Chapter Text
Thomas woke up with a strange sensation, as if he were inside someone else's body. When he opened his eyes and managed to focus on his surroundings, he realised that the bedroom was completely unfamiliar. He sat up instinctively, and with an ease that surprised him. He looked around more carefully. A soft light filtered through the curtains, softening the outlines of every object in the room. He was sitting on the right-hand side of a double mattress. In front of him, he could see a large wardrobe and a chest of drawers topped by a mirror. It was a cosy room, though completely unfamiliar. Then his eyes fell on the opposite side of the bed.
There was a pair of pyjamas. A woman’s pyjamas.
At the sight, Thomas panicked. His heart leapt into his throat. He jumped out of bed as if he had been struck by an electric shock. Once again, he marvelled at the sharpness of his reflexes: no stiffness, no fatigue in his limbs. But, the shock of seeing those pyjamas was too great for him to pause and reflect on his own agility.
With uncertain steps, he moved towards the bedroom door. As he did so, he passed the mirror above the chest of drawers and jumped. A stifled groan escaped his lips.
The face in the mirror was unmistakably his own, but it was not that of the Dean of the College of Cardinals. He leaned forward as if he wanted to reach through the glass. With trembling fingers, he traced his features, then pressed his palms against his cheeks: that taut skin, those defined cheekbones... he looked barely forty.
Suddenly, a glint caught his attention in the reflection: a wedding ring on his left hand. He withdrew his hands as if they were burning and stared in astonishment at the small gold band encircling his ring finger. He brushed it with his other hand to make sure it was real.
What did it all mean? Was it a dream? Or perhaps a hallucination? Yet everything seemed utterly real. But where was he?
To find out, he had to leave that room. He opened the door cautiously and found himself in a corridor lined with three more doors. Voices drifted up from a flight of stairs leading down to the lower floor: they sounded like children's voices. But he also heard a woman’s voice, which sounded strangely familiar. He descended the steps cautiously, trying not to make a sound. When he leaned on the wooden banister, it gave a sharp creak. Thomas froze, holding his breath, but no one seemed to hear it.
The staircase stopped at the kitchen door. He stood motionless on the threshold. Two children were sitting at the table. One was a little girl of about six or seven with straight black hair that brushed her shoulders and two huge blue eyes. Next to her sat a younger boy, perhaps four years old. He had the same black hair and blue eyes. They were both focused on their bowls of milk and cereal.
A woman with short dark hair was facing the sink with her back to the door.
“Mark, don’t get distracted. Cereal is meant to be eaten, not left floating in the milk,” she said without turning around.
The boy flinched slightly. “I'm eating, Mum,” he replied, quickly shoving the spoon into his mouth.
Why does this woman’s voice sound so familiar? Thomas wondered.
At that moment, the little girl saw him. “Hi, Dad,” she exclaimed naturally. “Hi, Dad,” echoed the boy.
Thomas hadn’t even finished processing the absurdity of that greeting when the woman turned around. Time seemed to stop, and he felt his breath catch in his throat.
Sister Agnes!
She looked younger too, in her early forties. She smiled at him, then looked at him more keenly. She noticed he was pale and moved closer to him.
“How are you? Still got a fever?” she asked, brushing his forehead with the back of her hand.
“Fever?” Thomas stammered in a whisper.
Agnes smiled with indulgence. “You were over thirty-nine last night. You should measure it again later. Now, sit down and I'll make you a cup of tea.” She turned and headed back to the sink to fill the kettle with water.
Thomas hesitated, glanced at the children, then sat down slowly. He was completely bewildered by what he saw before him: two children who called him ‘Dad’ and Sister Agnes ‘Mum’. He watched the woman's movements with a dazed look, until he noticed the calendar hanging next to the fridge.
September 2000.
He blinked several times.
“Is it 2000?” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Agnes glanced at him over her shoulder, amused first, then more attentive.
“Of course. What year do you think it is?”
Thomas swallowed with difficulty. After a few silent moments, he tried again, cautiously: “Today is 20 September, isn't it?”
“Exactly.”
