“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess… The way you dress… I thought it would be…”
I raise a brow, waiting expectantly for what she’ll say, the verdict.
“Fancier,” she finishes weakly.
“I inherited everything from the last occupant,” I tell her, ladling soup into two bowls. “And we’re hardly a megachurch. As you can imagine, it’s a struggle to fill one Catholic church in this area.”
“I know,” she says quickly. “I didn’t mean anything bad by it. You just dress so nice.”
“Thank you.” I deliver our bowls to the table, then gesture for her to sit. She hesitates, but she obeys me still, despite the betrayal she feels at the secrecy of our first few encounters.
“My father was a priest in New York,” I tell her, spreading my napkin in my lap. “As you can imagine, the Catholic population is much larger there. He did quite well for himself. I accepted a few of the perks when he passed.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, her blue eyes luminous with sympathy.
“You wouldn’t be if you had known him.”
“Oh,” she says, and then again, “I’m sorry.”
“I wanted to clear the air,” I say, watching her fidget at her side of the small, round table. “You haven’t come to confession since our last encounter.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, like it’s the only thing she can say now.
“Did you really find it so shocking that I was behind the mask?” I ask. “Even if you couldn’t see my face, my demeanor, my commands, have always been consistent, have they not?”
“Yes,” she whispers. “I think mostly I felt stupid for not realizing it sooner.”
“That is understandable.”
She picks up her spoon, moving it slowly around her bowl before taking a bite. We eat in silence for a few minutes, the warm broth and hearty meat and vegetables settling into us, soothing the tension in the air. At last, Mercy sets down her spoon. “I just have one question,” she says.
“Of course, lamb.”
“Why do you do that?” she asks. “I mean, you’re a priest. You could tell me to do anything, and I’d do it. You don’t need to hide behind a mask.”
“Sometimes it is easier to let go when someone can’t see the person they are with,” I say. “You saw that with your brother. When I wear a mask, people can be truly themselves, without the mask we all wear when we face each other daily. And so can I.”
She swallows hard, still gazing into her bowl. “So, you wear it for them,” she says. “The Hellhounds.”
“Yes,” I say. “And for me.”
“What do you get?”
“Submission,” I say honestly. “They are obedient to my commands, not as their teacher or priest or council, where they might rebel, but as their Master. Their God.”
Her eyes widen at my confession, as if she didn’t expect such a thing from a man of God. But I want her to know me, to know what I will ask of her as my subject.
“Isn’t that… Blasphemy?” she asks, peeking up at me from under her lashes.
“Yes,” I say. “Would you do that for me?”
She’s quiet a long minute. At last, she raises her gaze to mine. “Yes, Father.”
Now it’s my turn to swallow hard. What other sins would she commit for me?
“You’d still do anything for me, lamb?” I ask, my voice husky. “Anything I asked?”
“Yes, Father,” she says again. “I told you I was yours, and I meant it. Knowing you’re also the Master of the boys doesn’t change that.”
