“Exactly.” Carlyle dug her fingers into the time-grayed fringes of her own long scarf. “I’ve heard your arguments before, from Julia, that there are so many reasons to want to believe in Deism that you can’t be sure if you really do. I do sometimes feel rational doubt, for that reason or others, but then I see the infinite detail of an insect, or taste snow, and then I know I love, and I believe.”

Dominic’s eyes narrowed until only the black remained; I have seen him glare so at Heloïse passing in the halls with her tranquil smile, and sometimes at myself. “It is easy to love something one does not believe in,” he began. “Think of an idealist, a dreamer, a Utopian, how often you see them burst into tears at the beauty of a future they imagine. Thou hast read books, seen movies, wept and rejoiced at the sorrows and triumphs of fiction. What is that if not love for something thou knowest does not exist?”

“That’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

“I won’t deny that that’s love, but there are lots of kinds of love, like the love one feels for bash’mates, or friends. This is different.”

“Stronger?” Dominic tested.

“Y-yes.” Carlyle’s voice was weakening.

Where art thou, Mycroft? Stop this. Stop this soon!

“Thy love is special, then? Thou lovest thy God more truly than others love that which they love most?”

“No. No, of course not.” Carlyle lost the strength to look at Dominic, her eyes ranging the room, the floor, the ranks of books stacked by the walls, Spinoza, Nietzsche, Averroes, ready with a thousand portraits of God, or of His absence.

Dominic leaned forward. “Why not call thy love special? Thou art not merely a sensayer but a vocateur. Thou hast devoted thy life to thy God, sacrificed thy leisure hours for Him, thy studies, thy passions. Few men weep daily for love of anything, as thou dost. Is that not the sort of special love that Saints are supposed to have, and Prophets?”

“No.” Carlyle had seemed almost prepared to rise, but slumped again against the door, hiding behind her hair. “It’s not special like that. I’m not special like that.”

“Because if thou wert special thou wouldst not have fallen?”

Carlyle choked. “You stole my files.…”

Dominic adjusted the stole-scarf across his shoulders. “I didn’t have to steal them, I’m thy sensayer. Four years ago a parishioner let slip in a session that she was plotting murder to avenge her lost ba’pas, and thou brokest thine oath and tippedest off the police.”

“I couldn’t—”

“Thy sacred oath,” Dominic pressed, “for we all hold our oaths as sensayers sacred, secular as they may be. One who loved God as perfectly as thou claimest to should not hesitate to die, or let another die, to keep a sacred oath.”

Wetness leaked in tracks down Carlyle’s cheeks. “Please stop.”

“Thou brokest thy sacred oath,” the monk jabbed, “because thou didst not trust thy God enough to let Providence judge whether the victim should live or die. A Deistic God asks practically nothing of His priests, but still thou hast managed to betray Him. Very impressive.”