“I didn’t think anything was difficult for you.”

Søren lowered his hand and stepped out of the sunlight and into the shadows by the shrine of the Virgin Mary.

“Surely you of all people cannot think so highly of me.”

Nora smiled and followed him into the shadows.

“The day I first saw you, I thought you were omnipotent.”

“You were fifteen, Eleanor.”

“I still think that.”

Søren’s laugh was empty and somber.

“If I were omnipotent you would still be with me, little one. I didn’t have the strength to stop you from leaving.”

“You did,” she said. “But you loved me too much to use it.”

“Perhaps I’ve always loved you too much.” Søren turned his eyes up to the Virgin Mary statue. “Our mutual acquaintance tells me you’ve given up work on your book.”

Nora tugged at her shirt cuffs.

“Zach found out about what I do. He killed the deal.”

“Surely you can write without him.”

“I’m not sure I can. He made me see my book with new eyes. I was just a smutty storyteller before him. For a little while I felt like a real writer.”

“Answer a question for me, Eleanor. Why did you begin your work with our monsieur?”

“I had nothing. He offered me a job.”

“You could have worked any number of jobs. Why that one?”

“He said I’d make a lot of money working very few hours. I thought it would give me—” She stopped and swallowed. “I thought it would give me time to write.”

“Your work with Kingsley was merely a means to an end. It was never meant to be the end.”

Nora didn’t know how to answer that.

Søren reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small black velvet bag and placed it in her hand.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Your real anniversary gift.”

Nora opened the bag and a silver pendant on a chain poured out into her hand. She held it close to her eyes.

“A saint’s medal.” She laughed. “I haven’t worn one of these in years. Who is it? St. Michael? St. Mary Magdalene?”

“St. John the Apostle actually.”

“St. John…patron saint of fools and ex-lovers?” she hazarded a guess.

“No,” Søren said, his voice and eyes gentle. “The patron saint of writers.”

Nora’s hand shook slightly and she couldn’t quite get the necklace on.

Søren took the medal from her and clasped it around her neck. She closed her eyes and relished the brief moment when his arms encircled her.

“Our Lord Jesus had twelve disciples,” Søren said, taking a step back. “After His Ascension all were scattered to the four winds and were persecuted unto death. Oddly enough it was only St. John, Patron Saint of Writers, who didn’t die a martyr.”

“You always hated it when I played martyr. You know, I’m not sure I deserve to wear this.”

“Genesis 1:1, God said let there be light and there was light… God created the world with words, Eleanor. Words are the thread in the fabric of the universe. You write because it brings you closer to God. I was foolish enough once to think I could do that for you. I know better now. This is who you are.”