The church is tiny, taller but no bigger than his own house, planted at the far end of the field. Dark stone and thin windows graze the steep red roof. Silver spire. Peaked wooden door, laced with rusting ironwork. A round window above, and above that the lamp, white light frosting the crumbling steps. Xie puts his hand on the door, pushing: it swings open. Inside there is no one. Two rows of pews, five deep from the altar, an enormous painted cross. A marble font. Stone floor. Enclave with a wooden gate to the right, rows of candles, a handful of them lit before a tall portrait of Mary, head tipped to the baby Jesus against her breast. A piano in the choir loft above the entryway. Stained glass all around: red, blue, white. An angel outlined in lead. To the left, a table with a leather registry, and behind it the confessional, as slim and severe as a coffin. His clothes drip; he turns in a circle of water, looking. He wipes his face with his hands. Holding his breath. Don’t think for a sec. He can feel it, whatever it was in the woods. Stands very still. It’s here. Right here. Turning back to the door, how did he miss it? A painted cabinet, dark gold, taller than Xie, pressed beneath a sloped stone arch. A little hole, also gold, for a key. Could be coats inside, or whatever priests wear, or Bibles, or. Nothing. Could be nothing. The rain stops. Such a silence, deeper than in the woods, pure, unrelieved. Xie takes a step; he strokes the belly of the cabinet, where the wood swells. He presses his thumb against the keyhole. Bends. Inhales. He knows the smell: cold, earth, bone. The way a smell can be like a sound, calling. The key hangs from a nail behind the case, its long chain swinging slightly against the stone. He slips his hand in the gap, takes the key, fits it into the lock.

How to describe the beloved?

Behind the door a pane of glass, and behind the glass, a body. Full skeleton dressed in an elaborate suit of silver. Knee bent, hip cocked, one hand pointing to the sky, the other settled on the hilt of an enormous sword. Head turned downward in its nest of metal to gaze at Xie. Silver boots to the thigh; long pleated skirt; breastplate in a Roman style. Narrow windows edged in heavy filigree cut over the arms, the shins, the chest, revealing the slim yellowed bones beneath. A plaque affixed to the bottom of the glass: St. Pancratius. Martyred 304 A.D. He traces the name. Pancratius. P. So. This is you. Silver cape strapped with more gold to his shoulders, falling in thick folds to his boots, a half dozen chains linked across the breastplate like necklaces, hung with medals. A circle of gold affixed to the back of the helmet, reaching a foot in all directions, as if the skull were a star crowned in fire. Everywhere the metal etched, tooled, stamped in layer upon layer of exquisite designs, not overwhelming the austerity of the bones but highlighting their merciless perfection. Those eyes, pitch-black in the low light. The body liquid in all its hardness, something not fixed but fixing, from boot to crown, the entire room on itself. A warrior. A prince. A king. Flames flicker in the glass. Everything moving and nothing moving. Everything alive and everything still.