The Prince

“Of course,” he answered now, but wasn’t sure if he spoke the truth. Had Marie-Laure lived, Søren would have become a piano teacher and a college professor, and his calling to the priesthood would have gone unanswered. Kingsley knew that, without Søren, he would be a dead man. For over ten years after he and Søren had parted company, Kingsley had lived the most dangerous life he could. He ran from death the way he’d run that night from Søren—in the hopes he’d get caught and taken. Not until they reunited had Kingsley found a purpose in his life again, a reason to live.

And Eleanor…Nora…Søren’s Little One. She, too, would have had a comfortable home six feet under the earth had Søren never come into her life. Tempting, Kingsley admitted only to himself. A world without Nora Sutherlin…he’d almost like to see that.

“I mean only what happened between Father Stearns and me as teenagers. I have no regrets about that, even though now he’s a priest. And a very devout one.”

“But not too devout to be seen in public with you.” Christian smiled.

“This is hardly public. And he’s off now, likely saying Mass in the chapel with Father Aldo.”

“Ah, Father Aldo is long gone. Back to South America. He’s saving the soul of the Southern Hemisphere these days.”

“I’m sure the students miss his cooking.”

“We all do. Only Marie-Laure could make better creme brûlée. To die for.”

Kingsley exhaled heavily. “Perhaps that’s why she died.”

Christian pursed his lips and gave him a look half amused, half disgusted.

“You’re deflecting. You realize that, yes?”

“Are you a priest or a psychologist? I’m not quite sure which is worse.”

“I’m both.” Christian sat back on the edge of the kitchen table. “Master of Divinity and Psychology. PhD in Psychology. Priests have to be psychologists. Especially at a school for troubled boys. And it doesn’t take a PhD to see that you’re still deeply grieving for your sister. Every little joke you make about it is further proof.”

Kingsley nearly made another joke, but stopped himself. Christian was right. Why fight the truth?

“Bien sûr. Of course I still grieve for her. More lately than in years. Being here doesn’t help.”

“It makes it much harder to forget, I’m sure.”

“Talking to you helps. Admitting that I was in a large way responsible for her death.”

Christian shook his head. “I’m not sure that you were. To kill oneself…that is the gravest of all sins. To kill another is to kill one person. To kill oneself is to kill all people. Seeing her husband with her brother, terrible? Yes. Absolutely terrible. But to murder the entire world for that? Perhaps there was more going on.”

“More?”

Christian stood up again and started making a circuit of the small cottage. Kingsley remembered this habit of his. During study groups Christian could never sit still. He had to walk and walk if he wanted to think.

“A photograph of you and Stearns, the one I took, was sent to you anonymously. You take that as a threat.”

“It is a threat. The other incidents…they, too, have been threatening. Father Stearns’s childhood bed was burned to ashes. And a file was stolen from my office. The file contains private information about Stearns. Information that could ruin him. Not that he deserves that. If any man deserves to be a priest, it is he.”

“So you say and I’ll believe you. So all of these threats have to do with Stearns’s private life. And Marie-Laure died on that rock out there. And the threats…all these threats…”

“They all involve him, oui. We know that.”

“Who else do they involve?”

“Three people. The only three people who he has ever been with, and that is all I can say.”

“Only three?” Christian smirked and Kingsley caught a glimpse of the wicked teenage boy he used to know. “Even I have him beat there.”

Kingsley exhaled through his nose and stared at the bare wood by the fireplace where he and Søren had once huddled under blankets together for warmth on a bitter winter night. Kingsley had never before been so grateful for the cold.

“I simply don’t know who would dare do this to him…”

“Kingsley, I’m going to tell you something and I don’t want you to hate me for it.”

Kingsley looked up sharply at him.

“Tell me.”

“I hated Stearns. Back when we were in school. I don’t use the word hate lightly.”

“I know he was envied.”

“Envied and loathed. He was better than the rest of us. And no, I’m not saying he thought he was better than us. I don’t believe he did. He actually was better than all of us—smarter, more handsome by a mile, still more handsome by a mile than any man I’ve ever seen. He could learn a new language faster than I could learn a new hymn on guitar. He played piano like a god. And the priests here worshipped him. And when your sister, the most beautiful girl anyone had ever seen, came to visit, it was him she fell in love with and married. Thirty years ago, I wanted him dead.”

“And now?”

Christian shook his head. “Teenage hormones and angst. Now I can only admire him. And worry a bit for his congregation.”

“Do not worry. They are in the best hands. But what are you saying?”