The ancient church is much emptier today than it was on Sunday. Perhaps a dozen parishioners trickle through the door, mostly older. A few ladies mingle in the back corner by a pot of tea set along a banquet table holding flyers.

A hunched man and a small boy light prayer candles in little amber glass jars.

I walk Finn over to the confession booth. He’s awkward all of a sudden. He runs a hand through his curls and looks at the ground. “I’ll, uh—be a moment, I suppose.”

He’s nearly to the open door of the confession booth when I stop him. “Finn?” He turns to look at me, his eyes big and questioning. “Just know, when you’re in there, that stranger may say you are forgiven, but I will never, ever forgive you.”

His face falls, but he doesn’t respond. In silence, he bobs his head, an attempt at a dignified nod, and enters the booth.

I go to sit on the hard pew and pull out my notebook and pen. I watch a small group of nuns, three of them, sweeping the front altar as I debate how to begin the telegram to Florence. They move with such quiet precision, their attention to detail evident as they run a cloth over each ridge of the golden altar.

It’s meditative. There’s a quiet beauty in their work.

I take my pen to paper and write Florence the clearest telegram I’m able.

DEATH MAGIC STOP DO YOU KNOW ANYTHING STOP DID MRS V SAY ANYTHING ABOUT A VEIL.

It’ll cost a fortune to send across the Atlantic but it’s the best I can do.

Finn’s confession takes longer than the telegram draft. I bounce my leg, antsy and sick to my stomach. The sooner we get to the telegram office the better. I wait for what feels like a very long time. I can’t make out Finn’s exact words, but his voice is humming low and steady from the direction of the confessional. There is so much to confess to.

Did he start with my brother, I wonder, or Boss Olan, or his own father? Maybe he started with me. That would be so like him. To center the story around the two of us like we belong to each other at all.

There’s a small commotion as the doors to the church swing open, shattering the quiet calm inside. The little boy with his prayer candle jumps as three police officers enter the sanctuary.

They march down the center aisle, the patent leather of their shiny shoes nearly the exact same color as the black-checked marble floors.

And it hits me like a runaway train, why the name of this church was so familiar when Finn first brought us here: it’s where the Brothers of Morte d’Arthur are leaving the bodies.