So, the day and month match; it's the year that's wrong. He reflected. In normal circumstances, 20 September would have been the anniversary of his ordination. But here it was different. What if...
“Today is...”, he hesitated, “our wedding anniversary.” It felt absurd to hear his own voice utter those words.
Agnes smiled gently and moved closer, placing a hand on his cheek and kissing him on the forehead. “I see the fever hasn't wiped your memory. This year makes fourteen.”
The years added up. However, in 2000, he had celebrated fourteen years as a priest, not fourteen years of marriage.
Agnes leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. “Since you're not feeling well, we'll postpone the celebrations until another evening,” she whispered in his ear. Her voice was warm, playful and full of promise.
Thomas stiffened and his ears turned scarlet when he realised what sort of celebrations she was talking about.
The kettle began to whistle, and Agnes pulled back, casting him an amused and satisfied glance, pleased to see him flustered.
This was no different from the reality he knew, because even there, Sister Agnes had no qualms about getting closer to him than was permitted between a nun and a cardinal, just to whisper in his ear. Never anything scandalous or inappropriate. It was usually a joke or a witty remark. But he always ended up blushing like a seminarian at that familiarity and confidence, while she stared at him with that same mischievous smile.
“I’m done, Mum. I’m going to brush my teeth,” announced the little girl, sliding off the chair.
“All right, Ingrid. Don't use too much toothpaste,” Agnes advised, while pouring boiling water into a cup. “Mark, what about you? Are you finished? Go with your sister.”
The little boy nodded and stood up, but instead of following Ingrid, he climbed onto Thomas’s lap. Thomas was taken by surprise, but he caught the boy instinctively to stop him from falling. The little boy wrapped his arms around Thomas’s neck and snuggled up against his chest.
“Mark, darling. We need to get ready for kindergarten,” said Agnes, stroking his hair.
“Daddy’s ill. He needs a hug.”
At those words, Thomas felt a twinge in his heart and was overwhelmed by such a simple, tender gesture. The gesture of a child worried about his dad.
I am his dad.
It was a fact that had seemed absurd until he woke up that morning. And yet, that small, solid body clinging to him with complete trust was real. Thomas seemed to find his voice again: “I'm feeling much better now, Mark. Go and get ready,” he said gently.
The boy lifted his head from Thomas's shoulder and looked at him. His big blue eyes sparkled with joy. “See, it works!”, he exclaimed, giving Thomas one last hug before trotting out of the kitchen.
Agnes smiled and ran a hand through Thomas’s hair in a tender, grounding gesture. “I'll go to check they haven't flooded the bathroom,” she said, following the children.
Thomas was left alone in the kitchen. He stood in silence, watching the steam dance above the teacup. His mind was overwhelmed by emotion; he could feel his eyes welling up. He blinked several times, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall. With a trembling hand, he lifted the cup and took a sip to loosen the lump in his throat.
The tea tasted good, the aroma was excellent, and this made it all seem even more real.
Thomas set the cup down and returned his gaze to his hands. They were young again, the skin taut and free of the brown age spots. The wedding ring glinted on his left ring finger, whilst his right finger appeared bare, devoid of the fisherman's ring that had marked it for decades.
His gaze fell once more on the calendar.
2000.
Where had all the years since then gone?
The years when he had been a bishop, a cardinal, Secretary of State and Dean of the College of Cardinals? He had even come dangerously close to becoming Pope.
Now, he was married and the father of two children.
And his wife was Agnes.
Agnes...
In the reality he knew, they had met shortly after his elevation to cardinal, during his first conclave. Over the years, a wonderful bond had developed between them, a connection that transcended mere duty.
And yes, in his darkest moments of loneliness and doubt, Thomas found himself wondering what might have happened if they had met when they were younger, before taking their vows.
What was all this? A test? A vision?
Thomas ran a hand over his face.
What should I do, my Lord?
The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Agnes came back into the kitchen, already wearing her coat and shoes. Leaning down, she kissed him, a natural gesture that left him almost breathless.
“I'm taking Ingrid and Mark to school, then heading straight to work. I’ve got exams at university today,” she said with a knowing smile. “I’ll try not to be too strict with my students, just as you always suggest.”
