The Saint. Tiffany Reisz

So dirty. They couldn’t believe people actually did this, they said. So of course Elle stole a copy of it from the public library. Now on her third reading, she still hadn’t figured out why those girls in her class had called the book gross and nasty. Elle had fallen in love with the story of sexual slavery in a fairy-tale world of kings and queens. Even better, the main character—Beauty—was only fifteen, like her. Fifteen plus that one hundred years she’d been sleeping under the spell. Maybe Elle was also under a spell and didn’t know it. Maybe she’d fallen asleep and everything happening was a dream, a bad dream where her father was a thief and her mother wished she’d never had her daughter. Maybe someday a prince would come along and kiss her and make love to her, and she’d wake up to discover she’d been a queen all along.

      As Elle turned a page the bells rang. She closed her books and rose to her feet.

      A hymn began.

      Elle looked back to the door of the sanctuary, and saw the new priest.

      The dream ended. The spell was broken.

      Elle woke up.

5

       Eleanor

      STRIDING DOWN THE AISLE BEHIND THE CRUCIFER and the deacon was a man—a man with blond hair and a god’s face. He looked forward with eyes so serious and solemn she followed his gaze to the altar to see if Jesus waited for him there.

      As he stepped past her pew he turned his head and met her eyes for the briefest of eternities. The book within her missal fell from her hand and fluttered to the floor. She didn’t bend to pick it up. It lay there, forgotten, as forgotten as everyone and everything else in this world. Everyone and everything else but this man who now mounted the steps to the altar and stood before the church.

      Underneath the collar of his vestments she saw the hint of black with the white square.

      This man, this most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her life, this man who was the incarnation of her every hunger, every desire and every secret midnight dream … This man was her new priest?

      “Oh, my God …” she breathed, but whether she addressed the God in Heaven or the God before her, she didn’t know.

      She crossed herself when the church crossed themselves. She remained standing as they remained standing.

      “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” the new priest intoned, and together with the congregation Elle answered.

      “Amen.”

      His voice, rich and resonant, echoed out to the very edges of the church and back again. His words wrapped around her like a golden cord binding her to him. The sanctuary brightened with each word he spoke as if the sun itself drew closer to hear his voice. Once in winter she’d seen a man on a street corner playing an old cello for coins. A cello on a winter night in the midst of a frozen city—that was what his voice sounded like.

      She sat when the congregation sat and even as she sat down, her heart rose.

      A woman read from the Old Testament.

      A man read from the New Testament.

      The priest read from the Gospels.

      She heard none of the words. She heard only music. Even when the hymns had been sung and ended, she still heard music.

      She knelt when the church knelt and prayed when the church prayed. And when it came time to rise for the Eucharist, she rose again.

      On feet she could no longer feel she made her way inexorably toward the altar. Although she walked of her own volition, she felt drawn. That golden cord had wrapped itself around her heart and she would go wherever it led her. It led her to him.

      With every step closer to him, the cord tightened, and yet the tighter it bound her, the greater her joy.

      Visions flashed through her mind. A fluttering of white wings. A burning arrow. Stained glass under her feet. His hands on her face. His mouth on her mouth. His mouth on her breasts. His skin against her skin. His body inside her body. His heart in her heart in his hands …

      From the deacon she took the wafer, said her Amen and swallowed it whole.

      From the priest, she took the cup of wine. As she raised the cup to her lips, the sleeve of her shirt fell back, baring her arm and the two red burns on her wrist. She met his eyes and saw something flash in them, something she couldn’t translate into words. It was as if he recognized her, as if he’d seen her before somewhere and now tried to remember where. She knew she’d never seen him before in her life. If she had, she would never have forgotten him.

      The golden cord knotted itself tighter.

      “The blood of Christ,” he whispered, softer than he’d spoken it to anyone else, so softly she leaned in closer to hear him better.

      “Amen.”

      Their fingers touched as she returned the cup to him, and she soared back to her seat. She picked her novel off the floor, closed it and stuffed it in her backpack.

      The Mass ended. All were exhorted to go forth in peace. But Eleanor felt no peace and she would feel no peace until she’d spoken to him.

      Him? Him who? When she reached the lobby of the church, Elle realized she had no idea what the new priest’s name was. She had to know. Now.

      She saw her mother whispering to a group of older women by the annex door. Probably talking about how the new priest was too young, too inexperienced, too handsome. As if there could be such a thing.

      “It’s a nice day. I’m walking home,” she said to her mother and beat a hasty retreat before her mother could even say a word in argument.

      The entire congregation surrounded their new priest. And yet she could still see him. He towered over most of them. He had to be six feet tall or more. Over the top of the crowd he met her eyes as if he’d been searching for her in the crowd. She mouthed, “I’ll wait for you.”

      She slipped out the side door and watched the cars filing out. Soon nothing remained in the parking lot but a gleaming black motorcycle. Even on the opposite side of the parking lot she could make out the lines of it, the chrome detailing shining in the March sunlight. She’d never seen anything more beautiful in her life except for the man crossing the pavement toward it. Careful to make as little sound as possible, she stepped from the shadows and followed him to his motorcycle.

      He’d abandoned the vestments for black clerics. Father Greg had always worn a plain black shirt and black jacket over it, usually without the white collar in place. But this priest had on a more formal looking and heavier black clerical shirt. It looked European to her. She’d never seen a priest who looked so … She couldn’t find the right word. Elegant, maybe?

      As he reached his motorcycle, he paused but didn’t turn around.

      “I was wondering where you went,” he said, taking his helmet off the handlebars. He turned around and faced her. “You said you’d wait for me.”

      “You’re kind of an idiot. You know that, right?” she asked.

      He raised his eyebrow at her. Elle dug her hands in her pocket and stared at him.

      “Am I?”

      He sat astride his motorcycle, and she stepped in front of it.

      “Do you have any idea what it is you have between your legs?” she demanded.

      “I’m well aware of what is between my legs.” He said the words without even breaking a smile. She narrowed her eyes at him and stepped closer, straddling the front wheel with her knees.

      “Then you know that this is a Ducati. A 907 I.E.,” she said.

      “Is it?”

      “It’s in black. Never seen one