“She spoke under the anonymity of counseling, Eneko.” The woman’s tone was half-admonitory, half . . . almost fearful.
The priest twitched his shoulders irritably. “I am well aware of that.”
Apparently, the answer did not satisfy Evangelina. “You may not—”
He waved her silent with an abrupt motion. “Please! I have no intention of violating the sanctity of counseling. I just wish I knew who she was. If we could find out anything about what happened to Dottore Marina . . .”
For a moment, Evangelina seemed to shrink away from his intent gaze. The priest recognized the expression which lurked half-hidden in her face. He had seen that same expression many times now, in the years since he received what he thought of as his “calling.” Respect for his well-known learning and piety, combined with uneasiness—almost fear—at the intensity of his convictions.
He suppressed a sigh. Then, managed a smile. Whatever else he was, Eneko Lopez de Onez y Guipúzcoa was also a superb politician. He needed to maintain good relations with the Petrine clergy in Venice, whatever his misgivings concerning the laxity of their faith.
“Please relax, Gina. I assure you—again—that I have no intention of violating the sanctity of counseling. I neither asked the girl’s name nor did I make any attempt to see her face. I have no idea who she is—I wouldn’t even recognize her on the street if she walked past me.”
Evangelina’s lips quirked. “You’d recognize her voice readily enough, if you heard it again. Don’t deny it, Eneko!” A soft laugh emerged from her throat. “Your acuity is already a byword in Venice, even in the short time since the Grand Metropolitan sent you here.”
Lopez returned her words with a rueful little smile of his own. “True enough,” he admitted. “It’s odd, really. As a young man, before that cannonball ruined my leg, I was rather notorious for being hard of hearing. But since I gave up a soldier’s life—”
He broke off, twitching his shoulders with exasperation. “I’m hardly likely to encounter her again in casual conversation, Gina! So I think you may set your fears to rest. I am simply, as always, frustrated by the lack of clarity which seems to surround everything in this city. I can’t tell you how much I wish the Grand Metropolitan had allowed me to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land, instead of sending me here.”
He stared at the door through which the girl—whoever she was—had left the church, his lips pursing. “And that young lady was quite right. The things her family transports may not in themselves be evil. Tomb-dust is not evil. But it can be put to evil use, and I do not share her naïve belief that all Strega are simply harmless healers. It is good that she has her medallion, but—as you well know—magic can be shielded from detection by other magic.”
He rubbed his crippled leg, in an old and absentminded manner. “I just wish it were all less . . . murk and shadows.”
The sister laughed, a bit ruefully. “It is a foggy city, after all, as often as not.”
Eneko shared in the laughter and then produced still more laughter by recounting several amusing anecdotes concerning the ways in which a rural Basque priest had often found the metropolis of Venice a most confusing place. By the end, whatever doubts Sister Evangelina might have had concerning his own intentions seemed dispelled.
* * *
She departed, thereafter, leaving Eneko alone. He drifted over to the wall where the frescoes depicted John Chrysostom, the Golden Preacher, and stared up at the panels. A few minutes later, he heard the footsteps of two other men coming into the church.
He did not turn around. Eneko Lopez knew those footsteps as well as he knew the arhythmic sound which his own limp produced.
He gestured with his chin toward the frescoes above him. “He was a false man, you know, in many ways. Intemperate, harsh, often arrogant, full of error and wrong-headedness. Still, they made him a saint. And do you know why?”
He swiveled his head to bring his companions under his gaze. Diego and Pierre said nothing. After a moment, Eneko looked away.