Ingrid and Mark rushed over for a quick hug, overwhelming him with their enthusiasm, before running to the front door. Agnes followed them, giving Thomas one last smile.
As soon as the door closed behind them, silence fell over the house. Thomas touched his lips – he could still feel the warmth of Agnes’s kiss. He remained seated for a few moments, trying to gather his thoughts. Despite his bewilderment, his analytical nature and desire to get to the bottom of things got the better of him; he had to understand. He had to investigate.
He began to explore the house, moving through it like a stranger in a museum of his own life. He entered the living room, which was directly opposite the kitchen. There were two sofas, a television, a corner cluttered with toys, and a wall entirely covered by a bookcase.
Thomas let his gaze wander over the spines of the books, but it was the photographs on the shelves that caught his eye: He and Agnes, very young, in Venice; Ingrid sitting on the sofa holding a newborn Mark in her arms; family portraits radiating a happiness he didn’t remember ever experiencing.
He left the living room and found what must have been his and Agnes's study. A large desk occupied the centre of the room, with two chairs facing each other. Hanging on the wall were his bachelor's and doctoral degrees in Canon Law, alongside Agnes's degrees in Theology.
Agnes teaches theology…
He opened a diary on the desk and recognized his own handwriting: lecture timetables, exam sessions and academic appointments. In a folder, he found notes on the 1917 Pius–Benedictine Code.
I am a professor of canon law, here too.
The bookcase behind him was full of specialised texts that confirmed his suspicions. But on the lowest shelf he noticed something else. His hands trembled slightly as he pulled out the first of a series of photo albums. He placed it on the desk, sat down, and began to leaf through it.
His eyes widened. The first photo showed him, young and smiling, wearing a black cassock in the seminary courtyard. In the next one was Agnes dressed as a novice with other nuns in a cloister. Then another one: him together with Aldo Bellini, both in clerical robes.
Thomas felt his head spinning.
So here, too, I had felt the Lord’s call. What had changed?
He turned the page and found a group photo: seminarians and novices together. He was right next to Agnes.
We met before taking our vows and fell in love.
There was no other explanation. The album continued with photos of the two of them in civilian clothes, outside the walls of the convent and seminary. He lingered over a portrait of Agnes: she was looking straight into the lens with a radiant smile, filled with a love that was clearly intended for the man behind the camera: him.
My God, how beautiful she is. He couldn't help thinking, as he traced the image with a finger.
On the last page was a photo of them with Aldo, who was wearing his cassock. The caption read, 20 September 1986: Aldo’s ordination. So, Aldo was still a priest.
Thomas stood up and picked up the next album. It was the wedding album, dated the same day: 20 September 1986. He was wearing an impeccable black suit with a white flower in his buttonhole, and Agnes looked radiant in a simple, elegant lace dress.
He remained breathless when he saw that the celebrant was none other than Aldo. It seemed that they had decided to have the day of his ordination coincide with their wedding.
That detail moved him deeply. Even in his own world, Aldo was his best friend, the brother with whom he had shared the most important moments of his life; discovering that he had blessed his union with Agnes meant that their bond was deep here too.
A tear rolled down his cheek, and he quickly wiped it away with his hand. He had to carry on, to see more. One by one, he took out all the albums and leafed through the pages. It felt as though he were seeing moments from another person’s life. And yet it was him who was smiling alongside Agnes, holding the children in his arms, posing with some familiar faces and others completely unknown.
The sudden ringing of the telephone in the kitchen made him jump. He hesitated for a moment, then decided that it would be worse to ignore it. He walked over to the phone and slowly lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Thomas. How are you?” replied a voice he knew as well as his own.
“Aldo,” he murmured. He was unable to say anything else.
“I bumped into Agnes on her way to university. She told me you’re out of action with a fever. I wanted to check how you were doing and wish you a happy anniversary.” Aldo’s tone was the same as always: cheerful, affectionate and reassuring.
Thomas fell silent. He felt a lump in his throat and didn’t dare speak. Yet the silence was becoming awkward.
“Thanks, Aldo,” he said at last, trying to sound composed. “And... happy anniversary to you too,” he added, remembering that it was an important day for Aldo as well.
