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M -

I went to the cathedral to pray today.

I remember my father taking me there as a child. I would kneel on hard tile, clasping my hands, trying to be the image of filial piety. He would leave me and ascend to his place on the dais, and I would study him - his lips as he murmured in Latin, his hands as he crossed himself, the eyes of his parishioners filled with worship. Everything he touched was consecrated.

He was like the sun to me, and I was content to bask in his light.

Even years later, when he stood at the head of the crowd, casting precious books into the fire - I could not bring myself to feel as you felt. You spoke urgently to me of his hunger for power, power that no single man should wield, and I pretended to agree with you. But when I turned over the notion of this power in my heart, I secretly felt - not fear - but pride.

Deep within, I still thought with a child’s mind and felt with a child’s heart.

I suppose that was our undoing.

Now I live a quiet life in the abbey. I pray, and copy liturgical texts, and observe the customary fasts; and the abbess smiles that I am living the life my father would have wanted. And on a few rare nights, when my heart fills with words I dare not speak, I walk alone in the orchard and write these letters to a lover who will never read them. A lover I spurned in loyalty to a man who wished to become a god.

Wherever you are, M, I hope you understand. I am no longer a child. I would do things differently now.