6.5 miles Southeast, Thursday, April 26th, 6:06 p.m. CET — Mens Guest Quarters, Third Floor, Southern Wing, Monastery of the Eternal Light, Adamello Mountain, Val Camonica, Brescia, Italy
The small bedroom was modest, yet imbued with a quiet reverence. The air carried the scent of polished wood and incense, a subtle reminder of the sanctuary’s sacred purpose. Father Roche surveyed the room, taking a moment to appreciate its simplicity. The walls were bare, save for a small crucifix above the narrow cot, and the wooden furniture was worn, as though shaped by years of use. He gently set down his suitcase and began to unpack, the soft rustling of fabric the only sound in the room.
He carefully hung his robes in the wardrobe, each fold placed with intention, and then set about removing the other items from his suitcase. As he worked, he paused and glanced toward the window. Outside, perched on a jagged rock, a large Eurasian eagle-owl tore into the remains of a small rodent. Father Roche rapped his knuckles lightly against the glass to catch its attention. The owl froze, lifted its head, and met his gaze with unblinking amber eyes. For a moment, it seemed to consider him, then, without concern, returned to its meal.
A faint smile tugged at Roche’s lips as he turned away, unfurling a mat in the center of the room. He knelt with practiced ease, the soft, threadbare mat creaking beneath his weight as he sat cross-legged. His hands rested gently on his knees, and he closed his eyes, focusing his thoughts inward.
“Padre nostro, che sei nei cieli, hallowed be your name; venga il tuo regno; thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…”
He continued the prayer in a soft rhythmic blend of English and Italian, the words familiar, grounding him in the moment. His breath slowed as he invoked peace and clarity, his mind a sanctuary from the burdens of the outside world. But before he could complete the prayer, the sound of a heavy knock echoed through the room.
He paused, eyes still closed, allowing the moment to linger before continuing. But the knock came again—louder this time, more insistent.
Father Roche took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he rose to his feet, irritation flickering behind his otherwise composed exterior. He adjusted his robe, brushing off the dust from the mat, and made his way to the door.
When he opened it, Monsignor Altomare stood in the hallway, his arms crossed and a scowl etched across his face.
“What’s taking you so long?” Altomare demanded, his tone sharp as he stood with his hands planted firmly on his hips.
Father Roche straightened, meeting his gaze with a calm but weary look. “Have you been waiting for me this whole time?” he asked, glancing past Altomare into the bedroom across the hall. His luggage was still packed in the corner of the room.
“Yes, I’ve been waiting out here this whole time.” Altomare snapped, his voice edged with impatience. “Supper started 15 minutes ago. I wanted to get there early to do some recon, and here you are making yourself at home.” He cast a swift glance around Roche’s room, his gaze lingering on the personal items scattered about: each one adding to the sense of comfort that seemed out of place in the otherwise austere setting.
Father Roche adjusted his robe, exhaling deeply as he stepped into the hallway. “We would stick out like sore thumbs if we went to dinner too early. Remember, today is about blending in, Monsignor. But if you’re ready to go now, we can make our way down.”
Altomare didn’t respond immediately. He lingered at the door, his eyes scanning Roche’s room once more, taking in the personal touches. The space had already begun to feel lived in.
His impatience wavered, and a brief realization dawned: perhaps he had been too eager, too focused on haste. A moment of self-reflection passed, but he didn’t speak of it. Instead, he gave a curt nod. “Yes, please, let’s go.”
Father Roche shook his head and smiled quietly to himself, watching Altomare turn toward the stairs. With a soft click, he closed both their bedroom doors, then followed behind, his footsteps light and purposeful.
6.4 miles Northwest, 6:12 p.m. CET — Village of Temú
Loconda stood alone in the streets of Temù, her heart pounding as she struggled to protect the tiny flicker of light in her hand. The wind whipped through the village, erratic and unrelenting, tossing her candle’s flame this way and that. The other participants had vanished down different paths, their own flames pointing in diverse directions, each path pulled by its own invisible current. But hers, her flame, was stubborn: straightforward, unwavering, as if it refused to be swayed by the chaos around her. The wind, however, had other plans. It lashed out, fierce and determined, pushing her light backward, as though mocking her every effort.
The thought of her flame snuffing out and sending her back to Milan before she’d even begun pressed heavily against her chest.
She couldn’t afford failure, not after everything she had risked to make it this far. But she knew she couldn’t stand frozen in place, either. The wax in her hand was beginning to melt too quickly, dripping steadily, each drop a reminder of how little time she had. Her red flame pulsed, changing, deepening into an orange hue, its heat rising, growing stronger.
She inhaled, steadying herself. Timing was everything.
The wind whipped at her again, a furious gust that seemed to tear at her resolve. She clenched her jaw, waiting… waiting for the moment, the one fraction of stillness she knew would come if she only kept her focus. The flame shuddered in her grasp, but it held firm. And then, as if on cue, the wind stilled, just for a breath.
Without hesitation, she dashed down the cobbled street, her eyes locked on the flame, its light guiding her like a tether to whatever lay ahead.
