“Our records cannot help you, so if you’ll please follow me, I’ll show you out.” The priest took a step toward the exit.

Royce stepped in his path. “You’re hiding something.”

“I’m doing nothing of the sort. You asked to see records from ninety-two—there are none.”

“The question is, why?”

“Any number of reasons. How should I know?”

“The same way you knew there aren’t any records here for that date without even looking,” Royce replied, his voice lowering. “You’re lying to us, which again brings up the question of why.”

“I’m a monsignor. I don’t appreciate being accused of lying in my own church.”

“And I don’t appreciate being lied to.” Royce took a step forward.

“Neither do I,” Bartholomew replied. “You’re not looking for anyone’s father. Do you think I’m a fool? Why are you back here? That business ended decades ago. Why are you still at it?”

Royce glanced at Hadrian. “We’ve never been here before.”

The priest rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Why is the seret still digging this up? You’re Sentinel Thranic, aren’t you?” He pointed at Royce. “Talbert told me about the interrogation you put him through—a bishop of the church! If only the Patriarch knew what his pets were up to, you would all be disbanded. Why do you still exist, anyway? The Heir of Novron is on her throne, isn’t she? Isn’t that what we’re all supposed to believe? At long last, you found the seed of Novron and all is finally right with the world. You people can’t accept that your mandate is over, that we don’t need you anymore—if we ever did.”

“We aren’t seret,” Hadrian told him, “and my friend here is definitely not a sentinel.”

“No? Talbert described him perfectly—small, wiry, frightening, like Death himself. But you must have shaved your beard.”

“I’m not a sentinel,” Royce told him.

“We’re just trying to find out what happened here forty-two years ago,” Hadrian explained. “And you’re right. I’m not looking for a record of my father’s death, because I know he didn’t die here. But he was here.”

The monsignor hesitated, looking at Hadrian and shooting furtive glances at Royce. “What was your father’s name?” he asked at length.

“Danbury Blackwater.”

The priest shook his head. “Never heard of him.”

“But you know what happened,” Royce said. “Why don’t you just tell us?”

“Why don’t you just get out of my church? I don’t know who you are, and I don’t want to. What happened, happened. It’s over. Nothing can change it. Just leave me alone.”

“You were there,” Arista muttered in revelation. “Forty-two years ago—you were there, weren’t you?”