vincent even added. Thomas wants nothing of it all; he only wants what he can’t have. He only wants a dead man, the holiest of them all, to be brought back to him.

Aldo considers the scallop, a hand rubbing his chin. “He used to say that life itself is a pilgrimage.”

“And that makes you think he knew?” Ray asks, pointing at the shell.

It never ends. If only he could lie down and pray, holding Vincent’s pectoral cross, crushing the white zucchetto that smells like him in his hand. If only he could fall asleep and never wake up, if only he hadn’t made vows and promises, spoken and unspoken. “There’s also the letter.” He swallows. “I found it an hour ago, on my desk. It was sent yesterday as he was being admitted to the hospital.”

“He sent you a letter?” Sister Agathe's eyes are much too compassionate, and Thomas has to look away.

He picks up his Bible and holds it out to Adebayo; an envelope is peeking out from between its pages. The contents are already branded in his brain: the words, the neat script. He can’t look at it again. He knows what it says. What it means.

He nods at Adebayo, and watches him open it and unfold the stiff paper. “If I am to die,” Adebayo reads out loud, “I am aware it means putting an immense burden on you, my dear Thomas. But I cannot ignore what we have started, you and I, and I know you cannot either. We both understand what I am asking of you. I have reached the end of my pilgrimage, and yet you must keep on walking. Para la Iglesia, y para mí. Lo siento, Tomás. Lo siento tanto.”

There’s a long silence, and then Aldo whispers, “Jesus. He did know.”

“And he’d made plans for it,” Ray adds.

“It has to be you. I’m sorry, Thomas.” Adebayo carefully folds the letter and slides it back into the envelope before giving it back to Thomas, who slips it under his cassock. He doesn’t dare put it right against his skin; that would feel blasphemous, but he can still feel its shape. At least—at least—he can have that. That, and a seashell whose rim is cutting deep into his palm. He doesn’t notice the blood until Aldo yelps and three men of the cloth rush to pry the shell from his hand and clean and bandage his palm.

He hopes the scar will remain until his own death.

Innocent was elected Pope in November, and then it was straight into the whirlwind of the Advent and Christmas preparations, all while getting up to speed with, well, with everything. Getting to know the members of the Curia, how all the departments and offices and services worked, and thinking about who to appoint where. He didn’t make any big changes in the first few months, but the entire Curia was expectant; the mood was tense in the Vatican.

Thomas, however, was thriving. He’d found a renewed sense of purpose with Innocent’s election; once again, he felt joyful in prayer and useful in his duties. He helped the Pope in his mission, and he believed in the Pope.

But of course, he still felt doubt. Not the same ones as before, but still doubt gnawed at his soul, when he took a moment to himself.

He remembered Vincent Benítez’s words and the turmoil they’d created in his heart, about how his devotion and service having been, perhaps, misplaced over the years he’d spent in the closed microcosm of the Vatican. Still, after those first weeks following the Pope, Thomas remembered why he’d been called to the priesthood. It wasn’t just scholarship; he could have studied theology and canon law as a layman. No, it was also the desire to be of service that had driven him as a young man, a lifetime ago. Guiding souls, helping those in need, turning a parish into a haven like Father John in his childhood church. After his own father had died, Father John had been there for him and his mother, and he’d wanted to give back what the Church had offered him.

He’d forgotten it all, as he was climbing the ranks of an institution for which he had never had any real ambition. He felt, sometimes, as if his teachers, his friends, his mentors had been ambitious for him, and he’d just gone along with it, thinking they all knew best and not wanting to upset them. Now, all of that had melted away; all he wanted was to be of service.

The only thing that gnawed at him, in the darker hours of the night, was the fear he wasn’t truly honest with himself. Was it the Lord, was it his brothers and sisters in Christ he was devoted to? Or was it one man, clothed in pure white and whose heart beckoned Thomas like nothing else?

At first, he left his bed and sat on a hard chair, rosary in hand. He knew better than to kneel on the prie-dieu; the pain would have been excruciating and would have helped him focus for the hours of prayer ahead, but he wouldn’t have been able to stand for the rest of the day. No, better to use a chair, uncomfortable but not anything that would make him unable to serve during the day.

More and more often as the months went by, he went to the chapel in the Palace of the Holy Office, and more than once Aldo or Ray found him there. He thought back of a grey and cold day mid-December, a day like many others.

“Thomas?”

He jerked, his fingers clenching around his rosary. “Good morning, Aldo.”

“Good morning, my friend.” Aldo sat next to him and narrowed his eyes at Thomas. There was not a wrinkle on his cassock, and his zucchetto was as precisely seated on his bald skull as ever. “Have you slept at all?”

“Of course.”

“I mean sleep, Thomas, not lay on your bed wide awake. I know you, remember?”

“I am not tired.”

“Hm.” Aldo shook his head. “You’re unshaven, and your collar is crooked.”

Thomas’s hand flew to his throat, but he found his clerical collar right where it should be. “It’s not!”

“But you thought it could be. You spent the night here, didn’t you?”

He shrugged. “Not the whole night.”

“What is troubling you, Thomas? After the conclave, I thought you’d found new purpose.”

“I have, Aldo. We made the right choice.”

Aldo, who’d both wanted and dreaded the papacy, gave him a bittersweet smile. “Yes, I believe so too. But you should take better care of yourself, or our Holy Father will worry.”

Thomas tried to protest, but Aldo sent him home with a stern look that didn’t hide his concern. “I’ll see you at lunch, Thomas!”

Back in his apartment after these conversations, Thomas would take a scalding shower, scrub his skin dry and raw, as raw as he could, and skip breakfast. He’d have coffee at his desk; it would suffice. If he accidentally burned himself when he spilled the hot drink, then he could do without that, too.

He pretended this could go on forever.

Of course it couldn’t, and so it didn’t.

One day in January, a little after the Epiphany, Thomas fainted. One moment he was standing at Innocent’s elbow as they were going through the week’s schedule, and the next he was blinking up at the ceiling.

“Tomás!”

Yes, that was his name. Innocent was hovering over him, which was strange. He was taller than the Pope. Hands on him, at his throat, opening his cassock. What… more hands, or maybe the same hands, turning him to his side. All he could see was white. He closed his eyes again.

He woke up in a bed, not his bed. This bed was too soft, and the linen too smooth. He let his palms linger on it for a moment, allowing himself an indulgence that he probably should refrain from before getting up. He wasn’t sure where he was, but he had duties to attend to. Lying about luxuriating in comfort was not what he expected of himself, so he got to his side and started to push himself up.

“Absolutely not; you’re staying put.”

Small but unyielding hands pushed him down, and Sister Agnes’s stern features appeared into his field of vision.

“Sister, I…”

“Eminence.” He thought she’d warmed up to him, at least a little, during the conclave, but now she looked fearsome. “You collapsed from too much work and not enough rest and sustenance. You’re staying put.”

“…What?”

“You heard me. You’ve given His Holiness a terrible fright, by the way.”

Thomas ignored that as he wriggled enough to be half-sitting. “I have a report to…”

“Monsignor O’Malley is perfectly able to give it to him and explain anything that needs explaining.”

“But I’m quite well; I just…” He racked his memory for a moment; it wasn’t the first time it had happened to him, although it was the first in decades. “It’s just a vasovagal syncope.”

“Big words won’t get you out of it, Eminence.”

He felt himself shrink a little under her gaze, so he looked down at his left hand, lying listlessly on the bedsheets. Speaking of shrinking, the skin there looked even thinner and paler than usual, the age spots more prominent than ever. He curled his fingers, dug them into his thigh, but he felt nothing. He was numb; he felt dead in all but the technicalities of it.

The sight of his clawed hand didn’t help, so he turned his eyes to the window and saw a large bouquet of sunflowers, the one bright spot of colour in the room. He heard the door open and close; Sister Agnes had probably seen herself out. She had a busy schedule, too. She was indispensable, while he was apparently stuck here for the foreseeable future. Useless, and almost lifeless.

“Thomas.”

He startled at the voice. “Your Holiness!”

Innocent sat on the edge of his bed, ignoring the chair Sister Agnes had just vacated. “I was just speaking to your doctor. He couldn’t break confidentiality, of course, but I understood enough.” He sighed and took Thomas’s hand, gently forced it open. “I should have seen it, but I was too caught up in my new duties and didn’t pay enough attention; I ask for your forgiveness.”

“Your Holiness, there’s nothing…”

“Vincent. Call me Vincent, please.”

“Vincent,” Thomas repeated. A tugging sensation made him look down. “Oh.”

The arm Innocent—Vincent—was holding had an IV line in it. He followed the tube with his eyes, up to a clear bag hanging from a metal pole by his bed.

“Yes, oh. You haven’t been taking very good care of yourself, Thomas.”

He didn’t know what to reply, so he kept quiet. The Pope’s thumb was gently stroking his skin, as if he were precious and fragile; it was too much. Something flared in his chest, something ugly and wicked and unholy, but he couldn’t make himself tug his hand away. What was happening? Well, no; he knew what was happening. It was wrong; this jealousy, this possessiveness, this—this… this want in him, to reach out and grab the Pope—the Pope!—and not let go, this depraved desire for more contact that Innocent’s chaste touch had ignited in him.

No, no, he was unworthy; he should pray for forgiveness, for the fortitude to confess and repent and do better, be better.

“Thomas. Tomás?”

He jerked out of his thoughts, his hand almost slipping out of Innocent’s, but the Pope held him fast. “Your Holiness,” he murmured. “My apologies.”

Innocent looked at him with a strange sadness in his eyes. “No apologies are needed. I should let you rest, but you look troubled. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I’ve kept you away from your duties for too long already.” He still didn’t move his hand away. Such weakness! Shameful.

“There is nothing urgent at the moment. Cardinal Bellini can do without me for the afternoon.” He took a deep breath. “He said you haven’t been sleeping, and Sister Agnes reported that you haven’t been eating, either.”

Thomas should have remembered the Sisters listened and watched, and that it all travelled back to Sister Agnes’s ears. Protesting would mean accusing them of lying, and Thomas couldn’t do that; it would be uncharitable when all they’d been doing was tell the truth as they saw it. He felt they were wrong, but if he truly looked at how he’d been doing… So, he stared at the sunflowers instead.

“Ah, the sunflowers! Cardinal Tedesco had them delivered as soon as he heard you were in hospital.”

Thomas made a small, weak noise.

“The news went through the Curia and beyond like wildfire, and everyone is praying for your swift recovery.”

“I must thank them, then. I should write…”

“You should do nothing but rest; I’ll pass on your thanks for now. The doctor said you would be on sick leave for the next two weeks at the very least, plenty of time for you to write short, I repeat, short thank-you notes if you feel you have to.”

“Two weeks?”

“At the very least.”

Thomas’s free hand clenched again; he dug his fingers deeper into his weak flesh, trying to feel something, trying to feel pain; he couldn't let the Pope see how shocked he was, how…

“Oh, Thomas.” Innocent plucked his hand and forced it to relax, then he took a tissue from the bedside table and gently dabbed Thomas’s cheeks. Was he crying? Why was he crying? “No te preocupes de nada, Tomás.” He smiled, gentle and compassionate, and gathered his pale, age-spotted, thin hands in his healthy brown ones. “En cambio, ores por todo. Dígale a Dios lo que necesitas y dale gracias por todo lo que él ha hecho. ¿Sí?”

Thomas nodded weakly. Pray, he could do. Give thanks, yes. But asking for what he needed, when he only needed to be of service? Not worrying, when he could not perform his duty? What was he good for, lying here in this too-soft bed?

