Naamah's Curse - Jacqueline Carey [71]
“Not for a long while,” Aleksei admitted. “The history of the Habiru is a lengthy one. Perhaps… perhaps Uncle would consent to allow me to read to you from the gospels that tell Yeshua’s tale.”
“I would like that, I think.” I averted my eyes, smoothing the prickly grey wool of my dress over my knees. “Among my people, it is said that Berlik, who came here many years ago, said that if there were any god he might call a friend, it was Yeshua ben Yosef.”
Aleksei drew in a sharp breath. “Berlik the Cursed?”
I nodded.
He was silent for a moment. “You should not take him for your example. I have read about him.”
I glanced up in surprise. “You read Rebbe Avraham’s memoir?”
Aleksei colored. “Conversations with a Heretic Saint, yes. My mother…” He looked away. “A year ago I came across a copy in her things, hidden beneath a false binding. I began reading before I knew what it was. I found it… dangerous.”
The soft tone of his voice said otherwise, said he had found beauty in it. I kept my mouth shut on that observation, watching him.
He looked back at me, his brow furrowed with worry. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t tell my uncle, please? He doesn’t know she has it. It’s a small thing, but it gives her comfort, and I cannot find it in my heart to begrudge her.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
“Thank you.” The worry lines eased from his face. “I will ask Uncle about reading from the gospels.” He essayed another shy smile. “He said your confession yesterday went well. He is pleased with your progress.”
I bit my tongue on a number of scathing responses, lowering my gaze modestly once more. “I am pleased to hear it.”
Now that, I thought, was an auspicious beginning more to my liking. We shared a secret, Aleksei and I.
Trust was a beginning. The rest would come.
Far less to my liking was my second confessional session with the Patriarch. As before, he came laden with notes and his portable desk, balancing it on his knees, dipping his pen in the inkwell and preparing to exhume every last private detail of my life, sullying each and every one in the process.
“Well, Moirin.” His creamy look came and went, quick as the flick of a cat’s tail. “Let us turn our attention to Terre d’Ange.”
I sighed. “Where do you want to start?”
He shook a few drops of ink from the quill and poised it over the paper. “Raphael de Mereliot.”
If I had a sin to confess, surely it was Raphael, and I knew it full well. I had let him use me. I’d committed follies I regretted, the worst of which was helping the Circle of Shalomon to summon Focalor.
Even so, it hadn’t been all bad. There had been moments of brightness here and there, moments when I felt Raphael genuinely cared for me and desired me. The first time he kissed me and I felt his healer’s gift entwine with my own magic in a way I hadn’t known was possible… it had been glorious. We had saved lives together, Raphael and I, and even though the process proved too dangerous for me to continue, I had been proud of what we had done. He had introduced me to Master Lo Feng, for which I was grateful.
The act of confession tainted it all. Pyotr Rostov was merciless in his inquiry, already knowing many of the answers, but not content until I confessed them aloud.
Yes, I had engaged in fornication with Raphael de Mereliot. How many times? I don’t know, mayhap a dozen times.
Yes, I had used my magic to help him heal others; and no, I did not understand why that was a bad thing, except insofar as it was an unnatural use of my gift that nearly killed me.
“Life and death are God’s to command, Moirin,” the Patriarch said sternly. “You have meddled in affairs beyond the mortal ken, and nothing good can come of it.” His velvet-brown eyes darkened ominously. “We will speak more of this later.”
Yes, I had helped Raphael and the Circle of Shalomon summon fallen spirits, and yes, I had consorted with these spirits.
No, I had not fornicated with them. Yes, I was sure.
“They spoke to me!” I said in frustration. “What was I to do? Stop my ears?”
“Better you