Road To Fire (Broken Crown Trilogy #1) - Maria Luis Page 0,46

nervous.”

My fingers grip the bench. “I’m not nervous.”

“Is that so? If you think any louder, I fear you’ll implode.”

At his unexpectedly wry humor, a laugh slips off my tongue. One glance at the dark wood around me reminds me that I’m in a church, and the laughter dries up faster than rain falling in the Sahara. “Apologies.” I bite my bottom lip. “Again.”

“No apologies required . . . again.”

I squeeze my fingers around the bench’s wooden lip, trying to smother another chuckle.

“Tell me what’s on your mind, my child.”

What’s on my mind isn’t fit for a priest’s ears. I want to storm over to The Bell & Hand and get in Saxon’s face until he ceases to be a complete bellend. I want to feel his strong fingers intertwined with mine again. And, more than anything, I want him to realize that we’re allies in this, not enemies. We both want the same thing. Why he feels the need to thrust me away, as though I’ve offered him nothing of worth, feels almost worse than the guilt that continues to gnaw away at my soul.

Yesterday, for the span of a heartbeat, I’d felt united in our misery. Saxon understood. He understood me. And then the bloody bastard had to rip the proverbial rug out from beneath my feet and remind me, all too bluntly, that I am alone.

Well and truly alone.

A quiet knock on the screen recaptures my attention and I fabricate a lie, just like all the others I’ve told in recent years. “I feel . . . uncertain.” When Father Bootham says nothing, I hurry to elaborate. “In my place here. What I’m meant to say. How much I’m not allowed to say.”

“There are no boundaries,” the priest replies smoothly. “I give you information. You dole that out. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“And you don’t worry that the information may land in the wrong hands?” I ask before I can stop myself. But, oh hell, do I wish I could snatch the words back. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Saxon is going to absolutely murder me—and, given his history, I’m not at all sure that he wouldn’t actually do it. “Never mind. I’m sorry, that was a nosy question. Let’s forget I even asked.”

“I have ears, my child.”

I swallow, hard.

He continues in that self-assured, no-nonsense tone of his. “I know the risks I face by helping the Priests. All it takes is one word breathed in the wrong direction and everything I’ve worked for will come crashing down around me. I wouldn’t survive the fallout, that I know.”

“Then why—”

“Because we’re put on this earth to believe, and it is up to us to decide what we believe in. I choose God or, perhaps, He chose me. That belief lives in my veins, in my soul. It is who I am.”

“And Queen Margaret?”

“Others may say that He chose her, and so we all must too.”

I slide my arse to the bench’s edge. “But you don’t think that?”

Silence reigns, casting a chill over my skin. Then, “I believe that the queen has peace in her. I believe that she leads with love, where her father led with fear. I believe that, if we only offered her a chance, she would give us unity, safety, and a country that inspires hope, not never-ending deceit.”

Deceit.

Here I am, doing exactly that.

Because I don’t believe—not in the Crown, not in our queen, not in anything that carries the stamp of King John.

“I think . . . I think that the world needs more people like you, Father Bootham.”

He issues a soft chuckle. “My child, the world is already filled with people like me—if only you look hard enough.” Before I can edge another word in, he adds, “Now, let us get to it, shall we? The congregation has been chatty, and while most of it sounds quite the norm, one thing leaves me worried.”

My ears perk up. “Whatever it is, I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

“We all carry our struggles,” he says, almost as if he’s reassuring himself, rather than confiding in me, “and those struggles weigh heavily on our shoulders.”

Even though he can’t see me, I nod. “Yes.”

“You asked me who I believe in. I believe in the Lord, I believe in our queen, and I believe in the Priests. And believing in the latter two is the cross I bear, for when they cross hairs . . .”

I have no idea how Saxon does this twice per week. Listening, lying to the priest’s face,