Innocent bowed his head for a moment, as if he needed to collect himself before continuing. “Así experimentarás la paz de Dios, que supera todo lo que podemos entender. La paz de Dios cuidará tu corazón y tu mente mientras en Cristo Jesús.”

“God’s peace,” Thomas whispered.

“You have to trust in Him to guard your heart, Tomás. It is a precious thing, and you have neglected it.”

“A weakness of the body isn’t…”

“You have made your body weak because you have not asked for what your heart needs. Listen to His Word, please.” He paused. “Listen to me, if it’s easier. Or if you’d rather Cardinal Bellini or…”

“No!” Thomas caught himself before he could shame himself more. “I apologize, your Holiness, I…”

Innocent shushed him. “I told you; it’s Vincent. And do not apologize, not for this. I am grateful for your trust, and I hope you trust me, too.”

“Of course!”

“Then trust that while your help is always appreciated, it is your friendship and steadfast presence that I need the most. Unless—” he looked stricken for a moment “—unless you’d prefer leaving Rome altogether. I wouldn’t want to tie you down to something that you resent.”

“No, Your—Vincent. No.” he shook his head, appalled at the idea of leaving. What once had been his most burning desire had become his most terrible fear, all because of that man. That holy man, that he couldn't, wouldn’t taint with his desperation. He made himself tug his hands out of Vincent’s grip. “I shall endeavour to be back at work as soon as possible.”

“Oh, Tomás.” Vincent stood up and gave him a sad smile. “I hope that one day you will learn that compassion for oneself isn’t a sin.” He bent enough to kiss Thomas’s forehead and left, closing the door with a soft click.

Thomas didn’t move for a very long time afterwards.

He was driven back home the next evening, and was allowed to ride seated in a Vatican car with tinted windows. A Sister accompanied him to his apartment, the doctors’ orders and a paper bag with his medication clutched in her hand, and she asked if he needed any help before she left. He shook his head and thanked her, and once he was finally alone closed his eyes. He didn’t know what had been in all the bags that had been fed into his IV, but he felt unable to sleep, so he sat in the dark praying, his rosary’s beads soft with age in his hands.

Aldo found him still there in the morning, after knocking and letting himself in.

“Good morning, Thomas. You gave us all quite a scare the other day, you know.”

Thomas hummed and tried to stand to greet him. He wanted to say, “I’m fine,” but his legs betrayed him and he fell back on the couch, making Aldo rush to him in concern.

“Sorry, I’m just a bit stiff.” He tried to push Aldo away but his friend’s hands were gripping him too hard.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t go to bed last night, Thomas.” He didn’t release him until they were both sitting on the couch. “Thomas?”

“I felt the need to pray.”

“Oh, this really can’t go on!” He got to his feet and came back with a cardboard box that he deposited on the coffee table. “You’ve always had a penchant for mortification, but this time you’ve taken it too far!” Aldo’s raised voice reminded him of his outburst during the conclave, when he told Thomas that he shouldn’t be so naïve. He didn’t want to fight with Aldo, not again; it was too painful.

“It’s not mortification,” he pleaded. Even to his own ears it sounded weak.

“You’re swimming in your cassock, Thomas.” Aldo pinched the fabric. “How did you hide this from us? I know the conclave was a difficult time, but you looked so much happier afterwards.”

“Happier?”

“Yes, happier. More present, more like the old Thomas. You smiled more, and during services you sang with more heart than ever. I thought our new Holy Father had answered your prayers and more, frankly.”

Thomas looked down. “He has.”

“Then I’m glad for you.” Aldo paused. “He relies on you as well. Too much?”

“Too much? No, never. I’m happy to be of service.”

“That is Thomas-speak for ‘I will overwork myself down to the bone.’” With a sigh, Aldo stood up and went into the kitchen; Thomas heard him fiddling with the coffee machine. After a few minutes, he was back with a tray that he didn’t even know he had, carrying two coffees, two glasses of water, and the paper bag the Sister had left in the kitchen the previous evening. “I brought us breakfast,” he said mildly, setting the tray next to the box. He opened it and took out two cornetti. “I know you like these.”

Something twisted in Thomas’s gut, and it took him a moment to be able to speak. “Thank you,” he finally murmured. “I’m not hungry.” At Aldo’s frown, he added, “I’ll eat it later; I promise.”

The frown deepened, and Aldo shook one of the pillboxes he’d pulled out of the paper bag. “You’re not supposed to take these on an empty stomach.” He was making a visible effort not to yell, maybe even take Thomas by the shoulders and shake him.

“Later, then.”

“Do you want to go back to the hospital? Is that what you want?”

Thomas shook his head; of course not, he didn’t want to go back to the hospital. There were people who were truly sick there; poor souls suffering from anorexia or depression, and Thomas didn't want to take doctors' valuable time away from them.

With a frustrated growl, Aldo left the couch again and started to pace. “You never had much of an appetite, but this…!” He threw his hands up. “Thomas, you have to tell us! You have to tell us how to help you.”

“Help me?”

Aldo sighed and strode into the kitchen again, this time coming back with a small plate. He put a cornetto on it, and held it out to Thomas. “You don’t have to finish it, but just… please, just a few bites. If you won’t do it for me, then do it for the Holy Father.” At Thomas’s wide eyes, he added, “He’s out of his mind with worry! Like all of us, Thomas!”

“I never meant to have anyone worry, especially not His Holiness.” He shivered, did he leave a window open the night before?

Aldo’s sharp eyes didn’t miss it, of course. “You’re cold,” he muttered, “of course you’re cold.” He went into Thomas’s bedroom in a few angry steps, and he came back with a jumper and a blanket. “Did you bulk up with a sweater under your cassock?” He watched silently as Thomas mumbled his thanks and put on the jumper.

“I never tried to hide anything.”

“I don’t think you were, not truly; your nature isn’t deceitful. But now you can’t hide it any longer, not even from yourself.” Aldo’s face had often reminded Thomas of a bird of prey: piercing eyes, beak-like nose. Thomas felt like a mouse about to be caught and eaten. Aldo sat back and took Thomas’s cold fingers in his. “I can’t force you, my friend, but I beg you. Save yourself so we don’t have to do without you. Innocent wouldn’t forgive us.”

“He would. He would forgive you,” Thomas whispered. He could still feel Vincent’s soft, dry lips on his liver-spotted forehead… But could he forgive Thomas, if he knew what sin was lurking in his soul? Ask for what your heart needs… He never could, never. What he hungered for was nothing but blasphemy, wickedness, truly the Devil’s work, tempting him to give his very heart to only one man and not God and the Church. He needed to repent; he needed to be given penance but he could never confess his depraved cravings lest he tainted the Holy Father by uttering them in a confessor’s ears.

But Aldo knew him well, and he squeezed Thomas's shoulder gently, too gently. “Thomas,” he said, “would it help if I—would you like to confess? It doesn’t have to be me; I can find someone else for you. Just say the word.” He looked afraid, almost panicked when Thomas buried his face in his hands, his breaths catching in his throat again and again as he tried to keep his tears, his sobs in. He tried so hard, but he lost that battle, too. He kept losing battles, these days. He was tired, so tired of fighting them, fighting himself, so tired of failing, again and again. As long as he could throw himself into work for the Holy Father he could push everything else down under his duties, but in this moment he felt submerged. Drowning.

“Aldo, I’m sorry, I…”

But Aldo didn’t let him pull away; he tugged him closer, embraced him, held him. “Don’t be sorry, old friend. I will share your burden, if you’ll let me.”

It took Thomas a while until he could breathe properly again, until he could speak again. Finally, a tissue clutched in his fist and his eyes on the wooden floorboards, he mouthed the words, silently at first. Aldo patiently waited as he worked himself up to it, his worry only betrayed by the slightly deeper-than-usual divot between his eyebrows.

He didn’t bother with the ritual words of confession; he didn’t really want it to be a confession, couldn’t deal with that formality between Aldo and himself right in this moment. “I,” he whispered. Tried again. “I love him.”

Aldo was quiet for a minute. “Yes,” he finally said. He sounded utterly unsurprised, and it made Thomas look up in shock.

“'Yes’?”

“Yes, I know. I think he knows, too.” Before Thomas could ask anything, he added, “If the Pope himself isn’t troubled by it, why would you torture yourself so much over it?”

“You know it’s him?”

“How long have we been friends, Thomas? I’ve seen how you look at him, with love and trust. I’ll be honest, Thomas, since we’re…” he waved a hand above them. “...since we’re doing this. I wanted you to look at me like that for a long time, when we were younger, but your steadfast friendship was rock enough for me, in the end.”

“Aldo! I never knew; I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It would take someone as exceptional as him to awaken this in you; I never had a chance.”

“But it’s a sin! You were stronger than I am; I can’t stop. I can feel my soul burn and crumble into dust; I’ve lost God’s grace and I’m bringing sin to His Holiness’s side.”

“It’s not a sin. Love is not a sin; it’s what we’re preaching! Come on, Thomas, you know better than that. Desire, even, is not a sin; the sin can only be in what we do with it. I don’t think you’ve forced yourself on anyone, have you?”

Thomas gaped in shock. “No!”

“Love is not a sin; desire is natural. What your heart yearns for is part of human nature. It’s how He made us.” He paused. “By prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.”

Thomas smiled, a little bitterly. “He quoted Philippians to me, too.”

“Well, I don’t know; I think I should be flattered that my mind goes the same place as the Pope’s, yeah?”

“I didn’t tell him, Aldo. And I certainly can’t ask God. I pray that he can free me from this temptation, from this wickedness.”

“He won’t. I told you; it’s no sin. He can’t blame you for the feelings He made you able to feel; He wants you to have them.”

“I don’t want them!”

“Yes, that’s part of the package. Love is pain, too, but in love you will find yourself closer to Him.”

Thomas felt heart-sick all of a sudden. “Oh, Aldo, I apologize if I hurt you; I shouldn't have told you about any of that.”

“No, on the contrary; it’s a good thing. I know where you are; I’ve been there. There’s one difference, though.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows a little, although he couldn't quite bring himself yet to look at Aldo for more than a fleeting moment. He dreaded what he could see in his face.

“I always knew you’d never love me the way I loved you. I made my peace with it early on; it didn’t break me. I’m glad to have known what it is to love, and I’ve had your friendship for decades. But.”

“But?” Thomas can hardly think, hardly breathe.

“I think you should talk to Innocent.”

For two weeks, at every mealtime, someone found him under one pretence or another. He tried to hide in the Archives, then he ventured out in Rome wearing plain clothes, a nigh-invisible old man on a quest to find the smallest, most out of way churches, but it was pointless. They probably assigned a Swiss Guard to follow him, and all the detective books he’d read didn’t help him ditch whoever was shadowing him. After the first week, he mostly stayed near the Vatican; he’d resigned himself to it. He’d never be free from his own personal warden.

One day, it was a young Sister, freshly arrived in the Vatican, who found him near Santa Barbara Dei Librai.

“Eminence!”

He closed his eyes briefly before turning around and smiling at her. “Sister… Agathe?”

“Yes, Eminence.” She bobbed her head, and he couldn't ignore the faint flush on her cheeks. She was so young, and she was still dazzled by Rome, the Cardinals, everything. He had been too, once.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Oh, no.” She looked up at the church’s narrow façade. “I am new here, and I thought I could use my free time to see the sights.”

He watched it, narrow and crowded on both sides by other buildings at the end of a street, from under his flat cap’s bill. It had none of the grandeur, fame, or majestic setting that many other Roman churches had. “Santa Barbara isn’t really high up on the must-see lists.”

