Hands of Flame by Ce Murphy Page B

conceive of his gargoyle-form’s strength limitations. Certainly her own weight was inconsequential to him. Half-welcomerecollection flooded and warmed her, the memory of his hands, strong and gentle, holding her, guiding her, seeking out her pleasure. In flight, in love, that strength had been sensual.
    And in battle it had been terrifying. Margrit made fists and opened them again deliberately, trying to push away the remembrances, and stood to examine the stone. She had no other way to get into Grace’s tunnels, so she would have to lever the stone out somehow. Grooves marked two sides of its sides and she slid her fingers into them, then laughed with frustration at the uselessness of her attempt.
    Stone grated against stone again, sound rolling down the stairs. Margrit froze, eyes wide, then spun around in a circle, searching for somewhere to hide. There was nowhere, save under the cot, and for some reason the idea struck her as absurd to the point of embarrassment.
    â€œPardon me.” A terribly polite voice came from the direction of the stairwell. Margrit, for all she knew someone was coming down the stairs, shrieked in surprise and whipped around again.
    An Episcopalian priest with an erratic white beard peered around the corner. “Pardon me,” he repeated drolly. “I hate to interrupt, but I saw you come down, and I feel rather obliged to tell you that—Er, Ms. Knight?”
    â€œFather.” Margrit squeaked the honorific, utterly at a loss to explain herself. “I’m, um. Oh, God. Uh.”
    â€œMerely a representative,” the priest said cheerfully. “Ms. Knight, what an unexpected pleasure. What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in a while. Either of you,” he added more calculatingly. “How is Alban?”
    â€œIn trouble,” Margrit replied in a burst. “That’s what I’m—I needed to get into the tunnels. I didn’t eventhink to come ask if I could come here. I would have, if I had.” The old man’s kindness and his awareness of both Alban’s presence beneath the church and Alban’s secret had been evident the time or two Margrit had spoken with him.
    â€œI’m sure you would have. I told you I grew up in this parish,” the priest said after a moment’s thought. Margrit nodded, but he went on without heeding her, and gestured toward the stairs, clearly expecting her to follow him. “I used to get in trouble exploring the church grounds. The tower in the corner of the graveyard held endless fascination for me. Have you seen it?” He led her back to the graveyard, striding across it with confidence, so familiar with the paths that their ruts and joinings had no fear for him, not even in the dark. Margrit scurried to keep up, unaccustomed to walking at his clip and unwilling to start running to match his pace.
    â€œSure. I always wanted to climb it.”
    The priest threw a delighted smile over his shoulder. “Exactly. So I did.”
    Margrit stumbled over a corner, more from surprise than treacherous footing. “Didn’t you get in trouble?”
    â€œWell, of course, but not until I got caught. I was nine the first time I climbed it and fourteen when I got caught. But by then I’d found all its secrets. I should write a history,” he said wistfully. “The secret history of Trinity Church. There are so many stories to tell.”
    â€œNot all of them are yours to tell,” Margrit said softly. He gave her a sharp look that softened into agreeability.
    â€œTrue, true, that’s true. Still, wouldn’t it be wonderful to read? Now,” he said, stopping at the base of the bell tower. “I’m far too old to go climbing this thing, especially at this hour of the night, but you’re young and healthy. You should be fine. Be careful on the drop down. It’s a doozy.”
    â€œWhat?” Margrit stared from the bell tower to the