The mountain road ended where the monastery began. Stone walls rose like the ribs of some ancient beast, half swallowed by pine and mist. Elias stepped from the taxi with nothing but a small leather case and the weight of twenty-nine years of restraint pressed against his sternum. The driver did not wait. Tires crunched away down the gravel, leaving only the wind and the iron clang of the bell tower marking the hour of None.
Father Luca was waiting at the gate.
He was taller than Elias expected, broad across the shoulders, silver threading the black hair at his temples. The older priest’s eyes were the color of winter river ice and twice as unforgiving. He did not smile. He simply inclined his head and said, “You are late, Father Elias,” in a voice that curled low in the belly like smoke
