The Sinners of Saint Amos - Logan Fox Page 0,26

jaw-cracking yawns, it was obvious nothing was sinking in.

I called it quits after forty-five minutes.

“I need to change,” I tell the kid as he leads me out of the laundry.

“He said to bring you straight up.”

Lord, is everyone in this place missing a screw? I guess after following orders for so long you forget the meaning of independence.

Whatever. It’s not like Father Gabriel would actually care what I look like. And after two hours in the laundry, I smell more of suds than sweat. I wipe my hands on my dress, hoping enough of the scent will soak into the fibers to last through dinner.

As the kid leads me up flight after flight of stairs, I take down my hair and try to get it to conform. I can only hope it doesn’t look like a rat’s nest.

The kid takes me to the fourth level of the building where the doorways are spaced several yards apart. The lighting is better, the floors are carpeted, and it doesn’t smell like a bunch of boys crammed into a shoe closet. While my room is on the east wing of Saint Amos, Father Gabriel’s is on the west.

The kid leaves me in front of a wide, arched doorway with a brass plaque:

PROVOST

No name? Guess the position suffers from high turnover.

“So do I knock, or—?”

But the kid’s already gone. I push back my shoulders, paste on a smile, and knock.

No one answers.

I knock again.

No answer.

Maybe I’m too late. He could have decided to go and have dinner with the rest of the staff.

Where do Zachary and the rest of the faculty have dinner? Do they take their plates to their rooms, or is there a separate dining room for the staff?

On my third knock, a muffled voice calls from inside. “Come.”

I turn the handle and step into a small antechamber. There’s an umbrella stand, a table with a set of keys in a bowl, and a small stool beside two pairs of shoes. A second door opens into a living area.

A multitude of candles flickers as I push the door closed behind me. Polished mahogany gleams, and thick carpets eat the sound of my footfalls.

Father Gabriel is sitting in front of a fireplace on the far side of the room. There’s a footstool in front of him, and he has his socked feet propped on it.

Cigarettes, wood smoke, and candle wax cloy the air, making my eyes water.

He’s wearing a white t-shirt and dark jeans. Nothing like the cable-knit sweater and slacks he greeted me in on Monday morning.

He glances at me over his shoulder, and beckons. “You came straight from the laundry?” he asks as I approach.

There’s a cigarette in one hand, and he flicks it against the edge of a glass ashtray without looking. He’s been a smoker as long as I can imagine. Mother would never let him smoke inside our house, though. Even Dad had to smoke outside on the porch.

“Bit late to be working down there, isn’t it?” he adds before taking a drag from his cigarette.

Of course I could tell him I lost track of time. But I’d rather he think I’m an overachiever than a daydreamer.

“I thought I’d stay a bit longer. They really appreciate the extra pair of hands down there.”

Gabriel nods, his smile fading a little as he turns his attention back to the fire. There’s a wine glass on the side table beside his ashtray—ruby liquid swirls as he brings it to his lips.

“Care for something to drink?”

“I…uh…yeah. Sure.” Wine? He’s giving me wine? My parents never let me drink.

Gabriel crushes out his cigarette in the ashtray and then stands and heads over to the corner kitchenette. I take a moment to scan the room as I sink into the other chair.

The heat tightens my cheeks.

I hope I don’t have to sit here for much longer. Else I won’t be reeking of suds anymore.

Gabriel returns with a soda can. I take it with a nod as I purse my lips. Of course the provost won’t give me alcohol. What the hell am I thinking?

I crack open the can and take a sip. “It’s hot in here.”

“We’ll move in a moment.”

I glance at him from under my lashes. He sounds like his mind is miles away. I guess someone like him spends a lot of time thinking about God, even though he probably has Him on speed dial.

I look down at the can, and do my best to shove away the unpleasant thoughts trying to