Interlude II (Estonia)

[Patricus I]

It was a strange sort of déjà vu that prickled the back of his neck. Was he being schooled by a girl half his age? Was he offended? Nimeda treated him much the same, he recalled without offense. None spoke to him in such a way. None would dare. Although he was absolutely certain their thoughts channeled coarser words. One long stare into his deep blue eyes and they cowed – every time – and they kept their mouths appropriately shut. The face of Christ did not allow for pride.

It was with a turn of the head that he decided he was indeed not offended. Although he could not forgive the carelessness of the previous irreverence.

“Are you dispensing wisdom? I thought I was Noctua,” he said coolly but for the hint of a smile. He began to walk, but it was a slow thing. The tips of his red shoes barely peeked from beneath the cassock, so small were the steps. His hands remained folded at his waist. Grass crunched as they walked.

They would circle the yard for another hour. Himself, the Pope simply listening to her speak about whatever topic flit across her mind. At other times, Philip seemed to ignore her, standing still with his eyes closed and face tilted in the shade of his cap. He was fully aware of the eyes watching from lead windows, but his bite did not allow any to nose their way nearby. Privacy remained, although there was nothing to hide.

Eventually, he stopped near where the garden met the street. He kept his back to the street, studying the aged walls of the church more than Thalia, and while he did not speak, the quietude of the moment was preserved. He chose to ignore those gathered beyond the fence, tip-toed and stretching as though privy to exhibition denied.

He considered all the things the Holy Father would say to one who was indifferent toward him while any member of the distant crowd yearned to merely brush the hem of his cape. Thalia was nearer to God than they dreamed. He hated such awkward moments. Partings were always sullen. Did he promise warm thoughts? Did he repeat what had already transpired in some sort of insincere summary? Bless her with luck over a career out of commissions and dreamscapes? Would she discard the sketches of himself as carelessly as the landscapes crumpled in her pocket? Maybe none of this meant as much to her as it did to him, and he was a fool for thinking himself more than a symbol of the cloth. He did not abide lessons in humility well.

A clearing of his throat rumbled the garden as he turned ever so slightly aside and stretched out his hand, ring apparent. It was the only appropriate thing to do. After a moment of standing in such a pose, his brows rose expectantly. She wasn’t Catholic. Did she know what to do? Did he tell her?