S. Parris - The Secret Dead

His face hardened. “Neither of my daughters is home atpresent.” As if to betray him, the ceiling creaked with the footsteps ofsomeone walking in the room above. My eyes flickered upward; his remained fixedcalmly on me. In the light of the oil lamp I saw that his face was drawn, hisdark eyes ringed with shadow. One of his daughters had not come home for twodays; he must already fear the worst. I wondered if Maria had confided in himabout her sister’s lover, the pregnancy, or where she had last seen Anna. Idoubted it; she had said the knowledge of her sister’s affair would break theirfather’s heart. She would want to protect him from the truth.

There was nothing more I could do. Inside my habit, thelocket pressed against my ribs in its hidden pocket, but to hand it over wouldbe as good as announcing that his daughter was dead, and implicating myself.

“No matter. Perhaps one day I will come back and buy a giftfor my mother.” I turned to leave.

“I should be honored, sir.” He gave me a slight bow and ahalf-smile; despite his understandable dislike of Dominicans, he knew that heneeded our continued favor.

I felt a pang of empathy; though I could not imagine theconstant threat that hung over this man and his family, no matter how sincerelydevout he tried to appear, I already knew what it meant to harbor secretbeliefs in your heart, beliefs that could lead you into the flames before the Inquisitors’signatures had even dried on your trial papers. The more I studied, the lessconvinced I was that the Catholic Church or her Pope were the sole custodiansof divine wisdom. I could not tell if it was fear or arrogance that led theHoly Office to ban books that might open a man’s mind to the teachings of theJews, the Arabs, the Protestants, or the ancients, but I felt increasingly surethat God, whatever form He took, had not created us to kill and torture oneanother over the name we give Him. Tolerance and curiosity: a dangerouscombination for a young Dominican at a time when the Church was growing lessand less tolerant. I nursed my doubts like a secret passion, relishing theshiver of fear they brought. I wanted to tell the goldsmith we had more incommon than he realized. Instead, I returned his bow and left the shop, thebright chime of the bell ringing behind me.

A few paces down the street, I stopped under the Roman archand tried to think what I might do with the locket. I could wait until the shopwas closed and try to push it under the door or through a window, in the hopethat Maria would find it. But someone else might see it first, and think tolook inside its secret compartment. I could not risk that. I could walk down tothe harbor and throw it into the sea, where it could not incriminate anyone.Though I hated the idea of destroying something so precious, this seemed theonly safe course, for all of us. I had almost reached the end of the streetwhen I heard quick footsteps behind me, and turned to see Maria runningbarefoot through the dust.

“I went to Fontanelle,” she announced, pinning me with herfrank gaze. I stopped absolutely still. I dared not even breathe for fear ofwhat my face might betray. Every muscle in my body was held rigid. She let outa long, shuddering sigh and her shoulders slumped. “Nothing. No bodies of youngwomen found in the past two days.”

“Then perhaps she has run away after all,” I managed tosay, hating myself for it, though relief had made me lightheaded and my legsweak. I leaned one hand on the wall for support.

Maria shook her head. “I will never believe that. I thoughtyou might have come to bring me some news?”

I hesitated, then reached inside my habit and brought outthe twist of paper I had wrapped it in. “I came to bring you this.”

She tore it open and stared at the locket, her face tightwith grief. “There is blood on it.”

“Mine. I cut my finger on the clasp.” I held it up asproof.

She raised the locket slowly to her lips and closed hereyes, as if in silent prayer. A tear rolled down her cheek. “Did he take itfrom her? How did you get it?”

“I found it on the ground.”

“Where?”

Again, I hesitated just a breath too long. “In the street,outside the gate. She must have dropped it there.”

She shook her head.

“That cannot be true. I have searched the streets aroundthe walls of your convent for the past two days for any sign of what happenedto her. I would have seen it. And the chain is broken, as if it was torn fromher.” When she saw that I was not going to respond, she rubbed at the tearswith the back of her hand and drew herself upright. “Well. I should not expecttruth from a Dominican. But at least I know now that my sister is dead. Shewould never have willingly let this out of her sight.”

“Very wise. It is a beautiful piece of work. Your fathermust be a highly skilled craftsman, to have made something so complex.”

She looked at me with a hunted expression as she tried todiscern my meaning. “Did you open it?”

The question was barely a whisper. She knew the answer. Sheclenched her hands to stop their trembling and her face was tight with fear — the same fear I had felt only a moment before at her mention of Fontanelle. Thenaked terror of being found out.

“Yes. Is it your mother?”

She nodded, a tense little jerk of her head, her eyes stillboring into me.

“She must have been beautiful,” I said. “But something asvaluable as that should be carefully guarded. Others might not be sounderstanding of your desire to honor your family memory.”

She gave a gulping sob and wrapped both hands over thelocket. “Thank you.” She swallowed. “Did you show it to anyone? What is inside,I mean?” She glanced over her shoulder, as if I might have brought an army ofInquisitors to hide around the corner.

“No one but me. And I will say nothing.”

“Why?” That sharpness again; the muscles twitching in herjaw. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because …” Because my own secret is far worse, I thought,and it is the very least I owe you for the fact that you will never truly knowwhat happened to your sister. I could not say that. But the answer I gave herwas also true. “Because I believe God is bigger than the rules we impose on oneanother. I think He does not mind if we find different paths to Him.”

“That is heresy,” she whispered.

“So is that.” I nodded to the locket in her hand.

“You are a good man, Bruno,” she said. Unexpectedly, sheleaned forward and placed a soft kiss on my cheek, at the edge of my mouth. Shestood back and almost smiled. “For a Dominican.” I could not look her in theeye.

“Wait,” she called, as I began to walk away. “That man. Thefriar. Donato, is that his name? Where can he be found?”

“At San Domenico. Or at the Cerriglio, where you found himlast night.”

“But he is always surrounded by people. I want to speak tohim alone.”

“He would never allow it. Not after your last encounter.”

She shrugged. “Still, I have to try. For my sister’s sake.I just want to know.”

I considered this. “He is rarely alone, except in his cell.Or perhaps when he takes one of the upstairs rooms at the tavern, to meet awoman.”

She nodded, tucking the information away. “The cruelestpart,” she said, with some difficulty, pausing to master her emotions, “is thathe has stolen from us even the chance to bury and mourn her properly. Whateverhe has done with her, I can never forgive him for that.” I watched her teethclench. She took a deep breath. “Thank you,” she said, her voice harder thistime, determined. “For what you have done for my family. Perhaps we will meet again.”

“Perhaps.” I bowed and turned away. She would never know mypart in what happened to her sister, but I would carry the weight of thatknowledge with me always.