A crystalline laugh came from the other end of the line. “Thank you. Only we could have come up with something like this: my ordination in the morning, followed by the first wedding of my career in the afternoon.”
“I could have been there that morning too... lying in front of the altar, if I hadn't met Agnes.”
“Obviously,” Aldo remarked solemnly, “God had other plans for the two of you.”
Thomas fell silent. There it was again: that sense of dizziness and bewilderment. He found himself catapulted into an alternative life, turned upside down by his encounter with Agnes, which had happened earlier than in his real life.
And what plans does God have for me now?
“Are you all right? You sound strange,” Aldo said, stirring him from his reverie.
“Yes, sorry. I was just lost in thought. But where are you?”
“In my office, of course. We're organising the meeting with the Buddhist community for next month.”
That fits, too.
Back in 2000, in his 'old' life, Aldo worked at the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue.
“Well, I won’t take up any more of your time. I’ll leave you to your work.”
“Just focus on getting better. See you soon.”
Thomas waited for the line to go dead before replacing the receiver. He stared at the telephone for a few seconds, then decided to go back to the study and the photo albums.
However, as he walked past the living room, he spotted a display cabinet that he hadn’t noticed before. Several video cassettes were lined up inside it. Intrigued, he approached it. Some were animated movies, but others were home videos with handwritten titles on the spines.
Home1986. Christmas 1986. Holidays 1987. Ingrid’s christening…
He had to watch them. Because a video makes everything infinitely more real than a photograph. He looked around. He wondered if he remembered how to use a video recorder. After fiddling with the remote controls for a while and spending a couple of seconds fearing that he had broken everything, he finally managed to start the 1986 tape.
The screen flickered for a moment. Then a shaky image appeared of Agnes in a tracksuit inside a living room that he didn’t recognise.
“I don’t know if I’m recording,” a voice croaked from off-screen.
Thomas, sitting on the edge of the sofa, flinched at the sound of that voice. It was his. Younger and crystal-clear.
“Check if there’s a red light.”
“What red light?”
“In the frame.”
“Ah, yes. Found it.”
“OK, then let the tour of the Lawrence House begin.”
“Can I zoom in on the image?”
“Yes, there’s a zoom lever on the right.”
“Where?” The frame wobbled sharply as he fumbled for the control.
Agnes burst out laughing. “You’re so clumsy,” she exclaimed, stepping out of the frame to join him.
“Hey! We only bought it yesterday,” protested Thomas. “I’ve never used a video camera in my life.”
“Me neither, but I’ve read the instruction manual.”
The image zoomed in and out jerkily a couple of times.
“Ah, thanks. You know I hate electronic stuff.”
“I know. But remember, we’re heading into the twenty-first century, and our lives are going to be dominated more and more by electronic devices. Sooner or later, you’ll have to learn not to panic every time you’re faced with something with a screen and buttons.”
“Well, there’s plenty of time…”
On the sofa, Thomas let out a small smile. He could not deny it: that awkward man with the video camera was exactly him.
The footage continued, showing the rooms of a flat smaller than their current one. It was laid out on a single floor with a narrow corridor connecting the rooms.
“This is the study,” announced Agnes, opening the door to a room with a desk against the wall and a few shelves still half-empty.
“Which one day might become the bedroom of a little Agnes,” commented Thomas’s voice.
“Or a little Thomas’s.”
“Maybe both, one after the other.”
“At that point, we’ll have to find a new house,” laughed Agnes.
They moved along the narrow corridor.
“And this is the master bedroom. This is where we try to create little Thomases or little Agneses through a process...” She paused, smiling mischievously. “...that’s extremely pleasant.”
“Agnes! Don’t say things like that while I’m recording!”
“Oh, come on. We’re married, and I know only one way to make babies.”
“Agnes…”
The video cut to a different scene, clearly filmed on a different day.
Agnes was in the kitchen, busy chopping vegetables.
“Here is the greatest Michelin-starred chef in all of Rome,” announced Thomas emphatically from behind the camera, “Agnes Rossellini, tackling a feast of vegetables in broth... better known as minestrone.”
