Father Mathias Glanzer paced through the church, past the glass votives holding candles that had burned low. His footsteps sounded hollow along the floorboards of the nave. At the altar, before the huge suspended crucifix, he genuflected, made the sign of the cross, and sent up a small prayer for guidance as the image of Jesus stared down at him.

In anger?

Or compassion?

His clasped hands were clammy, his body beneath his robes covered in a nervous, self-loathing sweat. He’d been a priest for nearly fifteen years and still he sought guidance, still he doubted. His faith wavered, though he would deny it to anyone who asked.

But God knew.

As did he, himself. “Forgive me,” he whispered, and though he knew he should stay and pray for hours, he found no solace in prayer, no comfort in seeking God’s counsel. Straightening, he left the church, the door to the nave shutting behind him with a soft, definitive thud.

Outside, the night promised rain. Clouds were thick, the moon and stars blocked from a storm that was pushing inland. The January wind was cold, with a harsh bite as it blew through his soul.

He’d come to All Saints thinking he could start over, reaffirm his vows, make changes in the college. In himself. Find God again.

Just as in a marriage when spouses become too comfortable and take each other for granted, lose interest or vitality, so had he accepted his faith as pure and important and all-knowing. He’d become prideful. Vain. Seeking his own glory over that of God.

And, of course, as high as he’d climbed, as far as his blind ambition had taken him, it had abandoned him. Now he was falling, tumbling into a darkness so bleak, he feared there was no return. Moving to All Saints hadn’t been a blessing, but a curse.

He wanted to blame Dr. Grotto, or Father Anthony, or Natalie Croft with her damned vision for the English Department. He’d gone so far as to harbor feelings of injustice at the school administration with so many laypeople on the board, including the descendants of Ludwig Wagner, the man who had given the original plot to the archdiocese to build the school, but, in truth, all of his railing against the fates and those with whom he worked was foolhardy. The person who was at fault was himself. He thought of those who had gone before him, pure men who had tortured themselves in horsehair or with flails, who knelt for days upon cold stones, who fasted until they fainted…he would never test himself as they had.

For years he’d told himself those penances were for the weak and addled, that he was above them. Now he knew differently. They were for the strong, and only cowards like himself—weak, mortal men—would run from God’s challenges.