“Well, I thought I would enjoy quieter places better, Eminence.”

“Ah. I see. Well, don’t let me take too much of your sightseeing time, Sister.” He always made a valiant attempt at escape, and inevitably, the attempt was thwarted.

“Sister Agnes said those who had been in Rome the longest would know where to find the best trattorie. You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?”

Thomas’s lips twitched. “Are you calling me old, Sister?”

Her eyes widened and she laughed. “Oh, I didn’t mean to, Eminence.”

“You’re sadly not in luck; I’ve only rarely eaten out in Rome.” He could hear Aldo in his mind, grumbling something about rarely eating, full stop.

“I saw one two streets over,” she said, pointing to her left. “Would you like to try it?”

A dark, bitter part of him wanted to yell at her to leave him alone, but she didn’t deserve his rage. “It’s your shift of Lawrence-wrangling, I take it? I suppose I should let whoever’s shadowing me today have their own break.”

To his utter shock, she winked at him. “Yes, that would be appreciated. I promise I won’t tattle too much on what you eat or don’t eat, Eminence.”

“Ah. You’ve been briefed, then.”

“Yes.” Her expression grew serious for a moment, and he was struck by the intelligence and fire in her eyes. “I volunteered, Eminence. I thought I could pick your brain about the paper I’m working on, while you pick at your food.”

“Ouch.”

When she left to return to the Vatican, he realised he’d smiled more in one afternoon than in the past ten days. He’d enjoyed their talk and her bright mind, and as he wandered through a park and found a bench to sit on, he gave thanks to God. He hadn’t thought it possible that anyone who wasn’t Innocent could make his heavy heart lighter, and yet. Perhaps he wasn’t too old to make new friends, after all.

One evening at dinnertime, he tried to convince Captain Stefan to let him wander Rome on his own, but the good Captain refused. He left a pile of books on his dresser, and told him he’d heard that Cardinal Lawrence liked detective books, so he’d brought his favourites. And then he stood there, hat in hand, trying to look informal but mostly looking very awkward and very young to Thomas’s eyes.

“Thank you, Captain. Aren’t you supposed to force-feed me now? This is how these visits go.” He’s tired, and he can’t help being a little irritable. “Forgive me; that was uncalled for.”

“No, I understand that it’s a lot.” He paused. “Sister Agathe said you knew you were followed; I apologise. It’s for your own safety.”

“I was walking on my own long before you were born, Captain,” Thomas replied mildly. “I think you’re also making sure whoever’s on cardinal duty can find me ‘by chance’ every day?”

Poor Captain Stefan; making sure a wayward cardinal didn’t faint in the middle of a Roman street was not part of his missions, and yet here he was. “I’m sorry, Your Eminence.”

“Don’t be.”

The Guard twisted his cap again. “Er, also. His Holiness said to ask you if you’d like to join him for dinner.”

Thomas sat down in shock. “He did?” Why did his voice sound so breathy all of a sudden, so thready? He hadn’t seen Innocent since the visit in the hospital; he’d tried not to read anything into it beyond the Pope’s busy schedule that he was still privy to, but it hurt nonetheless. His Holiness sent him a few texts, neutral well-wishes and asking about his recovery, friendly but nothing more. Perhaps, Thomas feared, he had guessed what lurked in the darkest corners of Thomas’s soul. Perhaps he was waiting for the doctors’ go-ahead to gently, but firmly, let him go, send him to a faraway diocese or, perhaps, a monastery.

“I…” he croaked. He cleared his throat, hoping his cheeks weren’t as red as they felt. “Yes, I’d like to. Let me just…” He made to go to his bedroom, but Captain Stefan spoke again.

“He said to tell you to come as you were.”

“But I’m not even wearing a cassock!” It was his armour, what separated him off from the world, what marked him as untouchable. He feared what it would tell Innocent, if he came to him so dressed down, so… human-like. He gave another reason, of course. “It’s disrespectful.”

“With all due respect, Your Eminence, you’re making the Holy Father wait.”

Thomas sighed in defeat, making sure his clerical collar, at least, was properly centred before he left his apartment. He wished young people didn’t find him so easy to play.

Captain Stefan walked with him to the Apostolic Palace. To the surprise of many, Innocent had chosen to make use of the Papal Apartments. The Pope, Captain Stefan said, was planning to make good use of the small apartments in the attic above his rooms, inviting friends he’d made in previous missions. Thomas only nodded and made small encouraging noises so the good Captain would keep making conversation; he wasn’t up to saying much. He knew the main reason why Innocent had chosen the Apartments, as a gesture of pacification for the more conservative factions who had raged against Ignatius's choice.

He followed in a daze, wondering if Innocent was about to sack him—oh, he’d do it gently, of course. He’d be understanding, suggest Thomas—not the Dean, his Dean, any longer—get a proper holiday, maybe a few weeks on the seaside like a consumptive Victorian maiden. Yes, he’d tell him, Thank you, Thomas, you’ve been dedicated to our Church for so long; you’ve earned it. Something along those lines, yes. And then he’d hint at retiring, perhaps even delicately referring to their conversation during the conclave, when Thomas had talked about his difficulties. Of course, that was why His Holiness had asked for him.

And he was considerate enough to do it in the evening, when almost no one would be around to witness the inglorious end of Thomas’s years of service to the Vatican. Captain Stefan had to know; that must have been why he’d insisted Thomas didn’t bother with a cassock. After all, if he was about to be sent away, what use was it to wear anything that proclaimed his Cardinal status with the red piping? He’d always be a priest, of course; his collar could stay, but…

“Here we are, Your Eminence.”

“Oh. Yes, thank you, Captain.” Thomas nodded at the Guard, who gave him an encouraging smile of the kind you’d give someone about to be told they weren’t good enough any longer, but who didn’t know it yet.

But Thomas knew.

He stiffened his spine and knocked on the door, preparing himself to take the news with as much grace as he could. It was, after all, only the normal order of things. The Pope, the Church needed only the very best, and if Thomas was not up to the task, then he should not stay in his post.

“Thomas!” Innocent said, even before the door was fully open. “Come, come in, my friend; I am so glad to see you.”

“Your Holiness,” Thomas managed, letting himself be ushered in without being even given the chance to bow and kiss the Fisherman’s ring. He hadn’t been in those rooms for weeks, and then only in the office part; now he could see the changes Innocent had made as he was pulled further inside. The Pope marched him to the kitchen, where something was cooking; he bent over a pan and stirred whatever was inside before inviting Thomas to sit at the table.

“Vincent, please.”

Thomas forced a tight-lipped smile to cover his trepidation, and nodded. “Of course.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of asking Cardinal Bellini about your preferences, and he said you enjoyed the occasional curry. I hope you’re hungry; I’ve made a lot. I’m still getting used to cooking only for me.”

“It smells great.” It did, but Thomas’s stomach was tying itself into knots and the idea of eating anything made him want to retch. He swallowed, but his mouth remained too dry. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

“Well, I’ve learned to, and now I enjoy it. But it was for my congregation, or the mission, or a soup kitchen; rarely just for myself.”

Thomas nodded. “I see,” he croaked.

Innocent eyed him. “Oh, I’m not being a good host. Would you like something to drink?”

“Er. Just water is fine.” He made to stand up and get it himself but a stern gaze made him sit back. The Pope shouldn't be the one cooking, pouring water for Thomas, fussing over him with a kind smile. Thomas should be the one doing all that, but he could tell that if he did Innocent would be upset. But he was the Holy Father! The weight of the Church on his shoulders was more than enough already, and—

“Drink, Thomas.”

He looked down and saw the tall glass in front of his folded hands. Standing on the other side of the table, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder, Pope Innocent was looking down at him with a slight frown. He didn’t look like the Pope right then; he wasn’t wearing the right clothes, the right colour, and yet he radiated calm authority and goodness. Yes, they’d chosen well when they voted for him, and Thomas was far too old and tainted by years in the Curia to deserve to remain by his side.

“Thomas,” he repeated. “Thomas, you’re worrying me.” He stepped around the table and pulled a stool from under it. “You look like you’re about to be sentenced to—oh.” He sat down a bit too fast, the blood draining from his face. “Oh, Tomás, is your cancer back?”

Thomas blinked. “My…? No, no. I’m fine, Your Holiness. Perfectly healthy.”

“Oh. Good, good.” The Pope ran a hand through his hair—still very black, getting longer—and visibly relaxed. “Then why the long face? And it’s Vincent; it’s only the two of us here, as friends. I hope we are friends, ¿sí?”

“Yes, of course.”

Innocent smiled. “Then will you tell me what troubles you? Or… tell someone, at least?”

Later, Thomas would swear something in his chest snapped. At the time, he only felt a sudden terror, something thick coming up his throat and choking him. His heart perhaps, or too many tears that he knew better than to let out, but that still tried to force their way out. He couldn’t breathe for them; it was too much, thick phlegm suffocating him with everything he’d pushed down for too long. He just needed to hold on a little longer, not let it show. He jerked his head to the side with a gasp, but it was futile. He couldn’t hide his shame from Innocent.

He heard Innocent’s stool screech on the floor, his quick footsteps, and to his horror he opened his eyes to the Pope—the Pope!—kneeling at his feet.

“Tomás?”

“No, no, don’t… No, you shouldn’t…!” He tried to pull Innocent up but as he knew only too well at this point, the Pope was not to be made to do something he didn’t want to.

“What is hurting you so, my friend?”

“It’s nothing, Your… it’s nothing. I’m just getting, ah, too easily emotional in my old age.”

“Emotions are not a bad thing.” He gave Thomas a small smile. “I know you’re British, but I’m sure you know that. Now, is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, I—yes.” He looked away from the Pope, away from the man who was about to ask Thomas to leave his service forever. “I would ask you to do it quickly, please.”

“Do what?”

“Tell me what you’ve asked me for this evening. I have been derelict in my duties for weeks, and I understand that…”

“Derelict in your duties?”

“Well, I…”

“Derelict in your duties?” Innocent got to his feet. “Cardinal Bellini’s right; you really are your own worst enemy.” He closed his eyes for a few seconds, lips moving slightly as if in prayer. “I haven't asked for you to reprimand you, or fire you, or anything of the sort," he said. "I’ve asked for you because I haven’t seen you in weeks, and I wanted to know how you were doing. I’ve missed you, Thomas. I didn’t want to disturb you during your recovery and I was afraid that if I came to see you, you’d decide to cut your sick leave short, but now I’m not so sure that it was my best idea.”

“You didn’t need me.”

Jaw tight, Innocent sighed through his nose. “You, my dear Thomas, can be infuriating.”

“A cardinal who can’t fulfil his obligations isn’t of any use to you.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never taken a break from work before.”

“Well, of course; when I was undergoing chemotherapy…”

“That is not a break.”

“Of course.” He swallowed. “When there is a calmer period, I sometimes take a step back from my responsibilities.”

“And what do you do, then?”

“Well, it gives me the opportunity to get up to date on the most interesting papers on canon law. Sometimes I have time to write an article or two, though of course I can’t be as productive as I used to be when I taught full-time.”

Innocent’s gaze on him felt heavy, and Thomas found it hard to bear. “You write articles.”

“I know this isn’t what you want me to say,” he murmured, looking away.

“No, it’s not. No wonder I hear you’ve been wandering around Rome like a lost pilgrim; you have no idea what to do with so much time on your hands.” With those words, Innocent took Thomas’s veined, liver-spotted hands in his. “My friend, I’m not sending you away. I do need you; Monsignor O’Malley has been outstanding in his work, but he's not you. He’s not my friend like you are. No one is, Tomás; no one is you.”