Agnes didn’t even look up from the chopping board.
“Stop being silly and come and help me.”
“And what if I don't want to help you?”
She raised the knife and pointed it menacingly at the camera.
“Then you’ll be going to bed hungry tonight.”
“That’s blackmail,” retorted Thomas. The image wobbled as he put the camera down on a shelf before appearing in the frame beside her.
“Is it still on?” she asked, nodding towards the lens.
“Of course. I might need it to gather more evidence of your coercive methods.”
“Shut up,’ she said, handing him a knife, “and chop the carrots.”
The domestic scene continued for a few minutes. They talked about their day, commented on trivial matters and laughed at silly things. At one point, Thomas moved up behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her neck several times.
She smiled and closed her eyes, tilting her head slightly. “Thomas…,” she murmured softly. “You’re still recording.”
He froze, clearing his throat awkwardly.
“Ah, right. Wait...” He moved closer to the camera and the screen went black.
Another scene began. The camera focused on a slowly opening door. Beyond the threshold, the study came into view. Thomas was hunched over some papers at his desk, busy writing.
“Mr Lawrence, isn’t it time for a break?” asked Agnes’s voice.
“I'm almost done,” he muttered without looking up.
“You said that an hour ago, too,” she retorted. Her hand appeared on the screen and began to slowly stroke his hair, starting from the nape of his neck.
Thomas sighed softly.
“Mmm… That’s not fair. You know that when you touch my hair, I…”
“Yes?” said Agnes with an amused tone. “Go on.” Her hand continued to move slowly through his hair.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re recording! Turn that thing off!”
The scene changed again. Thomas’s heart skipped a beat as he recognised the dining room of his childhood home in England.
A Christmas tree sparkled in one corner. He, his father, his grandmother, his uncles and aunts were seated around the table; his mother was just taking her seat. It was the classic Christmas lunch, now reaching its final course.
“Agnes, is this slice of pudding enough for you?” asked Thomas’s father, concentrating on cutting the dessert with precision.
“That’s fine, thank you,” came Agnes's reply from off-screen.
Sitting on the sofa, Thomas felt a lump form in his throat. All of his loved ones had died many years ago, almost always while he was away fulfilling his ecclesiastical duties. The only things he had left of them were a few photographs. He had never owned a video camera during his life as a priest. Seeing them move and hearing them speak again after decades of silence was an overwhelming, almost unbearable emotion.
Once again, the ringing of the telephone broke the spell. Fiddling with the remote control, he managed to stop the tape. The image froze on his mother’s smiling face. Thomas stared at it for a moment. Then he got up and went to answer it.
It was Agnes. “How are you feeling?” she asked immediately.
“Better.”
“Have you taken your temperature?”
“No... but I don’t feel like I have a fever.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, a hint of scepticism in her voice.
“Yes, don’t worry.”
“All right, I’ll pretend to believe you,” she replied, with a touch of amusement in her voice. “Have you eaten yet?”
Thomas glanced up at the clock hanging on the wall. It was almost half past twelve, and he only then realised that he was actually hungry.
“Not yet.”
“If you like, there’s some pasta in the fridge that just needs heating up.”
“Thanks…” Perhaps he could have said something else, but what?
“I’ll see you this evening. I’ll finish the exams and pick up the children, then I should be home by half past five.”
Thomas nodded instinctively, forgetting for a moment that she couldn't see him. “All right,” he managed to say.
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, then Agnes added casually, “I love you.”
Thomas stood motionless for a moment with the receiver pressed against his ear. Those words had caught him off guard, but despite the shock, his reply came effortlessly to his lips.
“I love you too,” he replied.
And it was true. Even though, in the life he remembered, he had never been able to express it, not even to himself, that feeling had always existed. It had remained there for years, buried beneath the heavy layers of a cassock and protected by the solemn vows he had pronounced before God.
Thomas remained on the line long after Agnes had ended the call. He stared at the phone as if he could still hear the echo of that 'I love you' in his ears. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. It was all too much to take in for one morning.
