“Since you started thinking with your dick.” Miles huffs, and I can picture his fingers rhythmically tapping on an imaginary piano. “Just give Cyril a ring when you get into Ardsbend and let him get you off tonight so you can get your head on straight.”
Baron Dewhurst’s youngest son was a year behind Miles and me at university. He joined our little band of sexual deviants after a particularly skillful blowjob at a Halloween party that had one of our mates almost unconscious by the end. He’s always good for a quick hookup to let off steam.
“Fine, I’ll text him,” I agree.
“And stay away from the nanny,”Miles commands.
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t try, Fritz. Do.” He hangs up.
I shot Cyril a quick hello text, but he still hasn’t gotten back to me by the time we pull into the station at Ardsbend. By far the largest city in the interior, Ardsbend sits straddling the Ardsmure River, which runs southwest through the country, emptying into the bay around which the capital is situated. The hilly city is a beast to navigate on foot, but it’s one of my favorite places in the country for a quick getaway. Its proximity to the mountains makes the landscape all the more idyllic.
A huge cathedral to Saint Bernard, affectionately called Saint Bernie’s, dominates the view on the north side of the river, framed majestically by the range of wooded foothills leading into the country’s largest group of mountains. Father and I have served at that church many times in the past, always visiting when the family comes through on the way to Whitewood Estate in the mountains.
As the ceremonial head of the Church, Father would normally be called upon to participate in midweek Mass tonight. However, as I’ve been sent on tour in his stead, the duty falls to me. I don’t need much preparation; we go to Mass as a family every week, and I was expected to go even when I was at university. I had watched Father perform the Ritesmany times before and had participated in several services myself, being the future head of the Church.
At the train station, there is a quick photo call with some handshaking and metaphorical baby kissing before I’m whisked away to Saint Bernie’s. There isn’t time to search out Aurelia in all the hubbub, but I’m sure to see her at the church later. Not that I’m supposed to be looking for her in the first place. I check my phone again and finally have a reply from Cyril.
Cyril:
Fritz! So great to hear from you. Of course I’d love to catch up
Great. I’m on my way to St Bernie’s but perhaps we can meet up later tonight
Or I could come find you in the sacristy and help you prepare
Blood rushes south at the thought. His little winky face emoji is enough to have me picturing all kinds of trouble we can get into at the back of the cathedral.Christ, I’m going straight to hell, I think as I type out my reply.
The Emarvian brand of religion tips to the pagan side a bit, a holdover from our Norse ancestors, but with a heavy dose of Catholicism for good measure. We still manage a cordial relationship with Rome even afterour English colonizers forced the split in the sixteenth century.
The cross I carry down the aisle of the cathedral is cast in iron, details of twining ivy crisscrossing the front and two circles around the intersection made to represent twisted crowns of ash branches, not the crown of thorns as commonly believed.
I’ve played this part so many times before; it’s too easy for my mind to wander. And my brain is stuck on a singular—rather inappropriate for Mass—moment as I pass by Cyril with his slightly mussed hair and wrinkles on the knees of his trousers.
My hands wrapped around strands of black silk, weaving myself with him.
I stand before the altar in my billowing gold robes, facing out at the congregation as the priests, one dressed in white and the other in red, creep up the aisle, swinging twin golden incense burners billowing fragrant grey smoke. They kneel before me, before the cross and the altar, mumbling a brief prayer in rhythmic Latin.
A beautiful boy on his knees at my feet. My own words a senseless mess at his act of worship.
I place the cross in its stand behind the altar, below the larger hanging crucifix on the back wall. As the choir harmonizes in ancient languages, I take a long, thin taper from the altar, reaching up to light it from the eternal flame hanging suspended above the holy table. I move carefully to each candle adorning the sanctuary, bringing them to life with the sacredfire.
His eyes, amber as the setting sun, flickered shades of gold under long, curling eyelashes as his gaze met mine. Searching. Imploring.
I find Aurelia in the crowd. She’s near the back with the Maier children, still in her nanny uniform. She shifts a few times, and I wonder if her expression of discomfort has to do with the wooden pew she is sitting on or something else.
A noise startled him, but there was no time to hide. Alarm crossed his soft features, and I ran a soothing hand along his delicate cheek. He leaned into my touch, tender and trusting. He knew I’d keep him safe.
We sing more hymns, sacred passages are recited, and I perform my part as I’ve been trained for years, my mind still flitting back to the parallel images of pre-Mass activities.
He continued his act, paying respect to the sheer need of my body while I praised his devotion and good works.
The priest in red steps up to the altar to bless the Eucharist, singing again in Latin as he holds up in turn the chalice and the bread, a sacrifice from the Lord, an offering to his people.
I stuttered out a warning, but he held me tight as bliss flowed through me, and he joyfully took all of my gift to him.
I stand at the head of the center aisle, bestowing blessings and smudging ashes from the incense burners on the foreheads of the children and those who approach with arms crossed. I’m not yet permitted to bless the Hosts or to administer them until I’m theofficial head of the Church. I’m always thankful not to be tasked with administering the Body; the open-mouthers and tongue-out folks gross me out.