How could he say such things? How could the Pope speak of Thomas with such affection in his voice? How could—oh, how could he touch him? How could he rest his warm, dry palm on Thomas’s wrinkled neck, cup his nape, lower his unlined forehead to Thomas’s worn one? It wasn’t a touch; it was a brand. He was burning, but whether it was a holy fire or a harbinger of Hell, he couldn’t say.

“Tomás, my dear Tomás. You were kind to me from the day I arrived in Rome; you introduced me to everyone. You made sure I was clothed and fed and comfortable, when I came empty-handed and my heart heavy with grief after my predecessor’s death. You did all you could so I was welcomed, showed no ambition apart from going above and beyond what your position as Dean asked of you. You followed what your heart and your faith demanded; you only showed fortitude and integrity.”

“That’s not true; right before the bomb I’d just put my name on…”

“Of course you did. Who else could it have been, then? Who else could have a chance to be the voice of peace and humble faith? Of course, you would have opposed bitterness and an aggressive Church with all your heart, even at the expense of yourself.”

“I voted for you, afterwards.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I should have believed in you earlier.”

“You did what you thought was best, as you always do. You were steadfast and brave throughout. I came in as a nobody; I didn't have the political weight needed. Not at first.”

Thomas’s lips curved up a little, against his better judgement. “That certainly was a speech, Your Holiness. A few sentences, and you won their hearts. And minds.”

“Vincent. And I think it’s more that Cardinal Tedesco lost them, and I had the added benefit of being unknown to most of them. They could all project onto me whatever they wanted in the next Pope.” He smiled wryly. “I think some of them might be regretting their choice now, but it’s too late.”

“I don’t.” Thomas was pretty certain he couldn't hide the admiration, the devotion in his eyes, but he couldn't have stopped himself from gazing up at Innocent with all he felt right there for anyone to see on his face.

“Oh, Tomás. How I’ve missed your faith in me these past weeks! I shouldn’t rely on it so much, but…” His hand left Thomas’s skin, letting cold air rush in where his warmth had just been. “Please, Tomás, never imagine I’d do without you if I didn’t believe it was best for you. It seems I was clearly mistaken about that.” He bent again and kissed Thomas’s forehead before going to the stove. “Ah, good thing this was on low. I just have to cook some rice now, and we can eat.”

Speechless, Thomas could only nod numbly.

He looked at the Holy Father, Vincent, busy himself at the stove, telling him about a service dog accompanying its mistress to take communion, Archbishop Wozniak’s return from Poland and the positions he wanted to discuss with him, Sister Anne’s plans for a vegetable garden and maybe a physic garden.

Thomas dug his nails in his palms when the Pope served him, a little hill of rice and the curry around it. It wasn’t a lot, he knew it wasn’t, but he’d already had lunch today because Sister Agathe had more canon law questions and a new trattoria she wanted to try and he couldn’t refuse an opportunity to feel useful, these days. The Ho—Vincent’s plate wasn’t much fuller, however, and this worried Thomas a little.

“Aren’t you hungry?” he asked. “From what you’ve said, this has been a long and busy day.”

“I can have more if I am.” He blessed their meal and Thomas could have sworn he’d felt the Lord there for an instant, but then Vincent added, “And so can you; there’s plenty left.”

Thomas nodded; what could he reply? There was much unsaid, and it was all better left unsaid. So, he started on his curry, taking the smallest bites he could and hoping it would not make him sick.

“Whenever we could scrounge up enough, we’d make a big feast of it, in Kabul. Sometimes, we’d wait until we could get enough for a wedding or a baptism. We had good times, and sharing food always was a good time.”

“Do you miss it? Your work there?” Thomas bit his tongue; what a careless question! “Forgive me; I shouldn’t pry.”

“You’re not prying. I do miss them, yes. I hope they’re doing well, but of course I don’t get news very often.”

Thomas looked down at his plate, at the grains of rice he was pushing around. He was ungrateful, not finishing his food while so many others went hungry, and yet he knew if he ate just one more mouthful his stomach would rebel. “You’re a good cook,” he offered instead. “This curry is better than the Sisters’, but don’t tell Sister Agnes I said that.”

Vincent grinned. “Oh, I wouldn't dare! She’s terrifying, isn’t she? And invaluable.”

“That she is.”

They shared an amused look, and Vincent looked down at their plates. “Are you finished?”

He didn’t comment when Thomas nodded, and didn’t even seem offended at Thomas’s lack of appetite. He cleared the table and led Thomas back to the sitting room, bringing a tray with biscuits and mismatched mugs with him.

“I’ll boil some water; help yourself with the biscuits.”

Thomas, of course, didn’t help himself to anything. In his mind, he was replaying Aldo’s words from weeks earlier, and he prayed for guidance, strength, something. Perhaps he should, after all, tender his resignation, leave the Vatican, and bury himself in a monastery far away. It seemed, in that moment, so much easier to wither away in loneliness than to face his guilt, his sin, his…

“Ah, Thomas! I have mint, chamomile, ginger… ¿Tomás?” He dropped the kettle and the box of teas on the low table and came to sit next to Thomas, taking his veined hands in his own. “You look… tired, my friend. I’m keeping you up too late when you’re still recovering.”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“Well, you look better than you did three weeks ago, so there’s that.” He rubbed his thumbs on the back of Thomas’s hands. “I’m grateful for that. You scared me, Tomás; when you fell I thought…” He sighed, shook his head. “Monsignor O’Malley tells me you’re prone to overworking, and Cardinal Bellini…” His lips thinned. “When you were in the hospital, I could hardly convince him to sit down and pray with me. He was pacing too much.”

“We’ve known each other for a long time.”

“He values your friendship, and I think he knows you well. We’ve had several interesting chats while you were away.”

“Oh no,” Thomas groaned, wincing. “I hope he didn’t say anything too incriminating.”

“Well, there was something about a ginger cat and freshly laundered albs…”

“I’ll put salt in his coffee maker.”

“Ha! He did say you had a mischievous streak hidden in there somewhere.”

Oh, he was never going to let Aldo near his favourite fountain pen again.

“He said, also, that you’d been… triste. Depressed.” The curry was quickly turning into lead in Thomas’s gut. What else could Aldo have mentioned? “But that you’d looked much happier, once the conclave had been over. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for you. I admire the work you did.”

“Your Holiness, I…”

“Vincent. Let me be just Vincent to you, when it’s just the two of us.”

Thomas almost replied, You’re everything to me. Almost. What he said, instead, was “You’re many things, and I admire them all.”

“Oh, Thomas, don’t put me on a pedestal. I’m only a man, and I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“Never!” Thomas turned his hands in Vincent’s to grip them harder, leaned forward. “You’ve given me hope again.”

“And yet, you’ve neglected your well-being. Why? We should take care of the body God gave us. It is a precious gift.”

“Not if it’s a vessel for sin.”

“Sin? Thomas, what kind of sin could lead you to losing so much weight? You were dehydrated, malnourished, and…” He swallowed. “In the hospital, the gown you were wearing showed most of your arms. I remember burns there, a few blisters. Cardinal Bellini didn’t seem surprised, but also didn’t explain. Tomás, why would you hurt yourself so?”

“I don’t—it doesn’t matter.”

Vincent made a small, distressed sound, and slowly pushed Thomas’s sleeve up his arm. “There,” he murmured, “these are burn scars.”

“I just spilled some coffee. My own clumsiness.”

“No.” Vincent’s fingers were too soft as they travelled up his forearm, stopping at scars old and less old. “No, you didn’t spill coffee for each of these. Pain doesn’t please God, Thomas, not pain like this. You’re not glorifying Him, or seeking freedom for the flesh. This is not penance, Tomás; what would you be seeking penance for?”

Sin, Thomas thought. If you knew, you would throw me out of your home, of your Church, and that would destroy me. But he couldn't speak.

“I thought you were happy, fulfilled, working here with me. And yet…”

Thomas’s head jerked up. “I am! I was! I am here to serve.”

“Then what is missing, my friend? Did you ask God for what you need?”

“I…” He gulped. “God’s grace, God’s peace; I can’t—I can’t feel it. I thought I could, but then I realised that I am full of sin, that I am not… not enough.” Not pure enough, not good enough, for the Church or for the Holy Father.

“You’re more than enough, Tomás. You strive so hard to do the best you can. It’s not God’s grace you need; you already have it. It’s grace you should have for yourself. Do you understand?”

Thomas shook his head. “I served an institution of men instead of the Church of God for years, and now I’m not even strong enough to serve. What use am I?” He dug a nail into a smooth, pink patch of skin. Here, he thought, here, he could focus. He could stop thinking of his failures when they’re etched on the outside, just for a moment. He could show God strength and control, show that he could master his flesh. It was no hindrance, just a vessel for His glory. “Maybe—maybe I can be good enough for Him if am stronger than mere pain. Maybe I can offer myself as a sacrifice to God, and repent for all my sins and all my thoughts and—”

Vincent squeezed Thomas’s forearm so hard the skin turned fish-belly white around his brown fingers. “Repent for the sins of your thoughts? Tomás, no, you are misguided.”

“I want to please God,” he whispered, “but I think I’ve forgotten how. All I know is this darkness in my heart.”

“Is it darkness? Or is it the inherent imperfection of being human? Your friends know your heart; I know your heart.” He paused. “Do you remember our conversation in the Room of Tears?”

Thomas’s eyes widened. “Of course.”

“Then you know how I felt when I learned of my difference.”

“You said…” Thomas took a breath. “You said it was a very dark time for you.”

“Yes. Do you know what that means? Do you know the thoughts I had?”

Thomas shook his head. “You’re here now,” he murmured. “You’re here now.”

“Sí, estoy aquí. And I almost wasn’t.” He squeezed the pale hands in his. “They put me on suicide watch in the hospital for a few days. They didn’t let me leave, even though they needed all the beds they could get.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas whispered. “You shouldn’t have—you didn’t deserve that.”

“Neither do you. These thoughts, do you think them a sin? Do you think them reason enough to punish myself?”

“No!” He shook his head. “No, of course not. You were distressed.”

“Yes, I was. Do you know what helped?”

“You said you talked to the Holy Father—the late Holy Father, I mean. And that you prayed.”

“I did, yes, just like you. But there was something else. I realised I was needed, Tomás. My parishioners, the people who relied on me… What the surgeon found in my body didn’t matter to them. My darkest thoughts didn’t matter, as long as they remained thoughts. But the help I could provide, that did.”

“That is what you told us, during the conclave.”

“La Iglesia es lo que hagamos en adelante, sí.”

“What help can I provide? The doctors won’t even let me get back to work full time.”

“The help you provide to me, Tomás. I wouldn't be here without you, and I wouldn't be able to do what I must without you. You’ve been a guide, an adviser, someone I could turn to at any time.”

“But I’ve been away, and you haven’t needed me.”

“You’ve made sure I have the right people around me. Cardinal Adeyemi has been a great help developing new missions; Cardinal Sabbadin has shown me what to say or not to say. I don’t always follow his advice, but I do value it. It is good to know what will or won’t upset the status quo.”

Thomas’s lips quirked up. “You enjoy upsetting the status quo.”

“Well, sometimes. And you’ve been known to cause a stir on occasion, Thomas. I remember, well, the entire conclave.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You changed the Church in three days. And knowing you’re by my side gives me heart; you give me heart. The tasks ahead of me… there is so much to do, Tomás, and I can’t do it alone. Por favor, quédate conmigo.” Vincent leaned forward until their foreheads touched again. “Te lo ruego, Tomás.”