Before sitting down at the table, he realised that he was still wearing his pyjamas, so he went back upstairs to get changed. On the chair next to the bed, he found a white T-shirt, a pair of tracksuit bottoms, and a blue sweatshirt. He put them on.
Before going downstairs, he decided to have a look in the wardrobe to see what else was there. The first door revealed Agnes’s clothes; he closed it immediately, feeling slightly embarrassed. He moved on to the second door and found his own shirts, jackets, trousers and jeans. After peering into a few more drawers, he went back downstairs.
He ate lunch quickly, enveloped in the silence of the house. He then spent the rest of the afternoon watching more videos and leafing through photo albums, trying to learn as much as possible about the past of that unknown life. He also delved into the papers on the desk to familiarise with his academic work: theses to mark, student reports, exam scripts.
He was still looking through these documents when Agnes arrived home with the children.
“Daddy!” Ingrid's voice preceded the sound of her footsteps. The little girl burst into the study and ran over to him. ‘We had a dictation test at school today, and I got them all right! Even the words with lots of double letters,” she announced, smiling with satisfaction.
Thomas smiled, caught up in her enthusiasm. “You did brilliantly,” he told her, feeling a genuine surge of pride.
Ingrid threw her arms around his neck. As he stroked her hair, he thought of the photographs and videos he had seen of him holding her when she was younger. They had seemed almost unreal to him, but now this embrace was very real.
Mark appeared shortly afterwards. “Dad, look at my drawing,” he said, waving a crumpled sheet of paper.
Thomas took it in his hands. “It’s really beautiful... it’s a...” He hesitated. On the paper were two rough ovals where brown and green blended into a muddled smudge; a wavy line – perhaps a tail – and some red stripes. And then he understood. “It’s a dragon.”
Mark nodded.
“It doesn't look like a dragon to me,” Ingrid declared sceptically.
Thomas smiled. “Yes, look: those are the flames coming out of its mouth,” he said, pointing to the red lines.
“But all dragons have wings,” commented Ingrid, speaking with the authority that came with being the older sister.
“Mine doesn’t,” Mark replied defensively.
“Only because you don’t know how to draw them.”
“That’s not true!”
“Come on, don’t fight,” Thomas interrupted gently. “This is a rare species of wingless dragon, and it’s beautiful just as it is.”
Ingrid was about to retort, but she noticed Agnes had appeared in the doorway of the study. A single glance from her mother was enough for her to realise that it was best not to tease her little brother any further.
It was only then that Thomas noticed Agnes and raised his gaze to meet hers.
She looked at him with a tender, amused smile. She sent the children off to get changed and returned to him shortly afterwards.
“You should have been resting, not working,” she said in a gently reproachful tone.
“I was just sorting through some documents,” he explained.
She approached him, walking around the desk. She leaned forward, kissing his forehead with the same familiarity as that morning.
“It seems that the fever has gone down for the moment,” she murmured, stroking his cheek. Then she rested her forehead against his. It was a simple gesture, yet one of devastating intimacy.
Thomas stood motionless, holding his breath. He realised, with a clarity that took him by surprise, that he hadn’t felt the urge to pull away. He felt no shame or guilt. It was just that... he wasn’t used to it.
Suddenly, the voices of Ingrid and Mark arguing with each other came from the corridor.
Agnes sighed and lingered for a moment longer. Then, before pulling away, she gently rubbed her nose against Thomas’s. “I'm going to see what they're up to,” she said with a knowing smile.
Thomas could only nod, still dazed by their closeness. But just as she reached the door, he stopped her with a hint of hesitation in his voice. “Later... do you need a hand with anything?”
Agnes turned and shook her head. “No, later you'll sit on the sofa, relax, and watch cartoons with our children. I’ll take care of the rest.” Her tone was calm but left no room for argument.
So, shortly afterwards, Thomas found himself sitting on the sofa in the living room, with Mark clinging to his left arm and Ingrid snuggled up against his right shoulder.
For Thomas, dinner was a surreal exercise in observation. He watched Mark struggle with his fork, listened to Ingrid complain about a classmate and heard Agnes recount the most absurd answers she had heard during the exams that day. These conversations were all so different from those he was used to within the Vatican walls.
