“You’d think the Church of England would be more understanding, founded by King Henry the Adulterer/Wife-murderer/Swan-eater.”

“I believe the swan-eating was the least of his issues.”

“We could, you know…do the thing, if you wanted.”

“The thing? Could you be more specific?”

“Rhymes with ‘carriage’?”

Søren laughed. “I suppose we could. If we were married, it would, as they say, cover a multitude of sins. What a husband and wife do behind closed doors is no one’s business, not even if the husband is an Anglican priest.”

“Or a husband and his former brother-in-law…” Nora said. Then rethought that. “I guess the Church of England wouldn’t be keen on you and King doing your thing either.”

“No. And even if they did, a priest or a pastor’s wife lives in a fishbowl. It’s more stressful in many ways than being in the clergy. Turning you into a pastor’s wife would be sadism,” he said, stroking her hair. “And not the kind either of us enjoy. No, becoming Anglican would cause as many problems as it would solve. And I can’t imagine myself as anything but a Jesuit.”

“Neither can I,” Nora said. “A Jesuit or nothing.”

Jesuits. The scary-smart priests. The scary-scary priests, as Cyrus had called them. The Jesuits were an army of Catholic intellectuals and so liberal, they were often accused of heresy.

Søren dropped his hand to his chest. His smile had disappeared.

“I was only eleven,” he said, “when I was dropped on the doorstep at St. Ignatius. I had a letter with me, written by my father that I had to give to Father Henry, the headmaster. I knew what it said. I was told what it said—that I was a violent delinquent and a deviant, and Father Henry and the other Jesuit priests and teachers should feel free to beat me daily as it was the only punishment I understood.”

Nora closed her eyes, though she would rather have closed her ears.

Søren went on. “Father Henry took the letter, read it, and I knew I was going to spend the next seven years of my life in hell. Instead, he took me to the kitchen, sat me down, and gave me hot chocolate. He said, ‘I think your father’s full of shit, but don’t tell him I said that.’ Then he winked at me and put a dollop of whipped cream on top of the cocoa. ‘We don’t beat boys at this school,’ he said. ‘Except in chess.’ Then we played chess for two hours.”

“You used to give me hot cocoa, too,” she said. “When I was upset.”

“Forty years ago, and I can still remember how sweet the hot chocolate was and how good. I’d never had it before. My stepmother always said sweets were for ‘poor people,’ not ‘our kind.’” A long pause. “I see him every time I look in the mirror.”

“Father Henry?” Nora asked, assuming Søren meant when he wore his collar and clerical garb.

“My father.”