6.3 miles Southeast, 6:15 p.m. CET — Dining hall, Second Floor, Western Wing, Monastery of the Eternal Light, Adamello Mountain
The dining hall was a cavernous space, its vaulted stone ceiling lending a hushed reverence to the steady hum of conversation that filled the air. Rows of long wooden tables stretched from one end of the hall to the other, occupied by priests and nuns dressed in muted habits, their voices blending into a gentle murmur. The scent of freshly baked bread and hearty stew mingled with the faint trace of burning candle wax. High above, a wrought-iron chandelier, its candles flickering, cast shifting shadows against the ancient walls.
Father Roche and Monsignor Altomare moved through the bustling room, trays in hand, maneuvering past monks and nuns engaged in quiet discussion. The occasional burst of laughter broke through the steady din, but for the most part, the meal was subdued; an air of discipline underlying the communal warmth.
Roche gestured toward an empty table near the center of the hall, away from the walls but not too conspicuous. The two men took their seats. Roche set his tray down and, with a practiced ease, clasped his hands together. His voice was a soft murmur, “Benedici, o Signore, questo cibo che stiamo per ricevere, e concedici la forza di servire con umiltà. Amen.”
As soon as he finished, he dug into his meal without hesitation. The warmth of the stew spread through him, the simple yet rich flavors grounding him after their long journey.
Across from him, Monsignor Altomare barely touched his food. His eyes darted from table to table, scanning the room with sharp vigilance. He chewed slowly, posture rigid, his fork held more like a weapon than an eating utensil.
Roche sighed. “Relax, Monsignor,” he said between bites. “You’re drawing more attention to yourself than if you were wearing a neon sign. Blend in.”
Altomare scoffed, stabbing at his food. “I’m just being cautious.”
Before Roche could counter, movement at the edge of his vision caught his attention. A nun was making her way toward them, her steps measured, deliberate.
Altomare stiffened. “Do you see that?” he muttered.
“Of course I see it,” Roche replied, unconcerned. “It’s probably nothing. No one knows we’re here.”
But as the nun reached their table, Father Roche couldn’t ignore the way she held herself, composed yet purposeful. She bowed slightly, her voice gentle and respectful.
“Buona sera, padri. Welcome to the Monastery of the Eternal Light. I am Sister Livia Mancini.”
Altomare’s eyes narrowed as she extended a hand. He hesitated before shaking it, his grip firm, his gaze studying her. When she turned to Roche, he grasped her hand lightly, offering a warm smile. “Thank you, Sister Livia. Your kindness is appreciated.”
The nun inclined her head, then, without another word, turned and disappeared through the dining hall doors.
Altomare leaned in, voice low. “That was strange. Too formal. Too direct. I don’t trust it.” He reached into his robe and pulled out a small notepad, scrawling down Sister Mancini in sharp, deliberate strokes. “She’s a prime suspect.”
Roche’s fork clinked against his plate as he leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “Altomare, stop writing and listen to me.”
Altomare shot him an impatient glare, but Roche continued, his tone unwavering. “She slipped me a note during our handshake. She didn’t want anyone to notice, which means it’s important. But I’m not opening it here.”
Altomare bristled. “We should read it now. What if it’s urgent?”
Roche ignored him. His attention was elsewhere: on a brawny, bald man rising from a nearby table, moving with quiet precision toward the entrance. At the doorway, just beyond the flickering candlelight, a shadowed figure stood, half-obscured. The man leaned in and murmured something, the figure nodding once before both men vanished into the corridor.
Roche abruptly pushed his tray aside, his gaze hardening as he whispered, “Altomare, this note demands our urgent attention. We must examine it immediately. Somewhere with fewer prying eyes.” Without waiting for further debate, Father Roche rose from his seat, his movements brisk and determined. Altomare, still wary but compelled, fell in step at his heels as they hurried out of the dining hall, their departure shrouded in the low murmur of the gathering.
6.3 miles Northwest, 6:30 p.m. CET — Village of Temú
The village lay in a hush, the quiet of late afternoon stretching long over its narrow streets. The sun hung low, casting golden light through the gaps between rooftops, painting the worn stone walls in shifting hues of amber and ochre. Smoke curled lazily from distant chimneys, but there was no warmth in the air, only the relentless whisper of the wind as it prowled through the empty streets.
Loconda raced through the village as swiftly as she dared, careful not to disturb the delicate flicker of her flame. It pulled her forward, unwavering, like a compass needle locked onto its true north. She had no sense of where she was; the streets were an unfamiliar maze of stone and shadow. An uneasy silence clung to the village, broken only by the wind’s ceaseless howling.
A sudden gust barreled through, fierce and unpredictable. Instinct took over. Loconda ducked into a narrow alley, pressing herself against the cold stone as the wind roared past. Here, in the cramped space between buildings, the wind lost some of its strength. The air settled for the briefest moment, a fleeting mercy.
Then, from behind her, a voice.
“It’s Tou—ssaint, right?”
