I select a wine silk robe stitched with silver thread, roll my hair into a bun, and pin it tight. I descend the stairs on bare feet, silent as a cat.

Father Romanus is waiting for me in the drawing room, seated in one of the plush armchairs. A plate of pasta rests on the table before him.

“Good evening, Father,” I say softly.

He looks up, unstartled, and nods. He hasn't touched a single bite of his meal. Perhaps he’s already full from church wafers and communion wine.

“Mrs. Monroe,” he says, his voice low and soothing as he rises to offer a comforting hug.

I step into his...