He fits his finger inside, stroking the dark interior of the skull, stirring its most private air. Certain that no one has ever thought to touch the body. In this way. For pleasure, to give pleasure. Hands trembling. Heavy breath. Do you like this. Cradled between its legs. Stroking the body from the inside. And then there is P., kneeling on the mattress, behind Xie, spirit but solid, a body as tangible as the bones, dressed as he was in the case, radiating that gold light, which is yet another body: the saint split in three. It’s the spirit that speaks, that says the word again: Beloved. The light over the sheets, crawling up Xie’s thighs. Xie turns the body over on its side. Belly to spine. Kiss at the top of the neck, hand skipping over the back of the ribs, gripping the crest of the hip. Holding your breath. The light stretching all the way to your neck. Turn me to gold, too. Let me drink it. Touching the body all over. P. touching you. The body draped now over yours. You have the skull in your hands and the light is. So bright. Pinning you to itself. Lips against his forehead. Against his mouth. Not hurting anyone. No. No one. Kissing the breastbone, the clavicle, the cheek. Dry, impossibly light. Perfect. The candle lit. A deep shadow over the body’s face, skull tipped forward, mouth against the bottom of the jaw, Am I all right, do I look all right to you. Beautiful. Yes. Show me. How hard you are. Let me hold you. Come, P. says, beside you, caress from temple to hip. The body above you. A bird’s weight. Rapture. Beloved. Thrusting up. Deep shadow. Deep night. You are. So. Happy.

Waking to the body against his, rib to rib, foot over foot. Long look at the skull, slow kiss. Not a dream. Before getting out of bed Xie takes the sheet and wraps the body. Careful as he straightens the legs, smooths his hand over the pelvis. Someone walking into the room would see only a pile of blankets on an unmade bed; you’d have to know the body was there to see it. Sun settling on the pillows. Dust rising from the mattress, fractions of skin and bone. Smell of sex. While he showers P. leans at the sink, watching through the curtain. You don’t have to be with the body? Xie wonders. P.’s grin. I am anywhere. Beckoning. Let me see you. Xie turns off the water, dries himself. P’s head dipped to his neck. Don’t make me hard again. Light against his back. Xie arching into it. Fingers against his throat. Even in the mirror you see him. The glass, the room, you: full. Gasping into the sink. Finish dressing, no breakfast, hair still damp as he pulls his hood up. Come with me. Through the woods. The birds calm in the trees when P. passes. Faint tracks from the night before, the drag of the body’s boots in the dirt, half covered with fresh leaves, the marks of other beasts. The birch not yet bare, leaves just starting to turn, branches a fragile lattice against the sky. Squirrels circling the trunks, reminding Xie of the mink, wary eyes, soft bodies. Where are the bones of those creatures, he wonders. Scattered over the roads where they were crushed, buried in the backyard where they were found biting the necks of someone’s chickens, silver chins matted with blood. All of them shot. He saw the pictures in court, someone giggling behind their hand as Xie wept in his, Ryan Moore gazing at him with the mild wonder of one animal about to eat another. Moore will pack his yard with mink, install a security system, a steel gate in the driveway. With Erik’s money. But don’t. Think about that now. P.’s boots ringing on the library steps. Ducking to keep his crown from hitting the jamb. Inside, Xie half expects P. to disappear, but instead he grows larger, illuminating the hideous room, grazing its low ceilings, the dusty stacks. Radiance. Pouring through the plate glass, splashing the cement walls, a man asleep at a table meant for a child, sweat glittering on his filthy brow. Hey, Karen says, folding her jacket over a chair. You’re bright and early. He nods, sitting. Yeah, I. Stops. Trying not to stare at P., sitting beside them. She blinks. You okay? Yeah, I’m fine. Hand over his mouth, trying to wipe the grin off, can’t. Sorry, I just. Didn’t sleep much. The sharp lip of P.’s boot cutting into Xie’s knee, can he really feel it or is it. Just his imagination. Another nudge: Can you feel that, beloved? Stifling a laugh. Opening his textbook to the chapter about the Spanish Inquisition. Xie giggles, helpless, forehead to the page. Seriously, Xie. Do you need to go outside for a minute or what? Deep breath, palms against his eyes. Straightening his face. No, I’m sorry. The fire alarm goes off. They both jerk in their seats. Jesus, Karen breathes. Someone sheepishly shutting the fire exit door. P. by the fire alarm box, one finger beneath the plastic cover.