Now that the table had been cleared, the dishwasher was humming reassuringly in the background, and the children had moved into the living room to play, Thomas was wiping down the kitchen counter, even though it had already been dried.
Agnes watched him for a moment before stepping closer. She placed her palm lightly against his collarbone, and her fingers began to slide upward, tracing the line of his throat to check his temperature.
“You were very quiet during dinner,” she said, studying his face, her eyes searching his with that terrifying, beautiful Sister Agnes precision. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m just... still a little tired,” he managed to say. It wasn't a lie; the mental exertion of navigating a life he didn't know was exhausting.
Her fingers moved higher, slipping into his hair at the nape of his neck. The warmth of her hand against his skin sent a slow, disarming sensation through him. His body reacted before his discipline could intervene. He leaned, almost imperceptibly, into her touch. He had imagined, in abstract moments of weakness, what it might feel like to hold her. To be held. He had never imagined how soothing it would be. He closed his eyes for a second, just one, and allowed himself to feel it.
The moment was interrupted by a conspiratorial stage-whisper from the hallway.
“Shh! Mummy and Daddy are cuddling,” Ingrid’s voice drifted in.
“I want cuddles too!” Mark’s voice followed, louder and entirely devoid of his sister’s discretion.
Thomas opened his eyes and pulled back just an inch as a flush crept up his neck. He looked towards the doorway. The two children were peeking around the frame
Agnes simply laughed – a light, musical sound that Thomas realised he wanted to hear every day for the rest of his life. “Well,” she said with mock solemnity, “it appears we have an audience.”
Before he could respond, Mark burst into the kitchen and collided with his legs, arms wrapping around him without hesitation. Thomas stiffened for a fraction of a second then he bent down and scooped the boy up.
Ingrid followed more composedly, slipping her hand into Agnes’s. “Family cuddle,” she announced.
Agnes stepped closer again, pressing into Thomas’s side, and sliding one arm around his waist.
Thomas found himself at the centre of it all. Held. Claimed. Trusted. He could feel Agnes’s breath against his shoulder. Feel Mark’s fingers tangled in his shirt. Ingrid leaning lightly against his hip.
And again, he noticed the most dangerous thing of all: he did not want to step away.
He looked down at Agnes. She tilted her face up to him with a small smile. For a fleeting, reckless moment, he allowed himself to imagine that he remembered all of it.
Fourteen anniversaries. Fourteen years at her side.
He tightened his hold around Mark just slightly. He squirmed. “Dad, you’re squeezing.”
He loosened his grip immediately, startled by how fiercely he had clung.
Agnes had noticed that too. Her eyes lingered on him.
“Bedtime,” she said softly to the children. “Dad needs rest.”
Thomas took Agnes's advice and went to bed early. However, once he was tucked up under the blankets, he lay staring at the ceiling for a long time. The events of the day and the emotions he had felt kept swirling around in his head, preventing him from falling asleep.
That wasn’t his life. He was a priest, the Dean of the College of Cardinals. He had always remained celibate, and now he had a wife and two children. It was all wrong.
And yet, Ingrid and Mark were real. And Agnes was clearly the same woman he already knew, because even though they had only spent a few hours together, he recognised the same grace and authority he had seen in the Head of the Mater Ecclesiae convent.
He thought back to the familiarity with which she had caressed him, to the fondness in her eyes. And above all, to how he had not tried to avoid it.
He tossed and turned in bed, unable to find a position that would silence his thoughts. He tried to pray, searching for the familiar words of the Psalms, but they rang hollow in his mind. Eventually, he fell asleep, but it was a restless sleep.
Images of his life as a cardinal – his fisherman's ring, the liturgical rites, the silence of his Vatican apartment – mingled with fragments of the day just ended: the warmth of the children, the taste of that morning's tea, Agnes's smile.
Suddenly, in the dead of night, he felt warm lips resting gently on his own. It was a light kiss, yet it felt too real to be part of a dream, while a hand rested gently on his chest.
He was not conscious enough to tell where the illusion ended and reality began, but that touch had an immediate effect. His breathing slowed, his body relaxed... and, without realising it, he finally slipped into a deep, peaceful sleep.