Thomas could feel his uneven breaths, see his bitten lip. "Vincent…"

“Don’t make me say it, Tomás.” His voice was so low Thomas felt the words more than he heard them.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“Then stay. Stay, be kind to yourself and be kind to me, too. Please.”

And what could Thomas reply? Of course he wanted to be kind to Vincent. Of course, he’d stay. The Pope was a holy man and the answer to his prayers; Vincent had brought him closer to the Lord and shown him what Grace looked like in human flesh. Through him and with him, he could hope to feel God’s Grace again, even if it burned him. He’d burn and more for Vincent, and he'd praise the Lord all the while as his flesh turned to ash for granting him Vincent’s intercession.

When he left the Palace that night, a young Guard following him to make sure he got back home safely, he was carrying the Holy Father’s curry in a Tupperware and the buttery taste of shortbread on his tongue.

He’d fight himself if he had to; he’d do everything to get back to work at his Holiness’s side. Faith and love burned bright in him, and he wouldn't let his weaknesses stand in his way. For the Lord, and for Vincent.

The phone call from Venice has shaken the Curia.

Everyone knew the Patriarch was unwell, but the news of his death still comes as a shock. The entire Curia remembers him as a force of nature, prowling the Vatican shoulders forward like a rugby player about to start a scrum, always surrounded by a cloud of smoke from his beloved cigarettes, cigars, and then his omnipresent vape.

Thomas has never shared Goffredo's doctrinal views or his preference for Latin and the Tridentine rite, and he enjoyed even less his rants against other faiths; still, the man was a powerhouse and a leader in the Church for decades, honest and unashamed. He fought Ignatius, he challenged Innocent, he almost was Pope.

And now, he is dead.

No more booming voice, no more loud laughter or angry shouts, no more half-Italian, half-English diatribes. No more hurried meals with his eyes darting left and right, the fear of hunger still deep-seated even after sixty years of full meals, even after sixty years of believing no one could guess he'd been born the last, smallest child in a family poorer than dirt.

Thomas, Pope John, allows a funeral in Latin, and receives Goffredo's many nieces and nephews for a private audience. They tell him of a side of the Patriarch he never knew, of a man he never truly met; he tells them of his intelligence, his erudition, his quick temper, too. He tells them how he could be kind, even when you stood for everything he stood against.

Thomas presides at the funeral in San Marco, and watches Aldo's drawn face and solemn expression. He is more affected than he would like to let on, and Thomas feels for his friend.

Selfishly, he also fears for himself. So few of their generation are still around, now; he knows he will only grow lonelier as the years go by, unless the Lord calls him next. Ray, his Secretary of State, is no spring chicken either, but he's still significantly younger; Sister Agathe, his personal secretary, is not even forty. The gap feels like a chasm; one that they will cross in time, of course, but by then Thomas will be returned to dust.

Pulvis es et in pulverem reverteris.

It was easy enough to feel you had privacy in the Vatican gardens; there were so many nooks and crannies between the trees, fountains, gazebos, and trimmed bushes. A slightly off-the-path bench could be a little bubble away from the demands of a Pope's duties, and whenever Innocent needed a moment of respite, he wandered off and walked to clear his mind, or sat and contemplated the myriad animals that swam, buzzed, flew, or roamed around the gardens.

Of course, Thomas always knew where to find him, and Vincent often asked him along. It was a little ritual of sorts, a meandering of their feet and of their thoughts as they walked together, sometimes silent, sometimes not.

One autumn day, though, Vincent had seemed a little restless, and he forwent lunch for the gardens without telling anyone. He had been a little out of sorts lately, and Thomas worried that he'd gone from under the weather to seriously sick. He called Vincent's personal secretary to check whether the Pope was in his Apartments, but Tadek confirmed he wasn't, and asked Thomas to let Innocent know his afternoon schedule could easily be cleared if need be.

So, Thomas set out for the gardens. He knew it was Vincent's refuge, and the past few weeks had proved particularly demanding; there had been too little time for rest, meditation, and privacy. He was loath to disturb Innocent, but he needed to make sure he was as well as could be, so he set out for a beautiful, quiet area he knew Vincent favoured, detouring to some of his other usual spots on the way. Everyone knew about the turtle pond, of course, but Thomas knew them all, and his feet took him where his heart told him to go.

"Ah, Thomas. I was expecting you," Vincent said even before Thomas could see him through the foliage.

"Your Holiness," he murmured. "I only wanted to check in on you, not disturb you."

"You never disturb me. Come; join me, if you have a moment, of course."

"You know I always do, for you."

Vincent gave him a smile, a little pained but getting wider when his eyes found Thomas's. "Ah, you flatter me. I know how busy you are; I did give you a Council to shepherd."

"Well, for now it doesn't need me." Thomas considered Vincent's slightly pinched face. "Something is troubling you; is there anything I can do to help?"

"Tomás…" His voice trailed off. "Your presence brings me much comfort already," he finally said.

"Your Holiness." He paused, started again. "Vincent. If you need the afternoon off, Tadek said to tell you your schedule could be easily cleared."

"Ah, do I look that bad? No, no, don't answer that." He looked at a peahen picking at the ground. "And maybe I should take Tadek up on his offer; will you let him know?"

"Of course; let me just send him a message." Thomas got his phone out and typed a quick text. "There; your afternoon is free now. You shouldn't overwork yourself, Vincent."

"I'm not. Oh, no, don't worry; I'm seeing the doctor tomorrow morning. It's probably a vitamin deficiency or something just as minor; it wouldn't be the first time, but I'd better make sure."

"You're certainly paler than usual, Vincent."

"Ah, but Thomas, I'm not as pale as you." He took Thomas's hand in his, twining their fingers. "Look at us," he murmured, "look at how well we complement each other."

Thomas felt warmth rush to his cheeks. "My dear…"

"Ah, ah, don't be embarrassed. Not by the truth."

All Thomas could manage in reply was a wordless mumble, but he didn't pull his hand away from Vincent. They sat there for a long moment, Thomas's thumb slowly stroking Vincent's hand and Vincent's fingers curling around his. The only sounds came from the birds and the fountain nearby. It was peaceful, at least until Vincent spoke again.

"Tomás," he said, "am I doing good?"

"Doing good?" He almost dropped Vincent's hand in shock. "Of course you are!"

"It's just…" He sighed. "I was so unprepared for the papacy, for all the work that needed to be done. I hope that the Lord is happy with me."

"Vincent, what is prompting these doubts? You were elected ten years ago; since then the Church has grown, both spiritually and in numbers. And the changes you've made—! My dear, the Holy Spirit itself inspired the College to vote for you, and you've in turn inspired all of the Church to move forward."

"And yet there is still so much work to do, and so little time. Did I tackle the right things, at the right time?"

This didn't sound like Vincent's usual concerns, and Thomas felt a little sick to his stomach. What was wrong, really? "You worry me, my dear Vincent. What do you mean, 'so little time'?" Was it again this conviction he had that he'd die young, coming back to haunt him?

"I'm sorry, Tomás; I'm being maudlin." He tightened his fingers around Thomas's. "Sometimes, I remember that I almost lost you, or that I almost never knew you."

Now Thomas was truly alarmed. "Vincent?"

"Life is a pilgrimage... God gives us a path to walk, and the path leads to Him. We can saunter away, but He is always waiting for us with open arms. I believe my path to Him is along yours for now, and I am glad of it, but one day they'll diverge again.” He lifted their joined hands and kissed Thomas's knuckles. "Do you recall that beach in México? I picked that shell for you, Tomás. For you to remember me by, and to be reminded of our paths to Him."

"Vincent, please, you're worrying me. Is there anything you're not telling me? Or—of course, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but is there anything, anyone that could help?"

"Oh, lo siento… I didn't want to upset you; I apologise. Tomás, will you pray with me?"

"Anything you need, my dear. Anything."

"Yes, I know. But I wish you would put yourself first sometimes." He smiled a little ruefully, and pulled his worn rosary out. Together, the rosary wrapped around their joined hands, they prayed, while the birds sang above them and the trees rustled around them and the red and gold leaves of autumn fluttered at their feet.

When they left, Thomas saw something glinting on the ground, near a hole in the tree hedge by the fountain. He picked it up; it was an old rosary, its beads smooth and the silver darkened with decades of use.

"What is it, Tomás?"

"Someone dropped a rosary. I'll leave it with Agnes; she can email everyone." He wouldn't; there were a few words carved behind the cross: A mio nipote, Goffredo. But Thomas didn't want to worry Vincent about it.

After leaving Vincent in his Apartments with a stern reminder to rest for the remainder of the day, Thomas made his way to the Casa Santa Marta. He knew Tedesco was staying there for a few days, while he was working on something for the Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith that, apparently, needed access to the Vatican archives.

He approached the welcome desk and said, "Good afternoon, Sister. Do you know if Cardinal Tedesco is in the Casa?"

"He should be, Eminence; I saw him come in maybe half an hour ago. Try the cafeteria; he likes something sweet with his afternoon espresso."

Thomas thanked the Sister and headed for the cafeteria. It was mostly empty and the Patriarch was indeed there, sitting with the day's Die Welt spread in front of an empty plate and two coffee cups.

"Practising your German, Goffredo?"

"Ah, Tommaso. I wouldn't want to get rusty, eh?" He gestured at the seat next to him. "What brings you here?"

"Well, I just found this," Thomas said, setting the rosary gently on the newspaper so it didn't clink loudly. "Near a fountain."

"Ah." Tedesco picked it up and pocketed it quickly, his eyes darting around. "Grazie, grazie. I must have dropped it. A gift from my Nonna," he said. "I wouldn't want to lose it."

"Then I'm glad I found it." Thomas sat down. "I didn't tell the Holy Father you were listening in on our conversation."

At that, Tedesco reeled back. "Ah, Tommaso, no, no! I wasn't. He isn't the only one to enjoy a quiet moment in the gardens, you know."

"Not so quiet when there's a conversation right behind you."

"Well, I heard you join him and I didn't want to disturb you. You may think me a bull in a china shop, my friend, but I can be discreet."

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "You didn't leave."

"It would have made noise, and I know he likes his privacy. Mah!" He shrugged and knocked back his second ristretto. "I'll admit, Tommaso, at first I thought I would anyway and leave you two alone, but then I heard him, and…" He grabbed Thomas's wrist. "Our Holy Father, he is not truly sick, is he?"

"Well, you heard him."

"Sì, sì, that is what worries me."

"It's probably nothing."

"You do not need to pretend, Tommaso. I know you are worried too, probably more than I am. You are close, you and our Holy Father." He held out his thumb and index, only a hair's breadth apart. "So, I prayed with you then, and for him. And then the Lord showed me that dead spot in the tree hedge, and I left the gardens."

Thomas looked down, feeling a little chastised. Tedesco might be very conservative in his views, but his faith was strong and sincere. "Thank you, Goffredo."

"Beh, Sua Santità è giovane, sì? Too young to suffer the indignities of age like we do, eh?"

Thomas smiled a little. "He is, yes."

"But, Tommaso." Tedesco lowered his voice as he leaned towards Thomas. "You should be more careful, you know. We are men of the Chiesa, but some here are not well-intentioned. You thought yourselves alone, but I was nearby; what if someone else had seen you? Heard you? Imagine the headlines, amico mio."

"Ah. Yes, you're right; his health shouldn't become a topic for the tabloids."

"I am not only thinking of his health, Tommaso."

