He stared at the picture again.
No matter what, Flicka was out in the open now. Both Alexandre, who was a past and potentially future murderer, and Flicka’s older brother, Wulfram, were en route to her.
Wulfram von Hannover was one of the most powerful people in the world in his own quiet way and employed a startling number of mercenaries.
In this situation, Maxence knew to step aside and allow the reputed serial killer and the mastermind who owned paramilitary units to take care of the problem. He swiped out of the window on his phone and turned off the Wi-Fi and cellular signal, essentially demoting it to a camera and an off-line e-reader.
Max would have little reason to use the phone while he was in Kathmandu on the mission that would take him into the interior of Nepal. There probably wouldn’t be any cellular signal, anyway.
He might as well leave it off.
Plus, turning off his phone was one of his most essential tactics when he disappeared, he’d discovered years ago. Palace security had a much harder time tracking him if he didn’t ping a cellular signal everywhere he went.
But the palace and court intrigues and soft, delicious women were behind him now. He was no longer Maxence of the Grimaldi.
He touched the stiff, white square in the collar near his Adam’s apple, reminding himself of who and what he was.
There was no reason to torture himself with what might have been with Flicka or what he’d had with the buoyant, bubbly Dree Clark, whom his body longed for even as he sat in an airplane speeding away from her.
His palms remembered the satin of her skin, and his fingertips recalled the silk of her hair as he clenched it in his fist at the back of her head. His skin grew sensitive, and the rough fabric of his clothes rubbed his torso and thighs.
Maxence drew a deep breath and settled his soul. It was unlikely that he’d ever see her again, or at least never when they could be together. Those four sensual days had been stolen time, a moment that could never come again. That life was behind Max, and he packed the sensations and desires into the back of his mind where they could not touch him.
Sitting in the seat wearing a Roman collar and his pocket heavy with a rosary, that stolen time was not his life.
Max sought to do good in the world and commune with God instead of indulging his appetites and lusts, which was the usual lifestyle for members of his family. He wasn’t different from them, but he had chosen a different path.
Dawn bloomed like a rising chrysanthemum over the sawtooth horizon, and the irresistible lure of the habits Maxence had cultivated rose within him.
Malini and the other stewardess would be watching, but Maxence would do it anyway. He’d already prayed the Office of Readings in the dark before they’d awakened.
He drew his rosary from his pocket and laid the crucifix so that it dangled over the edge of the table.
In the Liturgy of the Hours—the daily litany of prayers mandatory for Catholic priests, deacons, and religious laypeople—Lauds is the early morning prayer to the rising sun that represents the risen Christ. Praying the Office of the Aurora consecrates the day to Christ.
He consulted the e-book he had stored on his phone months before and scrolled through the text to find the ordained prayer for that morning, Friday, December twelfth.
As always for Lauds, he pressed his palms together, and began, “Lord, open our lips, and we shall praise your name.” He whispered the prayers in his deep baritone voice, and quietly sang the antiphons that buttressed the Psalm, an Old Testament Canticle, and the Psalm of praise for that day. He knew he had a good singing voice. A streak of musicality ran through his family.
The practice rolled through him, knowing that laypeople and priests were facing a crucifix and the rising sun as its light moved across the Earth and repeating the same prayers to dedicate that day and their lives to something greater than themselves.
His arms unfurled to his sides, held to the level of his shoulders, and he lifted his chest and his face to the warmth of the morning sun, breathing in a serenity of spirit he found nowhere else but in prayer.
He recited the Lord’s Prayer, leaning forward with his heart when he said, “Thy will be done,” and finished the praxis with the doxology, “Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever. Amen.”
Maxence was made small and humble by dedicating his time and work to that which was good and holy.
His hunger for all that his family held dear—power, wealth, envy toward each other’s influence and belongings, avarice for more and worse violent delights, and a gluttony of the soul for the entire Earth and everything in it and to consume every person they could reach—receded. Maxence was a damaged man and a dangerous one, but these moments in prayer restored what was lost and broken for a few moments.
When he finished, he stood, brought the crucifix to his lips, and returned the rosary to his pocket.
The morning sun from outside the plane’s porthole window warmed Max’s face, and they flew through clouds of molten gold and silver.
Malini approached him, smiling and holding a tray with a cup of cinnamon-scented chai. The air hostess’s smile was less conspiratorial, kinder, and entirely unsurprised.
He took the cup, grateful. “Thank you.”
“A blessing, Deacon Father?”
Maxence had tried arguing with her that he wasn’t a priest yet, but she always just smiled and said that she wanted a blessing anyway. The Catechism of the Church said that every baptized person is called to be a blessing and to bless, so Maxence drew on that as his guide. He drew a cross in the air over her, intoning, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, may the Lord bless you and keep you safe. Amen.”
She sighed, and her shoulders lowered as if in relief.
“Are you Catholic, Malini?” He’d never asked before.
“No, I’m Hindu, but we believe that all religions are paths to God. I attend many churches because I feel closer to God. I have been to Catholic Mass many times. The singing is very nice.”
Maxence felt compelled to ask, even though it seemed intrusive, “You don’t take communion in Catholic churches, do you?”
“Oh, yes. It is very important to partake of prasadam. The plane is on final approach, Deacon Father. You should probably take your seat. I have to go to the crew seats now.”
“Malini, communion is different than prasadam. There’s an important distinction. You really shouldn’t—”
“The captain has turned on the seatbelt sign, and the crew has to go sit down now. You drink your chai and have a good landing.” She hurried off.
Maxence stood beside the table, shocked and utterly at a loss as to what to do. To take Holy Communion, one must have been baptized in the Church and be in a state of grace. She had to go to confession. There were rules.
He called after her, “Malini, this is important. It’s considered a mortal sin.”
She waved him off and sat next to her friend, belting herself into the seat, while Max was relegated to his table for the landing.
After the plane touched down, Malini dodged Max until he had to get off the plane. She obviously didn’t want to hear what he had to say. He thought he had her phone number, so he could text her a more coherent explanation later.
After Maxence got off the plane and cleared Nepali customs at the airport, he was met by Father Xavier Kocherry, a tall priest with skin the color and texture of worn mahogany leather, whom Maxence had known from a previous project in the state of Tamil Nadu in India. He heartily shook the man’s hand and then hugged him while they laughed.