It is, I think, the most serene space I’ve been in since leaving my tiny cabin in Maine. Or would be, under different circumstances. But unlike my cabin, it is austere, imposing. Not meant for the unwashed world. At first glance it is empty . . . until I notice the single form seated near the front.

I pause as a figure rises from the pew. When he turns, I suck in a breath, though not at his appearance. His face is plain, so devoid of furrows, scars, or even dimples as to be nondescript. His eyes are kind, if not memorable, enough gray in his hair to put him in his late thirties. The kind of man who might look equally unremarkable in an office suit, in a T-shirt on a ball field . . .

. . . or in a monk’s robes.

But it is his presence that sends me back a step.

Holy brother of God. It’s a Progeny monk.

He moves toward me, the rope around his waist dangling to his knees. I swear I can practically hear the brush of his hem.

He stops three steps from me, peers intently at my face.

“Ivan said you would come,” he says, as his presence hits me like a wave.

21

“I am Brother Goran,” he says. His head tilts, hazel eyes rapt. Do I imagine it, or has he sucked in a small breath? “And you . . . are Audra Ellison.”

“Have—have we met?”

“No,” he says strangely. “I have never had the pleasure.”

“How do you know who I am?”

“Because you look like your mother.”

A chill passes down my arms. Just then a door in the outer hallway closes, echoing all the way to the chapel. His glance is sharp. “We can’t speak here,” he says. “Quickly. Come with me.”

My heart drums in my temples as he leads me toward the back of the chapel and down a narrow stair to a subterranean set of rooms. An overhead light flickers to life, illuminating shelves and floor-to-ceiling cabinets—an archive of sorts, complete with a desk and monitor like some underground library.

“How did you know my mother?” I say when he has closed the door behind us.

“That is a story of another life—one I am afraid we do not have time for now,” he says, withdrawing a set of keys from his pocket and unlocking a drawer.

“Is there a short version?” I say. Because at this point, I’ll take anything.

To my relief he pauses, turns to look at me, if sadly. “Poor child.”

I swallow. “Whatever you know about her, I’d really appreciate hearing it.”

He pauses again and seems to consider.