"Of course." Thomas nodded, although he would only understand what Tedesco really meant weeks later. "Now, I should leave you to your reading; I'm pretty certain I have too many files to review and complaints to reply to before tomorrow."

"Sì, sì, the Council is a lot of work! But it is stimulating, and I for one am looking forward to the next debates."

Innocent died ten days later.

Thomas would have preferred to go to the hospital and wait there, but he has to meet a dozen bishops for the Council, and then lunch with lay theologians and Aldo; he can't really spend the entire day waiting for Vincent to get out of what he has been assured again and again is fairly minor surgery.

Still, he's relieved to leave them after coffee, and to return to his office next to Innocent's; he is ready for a little peace and quiet to prepare a brief. He stretches his back and settles in his chair with a sigh, but as he reaches out to grab a pen he notices an envelope leaning against his lamp. He takes it, and as soon as his fingers touch it he feels a sense of dread seep into his core, cold and paralysing.

He forces himself to open it, to slide out the folded piece of paper. He recognises the handwriting immediately, of course, and he reads it quickly. His breath catches, his heart stops; the short letter falls from his hand and he stares at it. He understands what it says, what it means; he understands the enormity of what lays ahead. He doesn't want to.

After a long minute of absolute stillness, his chest spasms and his lungs fill again with air that will never—never—he's breathing again. He is. His phone rings, but he doesn't pick it up; he can't. A pain so sharp and penetrating is piercing his breast, and he wonders if he is actually bleeding, if he is actually dying.

But he knows he isn't.

He slides the letter between the pages of the Bible on his desk and buries his face in his hands, trying to focus on the work ahead and only remembering yesterday's talk with Vincent. Their last conversation, the last time they prayed together, the last time Vincent kissed his forehead and told him not to worry, that the Lord would take care of him, always.

When Ray rushes in his office, followed by Aldo, Adebayo, Tadek, and Sister Agathe, he can see it all on their faces, and they can see it on his, too.

"Oh, Thomas," Aldo says. "You know already."

He can only swallow, nod, look down at his desk. "Let us pray," he whispers. He tries to find comfort in their joined voices, but all he can think about is the one that he'll never hear again.

The hospital is too bright, too crowded, too noisy. Thomas spent too much time there when he was undergoing treatment, and the constant nausea comes back as soon as he steps back in.

Thomas follows the doctor to his office, Tadek on his heels; he tries to pay attention to his words, nods and bites his cheek and tastes blood. He lets Tadek do the talking, and then asks to see Innocent before they do… whatever it is they have to do, before they send him back to the Vatican for the funeral, before they touch and desecrate his body with their fluids and knives and pumps. He wants to see him, touch him, one last time; be with the real Vincent he knew, and not a dead Pope frozen for the crowds.

He hears a few protests from the doctor and Tadek's firm replies, although he doesn't really pay attention to the words. After a few moments, Tadek's hand lands heavily on his shoulder, and he looks up.

"Let's go, Eminence. Innocent is in a private room; we can go now."

Thomas nods, stands up, needs to grab the chair's backrest. He is unsteady; the world is blurry. He goes where he is led, and finally he is ushered in a small, quiet room.

He is alone, alone with Vincent.

Vincent is unnaturally quiet; his chest doesn't move, his eyes don't flutter. His hands are folded over his stomach; Thomas notices they've removed his ring for the surgery, and he doesn't know what to think of it. Of course they would have done so, but no one has put it back on, and he wonders where it is. Is this still Innocent, without his white garments and his Piscatory Ring and his zucchetto? Is this still the Pope, if all the symbols are taken away, and even his soul has left the body? Or is this just Vincent, the man who never wanted to be Pope, himself again at last, in death?

There is a white sheet pulled up to cover most of his chest. Thomas stares from the foot of the bed; he realises Vincent is naked under the fabric. He can see his smooth shoulders, the divot at the base of his neck; his bare arms are dusted with fine hairs, and he can see a few scars. Shrapnel scars, Thomas remembers. Some he's seen before, during summers at Castel Gandolfo when Innocent would forgo formal attire and wear short sleeves, or simply roll up long ones. But Thomas has never seen so much skin, never touched him further up than his wrists, never kissed more than his knuckles, his forehead.

A wave of regret rises up and chokes him, and he hurries to kneel by the bed, folding his hands in prayer and bowing his head over them. He prays, he prays, he recites all the prayers for the dead he can think of, but all he can feel is emptiness and loneliness.

He raises his eyes and looks again, reaches out to, for the first time in a decade, touch Vincent's hair. It's thick, soft, beautiful; he suddenly wishes for scissors so he could keep a lock for himself, tucked against his heart, but he can't be greedy. What right does he have to desecrate Innocent? And yet, he keeps stroking his hair, then grows bolder and, slow and careful, Vincent's cheek, Vincent's lips.

They're cold and lifeless. They're cold and lifeless and Thomas can't take it; he snatches his hand away and bows his head again, slowly losing the fight against the thick, choking mass crawling up his chest.

Tadek comes in a while later to find him wiping his cheeks from the tears that still keep coming, keep following the deep grooves of his wrinkled skin. He couldn't say how long he's been left alone with Vincent, but Thomas is grateful. They've let him mourn, and now it's time to—he closes his eyes, wills himself to stop weeping. Time to manage, he thinks. He's a manager; this is what he does.

He climbs to his feet, wincing at the pain in his knees, only to see Tadek brandish a pair of scissors near Innocent's face.

"I'm just cutting some hair," he murmurs when he sees Thomas's expression.

Tadek lifts a good chunk of hair from Innocent's temple and cuts a long lock from under the thick mass, making sure the loss wouldn't be visible. Pulling a small envelope out of his pocket, he extracts a white ribbon and ties the lock with it, slipping it back into the envelope.

"There," he says, holding it out to Thomas. "This is for you."

Thomas looks at him, uncomprehending. "Me?"

"You should have something from him. Ray suggested hair; it's a good idea. Sister Agathe found the scissors."

Speechless, Thomas finally takes it. He nods his thanks, unable to voice his gratitude, and slides it under his cassock next to the letter. Tadek looks at him; he can feel his gaze on him, but Thomas can't return it. He only has eyes for Vincent, knowing that soon, so soon, he will be buried and forever out of sight.

"We should wash him and clothe him, as he asked of us."

At these words, Thomas finds his voice again. "Asked…?"

"He had prepared his final instructions years ago; he asked me not to tell you. He thought it would upset you too much." Tadek gave him a small smile. "'I gave him heavy enough burdens already,' he said."

"I would have carried them all," Thomas whispers.

"But you didn't need to."

The words sound so much like Vincent's that Thomas stops breathing for a moment. "Ah," he finally manages, weakly. "Those are his words, aren't they?"

"They are, yes."

Of course, Thomas thinks. How many times has Vincent expressed that very sentiment? So he nods, and returns to the here and now, however painful it is. "So, what instructions did he give?"

"He didn't want to be embalmed, just washed, clothed, and buried as soon as possible."

"No… no lying in state?"

"No."

"Then, that's what we'll do." Thomas will do what Vincent wanted, even if it kills him. Even if he knows it won't.

Vincent's funeral takes place two days later, and all that Thomas will remember of it is feeling the muslin bag that holds Vincent's hair, resting against his heart and keeping it beating, keeping it beating.

Vin-cent, Vin-cent.

The new Council had been in the works for two years and it wouldn't be officially launched for months yet, but Innocent wanted to put the topic of women's roles in the Church in everyone's mind. Sabbadin, of course, grumbled about it, pointing out how many people it would upset, but he didn't really do more than that, and even Aldo didn't really worry about the grumblings. They were, after all, more out of concern for politics than doctrine; the Archbishop of Milan had always put one above the other, in the service of moving incrementally forward rather than risking alienating too many powerful voices in the Church.

"I'd like to put Mary Magdalene front and center," Innocent said. "She's human, she sinned, she preached, she was an early follower of Jesus. She played a great and active role from the start, and I think she can be a great role model, and not only for women. What do you think?"

"She wasn't a priest."

"We will let the Council decide where the Church goes on that, Giulio. I just want to put her forward as an example of women's importance in and for the Church."

"If I may," Sister Agathe said.

"Of course; we're listening."

Sabbadin's lips thinned; he never was fond of her, and even less so when she became close to Innocent's team. "Your Holiness, focusing on Mary would be more than enough."

"Let us listen to Sister Agathe, first." Innocent kept his tone polite, but definitely cooler; he had never been as patient as Aldo with Sabbadin's politically-minded ways.

"Thank you, Your Holiness."

Thomas noted that she studiously avoided Sabbadin's eyes, but his own gaze met hers and he gave her a warm smile.

"Well," she started, "I'm from Marseille, as you know. Not far from there, there's a basilica with her relics, and a little further away a sanctuary in the cave where she retired, next to a Dominican convent. Maybe it would be a good spot to talk about her."

Tadek quickly typed a few things on his tablet and showed everyone the pictures. "It looks nice, if small."

Aldo considered the website. "Well, Innocent can do large celebrations in Marseille or that basilica you mentioned, Sister. It sounds like a good idea, but how hard is it to get up there? It looks high up the mountain."

"It's a bit of a hike to get up there, but I think the friars have a Jeep."

Innocent grinned. "I can walk, Sister. But you're right; we wouldn't want to arrive there sweaty and red-faced."

Thomas sighed in relief; from what he could see on Tadek's tablet, it didn't look like something he would be able to tackle, not anymore. In his fifties, perhaps, but those were far in the past.

And so, in spite of Giulio's frown but lit by a large smile on Sister Agathe's face, they decided on a trip to Southern France.

They had to organize everything on shorter notice than usual, and the Vatican's delegation was also smaller than most Apostolic journeys, but then again Innocent was always happy to scale down the usual pomp of his office, even if it upset more than one Curia member or security staff.

And so it was that on a bright autumn morning, Pope Innocent landed in France for the first time of his pontificate. He had favoured less privileged countries whenever he could in his early years, and he didn't speak French, but Sister Agathe made him practice a few sentences and prayers, and she managed not to smile when he kept switching the words to Italian or, more often, Spanish.

It was enough for the first mass in the Cathedral near the Vieux Port and for the visit of the Bonne Mère that Sister Agathe insisted on. Innocent spoke about Mary there, taking the time to talk to pilgrims and bless the many faithful Catholics that were jostling for space on the crowded platform. Then, as the sun started to set, the holy site was cleared and only the Vatican delegation remained.

"It's a beautiful view," Vincent whispered, watching the sun set over the city, and the mountains further away. "I'm glad Sister Agathe suggested it."

"It is beautiful, yes." Thomas looked at Vincent, at his wide eyes and his lips parted in a half-smile. "Everything is gold, in this light." There were little flecks of it, in Vincent's eyes.

"This land is blessed, Thomas, and I am glad to be here."

"And people are happy to see you here, too. They love you."

"They love God, and they love His words."

Thomas hummed. "As do I," he replied, briefly squeezing Vincent's hand. He didn't dare more than that, not in public with Tadek hovering nearby and a press delegation frantically snapping pictures, but he needed to convey the feeling in that moment, high above a city that the sunset's colours magnified, at the foot of a small but beloved church where you could feel the believers' fervour in every stone.

Vincent glanced at him with a quick but sincere smile, acknowledging the moment before letting the conversation move to safer topics. "I'm looking forward to tomorrow."

"Let me guess; you don't mean the meeting with French bishops."

Vincent smiled. "I shall rephrase, then. I am most looking forward to our two nights with the friars."

"I think Captain Stefan isn't."

