The Psalter by Galen Watson Page B

priest’s hand between both of his, “Nonsense, Father. You can stay here. Isabelle, please show Father Romano to the guest room.”
    “I’ve already imposed too much.”
    “Don’t be silly. You’ve had an exhausting day and I won’t accept no for an answer.”
    Isabelle placed clean towels on the nightstand and turned back the bedspread, fluffing the pillows. “You’ll be more comfortable here than a hotel.”
    “You and your father are too kind.”
    “Get some sleep, and we can talk tomorrow.” Isabelle kissed him on the cheek and Romano jerked away.
    “Oh, I apologize, Father. We French kiss everyone. I should’ve thought.”
    “No, I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s not being a priest…but…something else.”
    “Well, let’s forget it.” Isabelle squeezed his hand and closed the door.
    As the priest pulled the blankets on the iron-frame bed to his chin, the implications of the Thomas fragment spun in his head. He hoped he would sleep; he had to sleep. His overtired brain wasn’t processing clearly and he needed clarity, but the coffee or the shock of the discovery made him feel as though he could jump out of his skin.
    He had ended up in the Secret Archives by sheer circumstance. He only wanted to study ancient books and manuscripts to learn their mysteries. He seemed to have spent his life looking for answers to secrets. Why was his mother violent, his father gone? Why did people hurt others for their own gratification? If he could but read the thoughts and disputations of the earliest Christians, those closer to the era of the Lord, he might understand more, get closer to the truth. But the School of Paleography fell under the auspices of the Secret Archives. He was educated there and was now the vice-prefect.
    However, much more resided in the Secret Archives than just the School of Paleography, hidden things not intended to be seen by outsiders, even priests. Romano had access to everything and had read many texts branded as heresies. Yet these long-lost accounts were not written by pagans or unbelievers, but by Christians who wrote what they believed. Priests like the author of the little tract he had translated, Anastasius Bibliothecarius, and Disciples of Christ like the author who claimed he was Jesus’ twin brother.
    Who had the right to say what should be part of the canon or what would be forever branded as heretical, suppressed, and destroyed? Romano asked himself the question over and over. Now, however, he had begun to grasp that what the church allowed to be read, published or even uttered was scrutinized, dissected, and censored. How had he not seen this before? Perhaps he had chosen to turn a blind eye.
    Romano had translated a simple pamphlet and almost lost his job at the hands of the Grand Inquisitor. But what he had uncovered tonight would shake the very foundation of the church. Jesus had a twin brother; Joseph was his father, Mary their mother. Such a thing was unthinkable and definitely punishable by the anonymous enforcers within the thick, impenetrable walls of the Pallazo del Sant’Uffizio .
    Romano took a deep breath and another. An arc of inky blackness devoured the pinpoints and jagged waves of light underneath his eyelids. His breathing grew slower, more regular. His last thought was of Isabelle’s kiss as he sank into a turbulent oblivion.
    The creak of an antique door disturbed Pascal’s sleep. I’m sure Isabelle showed our guest the bathroom , he thought. Did she remember to leave the hall light on for the priest ? He looked though the darkness to where the crack under his door should be, but there was no light. Throwing back the blankets, he sat on the edge of the bed and stepped into his slippers.
    He turned the doorknob and pulled on the door. It slammed against him with a force that launched him to the floor. Stunned and uncomprehending, Pascal shook his head. He recoiled from a muffled wallop and gasped from the sting on his face. A broad gloved hand swung