Her eyes flicked to me, then away. Bror sent her a look that I could not read. Now she was slipping from the room. Sound of bare feet on dry stone, the gentle swish of her shift dress.

“That was kind of you,” said Bror. “But unnecessary. Tell me, why are you standing here before me?”

“I want to know who you are.”

“Ah.” He considered this. “How very direct. Do you mean the Patriotic Order of the Temple Knight? Or do you mean the student who once knew your wife?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Locking horns with the priest.” He smiled a wry smile. “This is the job of the satirist, no? You are wondering if we are in some way connected to those men and their brutal acts? After all, we—and they—carry the name of the Knights Templar.”

“I have asked myself that question.”

“The Patriotic Order of the Temple Knight is a chivalric order, committed to honor and valor. With our young followers we meditate on the figure of the crusader knight, whom we consider the most complete embodiment of courage and honor. We seek inspiration from his deeds. But he is a metaphor. Which should be obvious. We are not literal knights and nor is he. We do not wish to rampage through the Middle East, spilling the blood of our Muslim brothers. Though we do have some very fine horses in our paddock.”

“And those other Knights Templar?”

“The—quote-unquote—Tactical Brigades?”

I nodded.

He shook his head. “These boys have a narrow understanding of metaphor: the gun is the lance; the boat is the horse; the refugee is the Saracen. They lack the intelligence to understand that this is a ridiculous proposition. But they outwitted our police. And their talk about employing children as actual soldiers? If that’s where we are headed in the West, then we know from other countries it’s a terrifyingly effective tactic, no? What decent man would dare to return fire, knowing his target was thirteen?”

“These men admire you. They quote you very widely.”

“We’ve taken down our websites. All materials. You can’t even google us now. I will not have these acts on my conscience.” A sorrowful look passed across his features. “I sincerely hope better people admire us too. What I teach—the praxis our true followers observe—is more akin to Buddhism or Sufism. Balance duty with pleasure. Take time out to breathe.”

“I still don’t really understand what you believe.”

“Cherish and protect those you love. Beyond that I don’t really care what my followers believe. It’s the praxis that counts. Live the good life. Know the consoling qualities of a good cup of coffee . . .”

“You brought me coffee on the day of the massacre.”

A sober look. “You really mustn’t thank me.”

“Still, it did console me a little. To know we were not completely alone.”