"Oh, Thomas, you know we couldn't ask regular pilgrims and visitors to cancel their plans! Captain Stefan is very good at his job, but I know there is no danger to us there."

Thomas looked at the sunset. Vincent and his premonitions… He'd never get used to them, and yet he knew he had to. One day they'd stop, and that would mean Vincent wouldn't be here to have them.

They spent the night in Saint-Maximin, and morning mass in the basilica was another big event. The relics were carried out of the crypt for the occasion, and Innocent led the faithful in prayer, emphasizing the need to welcome the Lord into hearts and minds like Mary Magdalene did. The procession was short but joyful, and the crowd enthusiastic; it was a good day, and Thomas's heart sang to see it, and to see Sister Agathe so happy, as well.

Late in the afternoon, they arrived at the hostel at the foot of the sanctuary of Sainte-Baume. The friars welcomed them warmly, and Vincent's eyes shone at their accommodations. They would not be staying at the convent itself, it was too small, but in the hostel down in the valley. Most rooms had two small beds, and several members of their delegations had a bed in the dorms; to Father Antoine-Marie's mild horror, Innocent insisted that he, too, could share a room.

"I am not above my brothers and sisters," Vincent said. "And to be honest, I miss being part of a close community; I'm sure you can understand."

The friar nodded, his eyes kind and understanding, and no one tried to suggest anyone but Thomas should share the room with Innocent. They joined friars and pilgrims in the large dining room for a simple meal, and Innocent took the time again to talk to anyone who asked for a moment of his time; after a while, Sister Agnes went to talk to father Antoine-Marie and prepared a tray to be sent to his room for later.

Then it was time for compline and the little chapel was crowded, but the Holy Spirit was with them; Thomas could feel it. They stayed a little longer after the evening prayer, looking at the beautiful frescoes and praying the Rosary with the friars before retiring for the night.

The rooms were simple but comfortable, with a beautiful view of the mountains outside, but during the night Thomas could hear the wind howling outside, shaking the trees and roaring between the buildings.

"I can tell you're worrying about something, my dear Thomas," Vincent whispered in the dark. Their beds were only two or three feet apart, and they could have held hands, if they'd wanted. If they hadn't been who they were.

"I just hope the wind will not be as strong tomorrow morning."

"There's a friar up there year round; it will be fine." The bedsheets rustled as Vincent moved. "Thomas, I wish we could do this more often. It feels a little like seminary again, don't you think?"

Living together, sharing a room, sharing meals, going to meet the faithful instead of the other way round, being among peers and not cut off from the world in a gilded cage… No wonder it made Vincent wistful for what couldn't be. "Yes," Thomas finally replied. "Yes, it does."

“I miss it, sometimes.” He meant often; he meant always, but Thomas understood it. "Tomás…"

This time, Thomas heard Vincent's bare feet hit the floor. "Yes?"

"May I…?”

“Anything, you know that.”

“Oh, Tomás, how I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

“Yes, I know it is. But you can say no to me. You should, sometimes.”

“Never.”

A few steps, and then Thomas’s mattress dipped to the side; Vincent had just sat down. “I am both relieved to know I will never have to do without you, selfishly, and heartbroken that you will have to do without me.”

“Vincent!”

“Not yet, not yet; there’s time still. But…” Somehow, Vincent found his hand in the dark and took it between his, warm and dry. “Oh, I pray that the Lord gives you strength and comfort, when the day comes.”

“Vincent, please; don't say that. Don’t say such things; I can’t bear it.”

"I am so, so sorry, Tomás. But tonight at least, we are together, even if we won’t always be.” He paused. “We’re even going on a pilgrimage together, aren’t we? Life, Tomás, our whole life is a pilgrimage to the Lord, and the years I'm walking by your side are made so much brighter for your presence. I don't know if I'd have the strength for it all without you."

"Of course you would." Thomas leaned forward, rested his free hand over their entwined ones. "Vincent, you're…"

"Shhh." He freed one hand to cup Thomas's cheek, gently stroking it. "I am but a man; remember that. Mortal and imperfect and doubting. You're my anchor, Tomás; there isn't anyone else who is what you are to me. Once I am gone, you will still have Aldo, and Ray, and Adebayo; Sister Agathe and Tadek will be by your side to walk with you. Even Goffredo. They're in my prayers always, for the support they will give you when I'm gone. And then in death, my dear Tomás, we’ll meet again.”

Thomas wanted to speak, but he couldn't; he could barely breathe, and he couldn't even keep his tears from falling. Vincent gently wiped his cheeks and brought him forward just enough that their foreheads touched, right where Jesus touched Mary Magdalene and told her, Noli me tangere.. Perhaps Thomas's own skin, right there above his brows, would also be preserved through the centuries, like Mary Magdalene's.

"Tomás, lo siento tanto… ¡Ten fe in Dios! Te ayudará."

"How long," he managed.

"I don't know. There's time still, and I want you to enjoy the present."

Vincent had come and saved him, saved his faith, saved his soul, and yet he talked of what would snuff the light from his life and send him back to the dark shadows that had plagued for years. But Thomas knew he spoke the truth; Vincent was not a cruel man. If he warned Thomas to prepare himself, then he would; Vincent had his reasons, and Thomas trusted him.

"I am selfish, Tomás; forgive me. I listened to my desire to be close to you," he said, rubbing a thumb on Thomas's thin skin, "and I didn't think of how my words would upset you."

"There is nothing to forgive, my dear Vincent. Please, will you pray with me?"

"Of course I will. With you and for you, always."

They prayed through most of the night, and when they woke up Thomas felt surprisingly good. They went to Lauds before breakfast, and then Father Antoine-Marie showed them to the jeep that they kept to ferry goods and the occasional visitor to the sanctuary itself. Friar François drove the delegation up by groups of four, although a few brave souls still chose to climb on foot along with regular visitors, Sister Agathe among them. It took a little while, but by 10:30 everyone was up there. Pilgrims already crowded the pews, and some were kneeling in front of the altar. When mass started, many were on the platform outside, listening from the speakers placed on the stairs around the door and watching the screen next to the old convent.

Innocent had insisted on keeping the press to a minimal presence so that worshippers would have as much room as possible, but still, journalists and photographers from the Osservatore Romano, La Croix, and a few others had found a corner to report from. After all, their presence was necessary; the Pope was launching an important debate today for the upcoming Council.

Innocent's expression was radiant throughout; God was with him and spoke through him, on that day. Mary Magdalene, he reminded everyone, had followed Jesus from the start; Christ had expelled seven demons out of her, had saved her, and she'd subsequently travelled with him during his ministry. She was the first witness to the Resurrection, and therefore the apostolorum apostola, the Apostle to the Apostles; was she not then one of the most important figures of the Church? Didn't Jesus trust her highly? There were a few frowns in the crowd, but most of the faithful listened attentively.

The congregation was small compared to the masses Innocent usually presided; for once, he could give the Eucharist himself to all those who wanted it. It felt like the perfect environment for him: the fabrics on the altar were not as rich and gilded as in Saint Peter's Basilica, the faithful wore hiking shoes and a few had visibly tripped on the way up; Thomas could see a torn trouser leg and at least one mud-stained shirt in the crowd. Yes, it was exactly right.

So Innocent was doing what he did best, connecting with the good, simple people who made the Church, and like Peter who built it, he was strengthening its human foundations with his pastoral work.

The mass lasted longer than usual, since most people queued to receive the Eucharist from the Pope's hand, and Innocent would never deny anyone who asked for it. Some cried in joy, and Thomas knew they'd been touched by God's divine Grace. He knew how they felt, and he kept them in his mind as he sang the closing hymn. He would have to thank Sister Agathe; she had really found the right place for Innocent the Pope, and for Vincent the man.

But finally the mass ended, and most pilgrims, hungry after the hike up and the celebration, left the sanctuary to return to the valley. The friars had set up a large area for picnics and had also made sure to prepare many more meals than usual, served on large tables outside, but Vincent would not, this time, partake with them. He had to talk to the press first, and he wanted to spend some time in silent prayer. He had also brought extremely battered hiking boots that Thomas had never seen before, and said he'd climb to the Chapelle du Saint-Pilon later in the afternoon.

"That small building far up there?"

"Yes. Father Antoine-Marie said the view from there is gorgeous. Tradition says this is where Mary Magdalene was carried up to the Heavens seven times a day to join the angelic choir; I'm curious to see the place."

Thomas shook his head. "I'm not going up there with you. Is it safe?"

Vincent's face softened. "It will be, Tomás. We have time; I promise. I'll be going with Sister Agathe and Tadek; he's expressed an interest. And there will be Captain Stefan too; he's antsy and it will do him good."

It was true that the good Captain, who acted as a bodyguard for the trip, was not enjoying Innocent's particularly close contacts with the crowds, but he knew it was part and parcel of a Pope's role, and how this Pope in particular did things. He really, truly had Innocent's safety at heart, and knowing he'd come along reassured Thomas, who felt that the small, lone chapel at the top of the narrow cliff path was unnecessarily dangerous, barring any angels to carry you up and down.

"I will pray for the safe return of you and your party, then."

"Ah, thank you, my friend. I suppose I must now talk to the press, and then we'll be able to share a light meal before we tackle the climb."

With a rueful smile, he headed out to the platform outside of the cave itself, where a dozen journalists were waiting. They asked about his homily, and if it meant to imply women should be ordained, too; he rather deftly wove around their questions without committing directly, and pointing out that the upcoming Council might reach interesting conclusions on the topic. Thomas could remember John Paul II's statements on the question, and he wondered where the Church would go from there; it was yet another way that Innocent was breaking new ground as Pope.

But then, an American journalist spoke up.

"Your Holiness," she said, "There's a whole wall dedicated to children who died before being born, in this Sanctuary. It reminded me of The Catholic Church's stance on abortion and contraception; two things that are also major issues for women's health. Will those also be on the docket for the upcoming Council?"

"Yes. There is a need to discuss them and clarify doctrine, so the Church will."

"Can the Church change its position, really? If all life is sacred, then…" Her voice trailed off at the look of Vincent's face, the look of someone who knew he was about to kick a wasp nest. Thomas exchanged a glance with Tadek and Sister Agathe, and they braced themselves.

"Life is sacred, yes." Vincent paused, gathered his thoughts. "Life is sacred, but I have led a missionary life, and seen things that... I will speak for myself for a moment. I have seen little girls as young as 10 pregnant. I have seen orphans whose mother had been murdered by her husband, because she was carrying her rapist’s child. I have seen suicides, I have seen women exhausted by too many, too difficult pregnancies die because the last one killed them. I have helped families discern what was best for them, and helped them the best I could. I have held hands during life-saving abortions. Life-ending, yes, but also life-saving, family-saving. In the words of one of my predecessors, Who am I to judge? There is our faith, and what we believe in, and our principles. There is the doctrine, and what we all strive for; we cannot go back on that without renouncing our faith." He lifted his pectoral cross and kissed it. "And then there is the life people lead, and that’s not so easy and not so clear-cut. The Church holds that all life is sacred, and this will not change, but there are choices that one must make in conscience that I, personally, cannot fault. Can we find it in our hearts to open our arms to those who had to make these choices? Well, didn't Our Lord Jesus welcome everyone? These are the truths that we must reconcile, and I trust that we will find a path, with God's guidance in out hearts."

"I guess I should warn the Holy Father's office that he's going to get more angry mail than usual, after this," Tadek whispered.

Thomas smiled, keeping his eyes on Innocent as he wound up the meeting with the press. "You knew he'd get this kind of questions, didn't you?"

