When it comes to his life or mine, the choice is easy.
I choose mine.
16
As dinner commences, Glint McCreedy begins asking questions of Dorian and my fellow contestants, taking notes of the answers in his book. Vanessa and Greta seem to be competing for his attention with their long-winded answers, Vanessa’s about her passion for her church while Greta’s comprise her personal likes and dislikes, which I’ve learned include musical theater amongst her likes and cockroaches amongst her dislikes.
I tune out most of the conversations but not on purpose. Despite my every attempt to ignore Dorian’s nearness, I find myself too aware of every move he makes. Our seats are spaced far enough apart that there’s no risk of touching after the hand-holding incident, and yet my muscles are coiled as if I expect him to strike at any moment.
In contrast, the man on my right—who I’ve learned is named Brother Christopher—could be poisoning my food for all the attention I’ve paid him during the meal. And he, unlike Dorian, has said more than three words to me since the evening began. In fact, he’s said far too much for my liking, constantly asking me how I enjoy the food, if I find my accommodations favorable, what my favorite color is. Based on similar attentions shown from the brothers to the other contestants, I’m starting to wonder if this meal is some ploy to display Saint Lazaro’s other eligible bachelors. Brother Billius does seem to have taken a liking to Vanessa. He’s offered her extra helpings of every dish half a dozen times by now and even tried to cut her fish into bite-sized pieces for her. Meanwhile, she has done everything to ignore him.
“Have you eaten enough?” Brother Christopher asks, seeming to take a page from Billius’ book of dinnertime conversation. “Might I offer you another bread roll?”
I stare down at my plate. I’ve hardly managed more than a few bites of fish. “No, thank you,” I say as politely as I can.
“But you seemed so fond of them,” he says. “I mean, when I first entered the dining room. You seemed most eager for them.”
My cheeks heat as I recall my embarrassment earlier tonight. “I thought they were Lumies,” I mumble, then swallow further conversation with a sip of water.
To my horror, Dorian turns toward me. “I’ve yet to hear what Lumies are.”
I nearly choke on my water as his eyes bore into me. It takes me several heartbeats to find my words. “They’re…a dessert.”
He waits for me to elaborate, but I can’t seem to conjure a better explanation. Why the shells do I freeze whenever he looks at me? Is it just my guilt showing? If I were trying to win an award formost conspicuous assassin,I’d be holding the trophy by now.
Thankfully, I’m rescued by Glint McCreedy’s next question. “Father Viktor, might I make a rather delicate inquiry?”
Viktor gives him a gracious nod. “I am a man of truth and will answer any questions you might have.”
The reporter leans forward, pen poised on paper. “As men of a religious brotherhood, I expected vows of celibacy. Do the brothers of Saint Lazaro forgo such vows?”
A pink flush creeps up Father Viktor’s neck, but he remains otherwise composed. “We do keep such vows, Mr. McCreedy. However, our church thrives off proliferation and we want to do all that’s in our power to encourage that. Therefore, our church has what we call Orders. When a brother takes an Order, he is no longer bound to a life spent solely in his church. He becomes the face of Saint Lazaro’s three main tenets—truth, service, and strength—in the public eye. He can marry, live outside the church, and take an occupation that allows him to represent his Order.”
“Do your different styles of clothing have anything to do with these Orders?” Glint asks.
“They do,” Viktor says. He gestures to Dorian, then Christopher. “These men have taken Orders, with Brother Dorian belonging to the Order of Strength and Brother Christopher to the Order of Service. Their style of jacket denotes that they’ve taken Orders, while the rest of us wear robes. Brother Christopher has his own apartment downtown and works to feed the poor.” He then nods at Billius. “Once Brother Billius finds a bride, he intends to take an Order as well. For now, he’s training to enter the Order of Truth by taking confession here at the church. As you see, some brothers take Orders before marriage, while others wait until they have reason to take an Order.”
“Ah,” Glint says, scribbling in his notebook. “Thank you ever so much for explaining that. And what, might I ask, is Brother Dorian’s occupation? What does a brother from the Order of Strength do?” His eyes flash from Dorian to Viktor, though neither answers right away.
Viktor’s expression reveals slight discomfort with the question, but his tone remains cordial when he finally speaks. “The Order of Strength is a less common Order these days. It was once held by the church’s private military force. But after the war and then the rebellions…well, we no longer train brothers to fight, nor are we allowed weapons. It’s all for the best.” He rushes to say the last part.
Glint squints at the priest. “Then what exactly does Brother Dorian do? How does he demonstrate his Order in the public eye?”
Viktor smiles, but it looks more like a grimace. “It has yet to be decided how Brother Dorian will support the Order of Strength. He still lives at the church, you see.”
Glint opens his mouth to ask another question, but Dorian speaks first, tone curt. “There are other ways to demonstrate strength without using weapons. There’s strength of mind. Strength of heart. Strength of character. Even strength of body can be accomplished without violence. I admire strength as a quality, therefore I chose it as my Order.”
I resist the urge to narrow my eyes at the side of his head. It’s a pretty speech, but I can’t help thinking about his father. Astern Ariko belonged to the Order of Strength. He too admired such a quality. He admired it so much, he started an illegal fae fighting ring. Is that the real reason Dorian chose the Order? To be like his father? That’s certainly what Nimue suggested.
Speaking of, I’m surprised no one brings up Dorian’s heritage. No one asks about it. It occurs to me that I might be the only contestant who knows the truth about his past, that he’s here under religious sanctuary. Everyone else seems to assume—the reporter included—that Dorian has been with the brotherhood a long while. Then again, when I first saw Dorian’s photograph outside the church, I assumed the same thing.
“Thank you for explaining, Brother Dorian,” Glint says. “Now, is it true you were recently in a shipwreck?”
My breath hitches at that. Perhaps the reporter isn’t so uninformed after all. Dorian goes rigid in his seat. I watch as he carefully sets down his fork and dabs his lips with a cloth napkin. “Why do you ask?” he says.
The reporter manages not to blanch under the intensity of Dorian’s dark stare. “Sources say they spotted a man being carried to the church from the shore, and many have speculated that man was you.”
Dorian’s jaw shifts back and forth. He glances briefly to Father Viktor, who nods. “I was shipwrecked, but I survived.”