She turned sharply, startled, and found Bliss Andrada standing there, breathing heavily. Her dark eyes were wide with worry, and she held her candle up like a desperate plea. The flame flickered wildly, shifting from yellow to an eerie shade of blue. But what alarmed Loconda more was the wax melting at an alarming rate, dripping past Bliss’s fingers. She barely had any time left.
“What should I do?” Bliss asked, voice tight with panic.
Loconda hesitated, eyes darting between Bliss’s candle and her own. The flames were different. Bliss’s was burning too fast, as if something—some unseen force—had tampered with it. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But we can’t stay still for too long.” She glanced again at Bliss’s dwindling candle, then back at her own. “I think maybe some candles are meant to burn faster than others.”
Bliss swallowed hard, lifting her candle higher. “Then… can I follow behind you? Maybe the wind will hit me less if I stay in your path.”
Loconda wanted to say yes. She wanted to help. But something was off. She studied the direction of Bliss’s flame—pointing in the complete opposite direction of her own.
“If you follow me, you might be going the wrong way,” Loconda said slowly. “I think our flames are leading us in different directions.”
Bliss’s expression faltered, but she nodded in understanding. “Oh… I think you’re right.” She took a steadying breath, gathering herself..
Loconda softened. “I wish I could help you, but I don’t know if following me is the right thing to do.”
Bliss exhaled, looking down at her candle. The wax was nearly gone. Whatever time she had left, it wasn’t much. “Then I guess I better get going,” she said, forcing a small, determined smile.
Loconda returned the gesture. “Be careful.”
“You too.”
The wind outside the alley let up. Without another word, the two girls sprinted out in opposite directions, each chasing the flickering light that led them toward their fate.
6.3 miles Southeast, 6:38 p.m. CET — Provisions Hall, Second Floor, Western Wing, Monastery of the Eternal Light, Adamello Mountain
Lined with modest offices and sturdy storage rooms, the Provisions Hall exuded a quiet efficiency. The air carried the scent of dried herbs, aged parchment, and freshly packed grain. Wooden crates lined the walls, their contents, including sacks of flour, salted meats, and jars of preserved fruits, meticulously labeled for distribution. Along one side, shelves bowed slightly under the weight of folded linens, simple garments, and candles wrapped in twine, each detail a testament to the monastery’s humble, yet orderly hospitality.
Navigating through the busy hall, Father Roche and Monsignor Altomare soon found refuge in an empty storage room tucked away in a quiet corner. Inside, the cramped space reeked of old parchment and dried herbs. Sparse wooden shelves, laden with assorted supplies, flanked the walls. A low, dusty ceiling and a single, narrow window offered only a hint of the fading daylight, making the room feel both secretive and urgent.
Father Roche carefully unfolded the note that Sister Livia had so discreetly passed him. The hastily scrawled Latin conveyed an urgency that set his heart racing. He glanced at Altomare, who grimaced. “My Latin isn’t exactly my strong suit,” Altomare muttered, a note of anxiety in his tone. Roche offered a calm smile. “Relax, Monsignor. I am quite fluent.”
Drawing a steady breath, Father Roche began to read aloud, his voice a measured blend of English and Latin:
“To the esteemed Investigators, Father Roche and Monsignor Altomare, salve et honor! I, Sister Livia, devoted friend of Sub-Prioress Beatrix Celestefiori, have imperative information regarding her mysterious disappearance. Please, per favore, convene immediately at the prayer tower of Saint Abundantia, located on the fourth floor of the North Wing. (Note: To access the tower, you must traverse the women’s quarters on the second and third floors—which, post-sunset, are restricted to female occupants—but this shall not impede you if you ascend the staircase at the far end of the first floor.) Vale et Deus velocitate.” Roche lingered on her final words as he repeated them in English, glancing up at Altomare. “Be well and God speed.”
A heavy silence settled between them as the gravity of Sister Livia’s words took hold. Monsignor Altomare leaned forward, his voice edged with apprehension. “This information is quite significant. While I agree we should meet with Sister Livia, it might be wise to inform the Prioress before we enter the women’s wing,” he suggested, his tone cautious.
Roche shook his head slowly. “We don’t yet know who we can trust, Altomare. Sister Livia delivered this note directly to us, bypassing even the Prioress or Sub-Prioress. This choice… this discreet act, suggests she may be one of the very sisters who anonymously reported Sub-Prioress Beatrix’s disappearance, and she likely fears retribution from her superiors. We must respect her discretion.”
After a brief pause, Altomare relented. “You’re right, we should proceed on our own terms. We have full authority from the Vatican to run our investigation as we see fit.” He met Roche’s eyes, his brow furrowed with concern. “Let’s just hope this information is legitimate. We can’t afford to waste time on false leads.”
Roche held the note up between them, his expression tightening. “I’m more concerned about her safety, Monsignor. This note was written in a rush. Look at the slanted script. If she’s putting herself in danger just to give us this, we need to be cautious. Whatever she knows, it’s clearly of great importance.”
With a shared, determined glance, the two men silently acknowledged the weight of their next steps. Together, they slipped into the shadowed corridor, moving with purpose toward the north wing’s Tower of Saint Abundantia.
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