"I suspected, but since he'd decided to shake things up I let it happen, yes."

"Well, I suppose Cardinal Tedesco just got a new hobby."

"I'm always glad to help," Tadek replied, a barely-there smirk on his lips.

Finally free from the reporters, Innocent made his way into the convent, and Friar François ushered in Sister Agnes, Tadek, Captain Stefan, and Thomas in his wake. They shared a simple meal before returning into the Sanctuary itself, where Thomas chose to stay and assist François in his pastoral work with the pilgrims. While Vincent and his team climbed to the Chapelle du Saint-Pilon, he prayed, blessed, and heard confessions. He felt close to God as he did, felt His love for all His children, and was grateful that he could contribute to helping people feel it, too.

The crowd thinned as the sun slowly sank, and after a while Friar François came to tell him that he could take time for himself, if he so desired; the Sanctuary would close soon.

"Thank you, François. Do you know when we should be expecting the Pope back?"

The friar looked outside. "Probably in less than an hour; it depends on whether they stopped to pray or not. Sister Agathe is familiar with the area, and she'll make sure everyone is back before nightfall."

"I shall pray as I wait, then," Thomas replied, and he climbed down to pray in front of a statue of the Blessed Virgin in the lower part of the Sanctuary. He reflected on the day, but then his thoughts turned to the previous night, and his closeness with Vincent. Oh, how he craved to be near him always, and yet how he feared it! He knew what was in his heart, and he knew Vincent's strength, but he doubted his own. What if, one day, he wasn't strong enough? What if it wasn't Innocent's Piscatory Ring that he kissed, but his hand, his palm, or worse? Thomas longed to have these demons cast out of him like Mary Magdalene's, but it was his burden to bear, and all he could do was pray, and pray harder. "I beg You to defend by Your grace the chastity and purity of my body and soul," he murmured, "that I may advance with a pure heart in Your love and service, offering myself on the most pure altar of Your divinity all the days of my life."

And when he got to his feet as he heard the hikers come back, he realised he'd prayed to God and yet thought of Vincent, of their brows touching and their fingers twined for hours the previous night. He felt terrible, and then Vincent found him and led him outside to watch the sunset, and his soul sang again.

The studio lights are bright, much too bright for his tired eyes. The journalist, Mark, and his team came all the way from London, mindful of Pope John’s advanced years and declining mobility. This was supposed to be a simple exercise in communication: talk about the Church’s values, about the Council’s impact after a few years, about what John wants to accomplish in the rest of his tenure. He’s doing well enough according to Sister Agathe, who still shadows him all these years later. She shares Sister Agnes’s no-nonsense approach, which Thomas appreciates; he just wishes he could ask her to exfiltrate him. Now that so many have passed—Goffredo, yes, and then Aldo two years ago, Adebayo last February—she’s one of the very few who still calls him Thomas in private, and he can’t alienate her. Oh, how does he want this to be over! But he knows they only have a few minutes before they’re back on air, so he collects himself and nods and smiles and prays.

“Welcome back to the BBC’s exclusive interview with Pope John! Your Holiness, we’ve covered your accomplishments since your election, but I’m sure we’d all like to know not only the Pope, but also the man, better.”

“I’m a very average specimen of old man, Mark.”

The journalist laughs, his overly white teeth on full display. “Well, we’ve asked our viewers to send in their questions, and we’re going to ask them! Well, there’s no easy way to go about it, so…”

Thomas’s stomach drops when Mark’s demeanour suddenly turns grave, almost compassionate.

“Your Holiness, have you ever fallen in in love?”

What kind of lurid answer were they expecting? “I took a vow,” he replies stiffly.

Mark hums. “It doesn't answer the question.”

There are so many age spots on his paper-thin skin. The veins on his hands are prominent, blueish ropes that will, one day soon, stop working. No. No, it doesn't answer the question. What does he have to lose? 

So, he speaks. He looks up, at Mark, at the camera. 

“I loved him,” he says, “and he loved me.”

He hears Mark’s sharp intake of breath, a few gasps in the audience. 

“Forgive me, Your Holiness, but… him?”

“Yes, him.”

He’s always feared those words, even when only whispered in the depths of his heart, yet now he feels more unburdened than he has since he was a boy playing in a river, ignorant of the hardships of life.

“Can I ask who it was?”

“Can't you guess?” Thomas smiles, although it feels more bitter than happy. Why are they torturing him so? He curls his hand around his pectoral cross, prays for forgiveness. He knows he’s about to set off a metaphorical bomb, and only a few years after the Council ended, too.

“Pope Innocent?”

“Vincent, yes. It was Vincent. He always asked us to call him Vincent, in private.”

Now he's started the words pour out, a confession to a camera, a declaration to the world. He is the Pope, and he is also just a man, and for the first time perhaps, he truly feels he is both. He truly feels he has God behind him, around him; the Holy Spirit is guiding him and speaks through him.

Yes, they loved each other. Yes, of course, they always kept their vows. No, they never spoke about it; they just knew. 

They prayed together, fingers entangled, foreheads touching. 

They worked together, they walked the Vatican gardens together. Thomas enforced rest periods on Vincent, and Vincent made him take better care of himself.

A voice rises from the audience. “So, you're a homosexual? The pope is homosexual?”

Thomas shrugs. “I only loved once, and I loved a man. I still love him. If that makes me a, as you say, homosexual, then so be it. The words do not matter all that much, but I understand this particular one isn't favoured by the community.” 

“But… the Pope can't be queer!”

“Ah.” He thinks of how Vincent could project serenity and calm around himself, and move hearts. “Well, nevertheless, I am the Pope. I am reminded of what my predecessor used to say,” he continues. “La Iglesia es lo que hagamos en adelante. What matters is what we do now and what we do tomorrow, for all of God's children. I will not deny anyone the joy of knowing Christ loves and welcomes them. Our actions matter; mere words, not so much if they're not followed by actions.”

Mark listens, his head titled at a calculated angle that reeks of insincerity. “You’re making enemies with that kind of talk, Your Holiness.”

“And I am certain I am making friends as well.”

“Ah! Are there other gays in the Vatican?”

“I can only speak for myself, Mark. But the Church is made of human beings, and we come to it as we are. God welcomes us all in His loving embrace; we only have to strive to do our best.”

“You say, to quote you, ‘We come to the Church as we are.’ There were rumours about Pope Innocent…”

Dread fills Thomas. “Rumours?”

“Yes, of many kinds, as I'm sure you know. First of all: what killed him?”

Thomas stares. “He died during surgery, from a violent allergic reaction to the anaesthesia.”

“And what was that surgery for? There are many conspiracy theories, and they all hinge on the fact that no medical information has been made public.”

"That would be because medical information is by definition private, Mark.”

“For most of us, yes, but for the Pope?”

“There are no secrets here. It was anaphylaxis.”

He pauses, looks down at his knee, at the cane resting against his thigh. “But I suppose I should respect his will, in the end. He didn’t want to hide; he wasn’t ashamed.” Thomas searches for the camera again and looks straight into it. “None of us should be ashamed to be what God made us, and we should instead remember He made us in His image.”

Mark waits as Thomas collects himself. Backstage, he can picture Ray, one of the very few who knew about Vincent, turning as red as his fascia. At least Goffredo is already dead, Thomas thinks wryly. Otherwise, that would certainly kill him.

“He died during surgery,” Thomas repeats. “He had an allergic reaction to the anaesthetic. And…” He’s kept that secret for twenty years; the idea of speaking it out loud terrifies him. But Vincent had told him once, I wish I didn’t have to hide it. I’m not a monster, but if they knew I’d be their monster. Thomas twists his papal ring on his finger, takes a deep breath. One day when I’m dead, you’ll tell them, won’t you, Tomás? “The surgery was to remove a tumour, later confirmed to be benign, in one of his ovaries.”

The silence is deafening.

“Your Holiness…?”

Thomas feels light, lighter than he had in years; the studio lighting seems brighter all of a sudden, and he thinks his heart is slowing down. He wonders if he’s dying; he wonders if he’s finally granted the rest he’s craved for so long.

“Yes, Mark?”

“His ovaries?”

“Pope Innocent was intersex.”

“He was a woman?”

“No. He was intersex, which is not the same thing. He only learned about it when he was almost forty, and he…” Thomas swallows. Vincent must have felt so very lonely in those painful months; the idea sickens Thomas. At least Ignatius had been there for him. “He thought his vocation and priesthood was a sin, that he should resign, but Pope Ignatius convinced him to take his time before coming to a decision."

"A decision? What kind of decision, surgery?"

"A scalpel does not determine identity, Mark. Vincent prayed for guidance, and eventually came to the conclusion he was as God made him, and thus didn’t need to alter himself and therefore God's plans.”

“But…”

Thomas smiles a little. “Oh, don’t let bigotry take hold in your mind, Mark. Embrace God’s creation; it is only more beautiful when you contemplate how varied it is.”

“But… ovaries? Like a woman?”

“You seem confused, Mark. Pope Innocent was a man. He always knew himself to be a man. He simply was, also, intersex.”

The journalist clears his throat. “A man? How can you be sure?”

"As I said, he always knew himself to be a man. He grew up a boy, became a priest. There was never any doubt until he had abdominal surgery to remove shrapnel."

“But how… when he was born…?”

Thomas shrugs. “I presume he had all the expected parts.”

“You presume? You didn't… check?”

“Well, we don't check for, ah, organs when we elect a Pope, you know. It's a legend.”

“But you, ah, never…” Mark is turning somewhat red. “You know. Since you’re a… gay Pope.”

It’s hard not to sigh, but Thomas manages. “No. We had followed our vows for decades, and we had no wish to break them. We don’t take them lightly.” Today, married men could become priests and married women deacons, like in other Christian Churches, but celibacy is still highly valued. Back when Thomas was a young priest, his celibacy had given him strength; he could never have gone back on that.

Of course, Mark’s curiosity isn’t so easily doused. “And did you ever kiss?”

Thomas is quite sure he’s blushing at this point, but he digs his nails in his palms and answers as truthfully as he can. “I wish we had, sometimes.” He pauses. “I have regrets in my life, of course, but love isn't one of them. Love isn’t a sin; it’s… an engine. A gift from God to help us move forward.”

He knows he may have just destroyed all the work Innocent did to reconcile divisions in the Church; he knows he might very well leave a schism as his legacy, and yet, he’s at peace. He can hear Aldo’s warm approval in his mind, see Vincent’s smile. He believes he’s done the right thing, and acted in accordance with God’s will and Vincent's wishes. Is this hubris? Is he deluding himself? If some factions in the clergy, in the Church itself, break away and hurt the very same people he was reaching out to, is he not guilty?

La Iglesia es lo que hagamos en adelante, Vincent would say. Thomas has given the Church everything he had and more, and he truly has no regrets there. He’s followed his conscience, the guidance he found in his heart, in his faith. Doubt has only bolstered his resolve once Vincent showed him the way and walked with him, and perhaps, for the first time in his life, he can tell himself that he did his best. But now… Now, he only wants to rest, after a long walk through life.

He falls asleep that night, Vincent’s old rosary in his hands, his name on his lips, and he never wakes up.

They open Pope Innocent’s grave for Pope John’s funeral, and they find out that Innocent’s body, never embalmed as he’d wished, is pristine, touched by God’s grace. It never decayed. Thomas is buried next to Vincent, and from the day visitors are allowed, the vault becomes a holy pilgrimage. It’s covered with colourful flags that don’t belong to any country, and soon miracles are hailed.

Twenty years after Pope John XXIV’s death, the Catholic Church has two new saints.