he looked rather kind, especially around his eyes. Nora often extolled his virtues as a priest to her—how he treated everyone at the church with equal respect, how he listened without judging, how he treated the children like adults and forgave the adults like they were children, how he gave and gave and gave of himself to them and asked nothing in return, only that they remember all blessings come from God, even the ones in disguise.
No, he certainly wasn’t dangerous. Perhaps only to someone who tried to harm Nora. But it was madness to have him locked up in this bedroom like some sort of wild animal. Surely she could find the key somewhere. She’d unlock the handcuffs, let his arms relax into a more natural position.
Grace stood up and looked around. There it was, the key to the cuffs hanging on a blue ribbon off the back of the door. When he’d woken up he would have seen the key staring right at him. Cruel of Kingsley to do that if he, in fact, had done it on purpose. And something told her he’d most certainly done it on purpose.
Once more she knelt at his side and reached behind him. It would be awkward getting the key in the lock from this position. She’d practically have to wrap her arms around the man. But he slept on, oblivious to her presence. So Grace turned toward the bed and pressed close to his body. She couldn’t resist breathing in the scent of him. He smelled cool, clean, like a new fallen snow on a deep winter’s night. Nonsense. What was she thinking? The fear and panic were clearly getting to her. Who on earth smelled like winter?
She took a deep breath, shook off her poet’s musings and started to bring the key around his hip. She found the cuffs on his wrist and felt the slight depression of the keyhole.
“Almost there,” she whispered to herself. “We’ll get these off.”
At that he raised his head and Grace found herself staring at the hardest eyes in the most dangerous face she’d ever seen in her life.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Gasping, she dropped the keys and scrambled back a few feet on the floor.
“Father Stearns,” she said, almost panting from the sudden scare. “I’m so sorry. I only wanted—”
“Welsh accent … you’re Mrs. Easton, yes?” Father Stearns raised his chin an inch higher and waited for her answer. She felt like an utter fool sitting on the floor trying to keep her skirt from riding up her legs while a Catholic priest studied every line of her face.
“Yes. I’m Zachary’s wife. I was on holiday and called Nora. Wesley answered …” The words poured out her in a wave of nervous energy. “He told me what happened, where he was going. I came straightaway.”
“Have we heard anything about Eleanor?”
Grace’s stomach sank. She would have given anything to be able to tell him any news.
“Nothing anyone’s told me.”
Father Stearns nodded and leaned his head back against the bed with his eyes closed.
“I’m so sorry,” Grace whispered. “Nora, we care about her, Zachary and I.”
“That’s very kind of you to say, Mrs. Easton.”
She smiled. “Please call me Grace. Nora’s told me a great deal about you.”
“No wonder you’re so nervous.”
Grace laughed nervously, proving his point.
“She’s only told me good things, I promise.”
He opened his eyes again and stared at her for a long silent moment, searching her face for something. For what, she couldn’t imagine. But she didn’t quite mind his gaze on her. It felt intimate without being inappropriate.
“I refuse to believe that,” he finally said. “I know Eleanor too well.”
“Well, perhaps it all wasn’t good per se. But nothing bad. Fascinating definitely. She did seem to imply you were the one usually putting the handcuffs on, not ending up in them. I could take those off if you’d like.”
“I would like. But as I said, I don’t recommend it.”
“Why not?” She moved a little closer to him, feeling a bit more comfortable now that they’d started talking.
“I’m a pacifist. I don’t believe nonconsensual violence is ever justified. I am trying to remember that I’m a pacifist so I don’t murder Kingsley where he stands.”
Grace laughed again, less nervously this time.
“I don’t think murder will help the situation.”
“It might not hurt it.”
The words should have been a joke but Grace heard no mirth in his tone.
“I’ll go now if you like.” Grace started to stand. “I didn’t mean to be so nosy, but I saw you on the floor and—”
“No. Don’t go. Please.”
He sounded so humble that Grace couldn’t help but sink to her knees again.
“Of course.”
“Stay and talk to me. Distract me from all the thoughts in my head.”
She heard a note of desperation in his voice.
“I’ll stay. I’ll stay as long as you want me to.” Grace moved a little closer to him on the floor. “Do you want to talk about the thoughts in your head?” she asked, as if she were talking to one of the children in her class. “If they’re half as awful as mine, it might help to get them out.”
He said nothing at first, only opened his eyes and stared at something only he could see.
“We’re all terrified,” Grace whispered. “I’ve never been so scared in my life. This doesn’t happen to people you know. This happens in movies, or in foreign countries and the stories get turned into movies, and it’s all madness. I almost died when I was nineteen having a miscarriage, and I’m telling you now, I’ve never been this frightened.”
“I was eleven years old when I looked death in the face the first time. In my early twenties I spent a few months in a leper colony. I have dug my fingers into a teenage boy’s sliced-open wrists to try to stop him from bleeding to death on the floor of my church. I thought I knew terror before today. I was wrong.”
“I keep telling myself to stay strong, that Nora would be strong for me so I have to be strong for her. Falling apart won’t help her. We can’t despair.” Brave words but all Grace wanted to do was dissolve into tears.
“Don’t despair? That’s usually my line.”
“I imagine even a priest needs words of comfort sometimes.”
“All the time, Grace.”
He fell silent after that and she feared the thoughts in his head as much as she imagined he did.
“I don’t want to know what’s going on in your mind, do I?”
