Deirdre found herself looking at her boots, thinking about the failed kiss. Richard said nothing either. The night shrunk around them, the moonlight highlighting the tension on their faces. She thought about her mother and her assertion Deirdre would meet the love of her life soon. What she felt for Richard was strong, his life intriguing, the depth of his soul a mystery. Even now she wanted to reach out, to lessen his pain, to find peace for him in their sharing.
“What happened to you?” she asked finally. “My father says only a man who regrets what he has done can have so much pain.”
“You don’t really want to know, lady of Mochdrev Reach.”
“I do,” she pressed.
The night seemed to coalesce around Richard, the darkness under his eyes growing, the sorrow permeating every line of his face. The stars moved overhead as time passed. Deirdre waited, knowing if she said anything he might run.
“My wife was an amazing woman. I killed her,” Richard stated flatly. “When I was in Caer Llion, John Lewis Hugo revealed the role he played in that murder. Tomorrow I plan on correcting it.”
“You did not really kill her?” Deirdre prodded, hoping.
“I was tricked, but it was my blade that slid through her chest,” he answered. “I can still feel it, still have the odor of that night in my nose, still see the look of betrayal in her eyes as her light faded from them. I was meant to protect the people of Seattle. But I could not protect my very own wife from myself.”
Horror filled Deirdre. Richard had killed his wife. Saddened by what he had gone through, understanding dawned. He would carry the hardship for the rest of his life.
All she could do was be there for him.
“Self-hatred has eaten my soul,” he said. “Now revenge rules it. I’m not sure I’m capable of loving again.”
“I see,” Deirdre said. “Then my mother was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. I do not believe it. One day you will love again.”
“I am a broken shell of a man, Deirdre,” Richard said. “I have been for so many years I don’t know anything different. You would do better to embrace young Ardall. He is quite smitten with you. As for me, tomorrow a part of the pain I carry will be silenced forever. Or I will die.”
“You felt nothing when we kissed?”
“Nothing.”
Her heart sank. Unfamiliar tears stung her eyes. She suddenly felt a fool. For days she had hoped to trap his heart but in turn had only hurt her own.
“I am sorry that causes you pain,” he said. “As I said, Bran wou—”
“I do not want Bran Ardall,” she breathed, aggravated. “I am in love with you.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered finally.
Crossing her arms, Deirdre said nothing. There was nothing to say. When Richard moved to console her, she turned away, hiding her shimmering eyes.
“Leave me be,” she sighed.
Richard gave her a final silent look before he turned and walked from the glen. His fading footsteps were the saddest thing she had ever heard.
Deirdre let him go.
She didn’t want him to see her tears.
“I will not evacuate the Basilica!” Clement roared.
Cormac stared hard at the Pope, watching the color rise in the other’s cheeks despite the chill in the chamber of the Seer. A newly lit fire crackled in the hearth but offered only light. The Vigilo convened not in their usual private room but instead in the depths of St. Peter’s, where Donato once lived. It was unchanged. It still held his books, his clothing, his belongings, and it all reminded Cormac the loss he suffered. The Cardinal Vicar hated being there. The feeling of holding his lifeless mentor stayed with him. It would never leave.
“Never in the history of Rome has St. Peter’s been evacuated!” the Pope yelled, his anger filling the caverns.
“Your Eminence, there is no choice,” Cardinal Villenza said.
“There is always a choice. Always.”
The Vigilo stood in a half circle around the Fionúir Mirror, the relic draped with its sable cloth. Like Cormac, the men gathered did not wear their ceremonial dress of office; they wore simple attire beneath black rippling robes bearing the crest of St. Peter’s embroidered onto each breast, the clothing more functional and useful if they had to move quickly to respond to the poised threat on their doorstep.
“How did it come to this?” the Pope demanded harshly, directed at Cormac.
The Vigilo grew silent under the penetrating glare of Clement. Cormac returned his stare,