Prologue
Henry
Song of Songs 2:7 - Do not arouse or awaken love until it so desires.
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The chair outside Rector Redcay’s office was just comfortable enough to make me think about how uncomfortable I was.The kind of padded seat that encouraged waiting—quiet, patient, obedient waiting—but my body wasn’t interested in playing along.My knees felt like they were ready to sprint in opposite directions.
I stared at the muted cream walls, the crucifix above the door, the framed black-and-white photo of the pope, anything to keep my thoughts from spiraling.The hallway smelled faintly of lemon polish and candle wax, a scent that had seeped into every corner of St.Joseph’s Seminary.A holy and safe smell.A smell that told you God was paying attention.
But if God was listening to me, He hadn’t been answering.
I’d prayed until my voice was hoarse, until my knees were sore from the pews, until my head felt like it would split in half from begging for clarity.And yet, here I was, either about to make the best decision of my life… or the worst.I didn’t have the calling.Not the quiet certainty the other seminarians spoke of, not the divine pull toward the altar.Just a hollow ache and the gnawing suspicion that I’d been forcing something that was never meant to fit.
The rector’s secretary sat at a heavy oak desk to my right, tapping away at a typewriter with the steady rhythm of a metronome.Father Daniel—young, maybe thirty at most, lean under his black cassock—had a face that could’ve belonged to a saint or a villain depending on the light.Sharp cheekbones, a square jaw, dark hair combed so neatly it looked shellacked into place.His collar gleamed white against all that black, crisp as if he’d put it on seconds ago.
Every time I glanced over, I swore his eyes narrowed just a fraction, as though my fidgeting was a personal affront to the holiness of the hallway.I stood, pacing a short strip of carpet between the chair and the opposite wall.
Tap.Tap.Tap.The typewriter keys kept their beat.
Father Daniel didn’t look up, but I felt his gaze tracking me like a hawk’s.I sank back into the chair, forcing my thigh to stop bouncing by clamping my hand over it.My heart still galloped, like it was trying to escape before I did.
The telephone on Father Daniel’s desk rang, the sharp sound cutting through the silence.He lifted the receiver, murmured a few words I couldn’t catch, then replaced it with the precision of a man who’d never once slammed a phone in his life.
“You can go in now, Mr.Forrester,” he said, in a tone that suggested the next man to walk through that door would be a priest in the making.Just not me.
I wiped my palms against my black slacks, stood, and crossed the threshold.
Rector Frank Redcay’s office was exactly what you’d imagine if you pictured “Church Authority, Senior Edition.”Dark wood paneling.A massive mahogany desk polished to a shine.A tall bookshelf stacked with thick theological tomes, papal encyclicals, and a framed photo of him on a fishing trip, grinning in waders.Sunlight filtered through the heavy drapes, throwing golden stripes across the rug.The air smelled faintly of old books and incense.
Rector Redcay sat behind the desk, his silver hair perfectly combed back, his black clerical shirt buttoned neatly under a well-worn Roman collar.He was in his late sixties, with deep lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth that spoke of both laughter and sternness.
“Henry,” he said, his voice warm enough to make my stomach twist.“Come in, son.Sit.”
I lowered myself into the leather chair opposite him, which creaked under my weight.
He smiled at me, a genuine smile that made me feel, for a split second, like I was the only student in the seminary.“What’s on your mind, Henry?”
My mouth opened.Nothing came out.The silence was loud enough to feel like a confession in itself.
“You know you can talk to me about anything,” he breathed.
I exhaled slowly, my shoulders sagging.And then I blurted it out.
“I don’t have the calling.I’m leaving the seminary.”
The smile vanished.His brow furrowed slightly, and when he spoke again, his voice was low and deliberate, like he was picking each word up and weighing it before setting it down.
“Why?”
My voice shook.It came out thin, like a ribbon of smoke, and I watched it tremble across the space between us as if it belonged to someone else.The words started as explanation and curdled into confession.
“I’m certain,” I said.“I don’t have the calling.”
Rector Redcay’s face did the thing it always did when he was listening closely.The smile softened, the lines around his eyes deepened, and he folded himself into patience like a man who had carried more hard things than this and learned how to set them down gently.“Tell me why,” he said.
My throat felt as if someone had tied a rope around it.For a moment I couldn’t breathe; the room narrowed to the dust motes in the sunlight and the little tick of the clock on his shelf.Then the dam broke.
