The Prince

“Of course, Father.” Stearns closed the book in front of him and stood up. Once more Kingsley was stuck by the blond pianist’s height, his face so unbearably handsome. “I will be happy to help in any way I can. Of course, Monsieur Boissonneault doesn’t need my help. After all, he speaks English perfectly. Don’t you?”

Kingsley froze when Stearns directed the last two words at him.

Father Aldo and Father Henry both looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Mr. Boissonneault?” Father Aldo said in his accented English. “Is this true?”

“Of course it is.” Stearns stepped over the black cat and stood before Kingsley.

Kingsley should have been afraid, should have been embarrassed. But that one step toward him, that look of penetrating insight, inspired other feelings in him, feelings he immediately shoved down deep into himself.

“He laughed while you two were arguing. He knew exactly what you both were saying. If he’s a French speaker in Maine he’s either from France, where he would start learning English at age seven or eight, or he’s Quebecois and therefore at least passably bilingual.”

Father Aldo and Father Henry continued to stare at him. Stearns studied him with penetrating, steel-gray eyes.

“I am most certainly not Quebecois,” Kingsley finally said, the pride in his Parisian blood trumping any desire to remain silent and anonymous. “I’m from Paris.”

Stearns smiled and Kingsley felt that smile in his blood like a shard of ice.

“A liar and a snob. Welcome to Saint Ignatius, Monsieur Boissonneault,” Stearns said. “So pleased to have you here.”

For the second time that day, Kingsley fantasized about stepping into Troy’s knife and letting the blade sink into his heart. Surely a blade of real steel would hurt less than the steely judgment in Stearns’s eyes.

“I didn’t want to come,” Kingsley protested. “I’m here against my will. I shouldn’t have to talk if I don’t want to.”

“You have a bright future with the Cistercians,” Stearns said, crossing his arms over his chest. “They take vows of silence, too. Although for reasons of piety and not obnoxious attention seeking.”

“Mr. Stearns,” Father Aldo gently chided. “We may be Jesuits, but we do practice the rule of Benedict here.”

Stearns exhaled heavily. “Of course, Father. Forgive me.” He didn’t sound particularly contrite to Kingsley, but neither Father Aldo nor Father Henry raised any further objections. They seemed as cowed as Matthew had earlier. Who was this Stearns person?

“Perhaps you would show Mr. Boissonneault the dormitories. Give him more of an introduction to the school than young Matthew did,” Father Henry said. “If you have the time.”

Stearns nodded, took one more step toward Kingsley and looked down into his eyes. Down? Kingsley had been measured in the hospital and stood at exactly six feet. Stearns had to be six-two at the least.

“I have the time.” Stearns gave him another smile. “Shall we?”

Kingsley thought about saying no, demurring, protesting that Matthew had given him a thorough introduction to the school and he needed no other, but merci beaucoup for offering. And yet, although Stearns already seemed to dislike him, loathe him even, Kingsley couldn’t deny that everything in him wanted a moment alone with this mysterious young man who even the priests deferred to.

“Oui,” Kingsley whispered, and Stearns’s sculpted lips formed a tight line.

Kingsley followed him from the kitchen. As soon as they were out of the door and alone in the hallway, Stearns turned and faced him.

“Père Henry est un héro,” Stearns began in flawless French. Father Henry is a hero. “You’ll have to forgive him for knowing very little about France. During World War II, he was in Poland smuggling Jews to safety and hiding women and girls from the Russian soldiers. I only know this because another priest here told me. Father Henry does not talk about the hundreds of lives he helped save. He talks about Italian food and mystery novels. Father Aldo is Brazilian. He and twelve others were held captive by guerrillas in 1969. Father Aldo was twenty-nine years old and, despite being from a wealthy and politically connected family, was the last captive to be released—by choice. He would not leave until the others were safely freed. He forgave his captors and publicly asked the court to show them leniency. Now he cooks for us.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Kingsley asked in English, feeling for the first time since his parents’ death that he could easily start crying.

“Father Henry asked me to introduce you to Saint Ignatius. That is what I’m doing. Coming?” he asked, still speaking French.

Kingsley said nothing, but followed him down the hall.

Stearns paused in the doorway to the dining room. Only two boys remained at the table, eating and talking.

“Ton ami Matthew,” Stearns said, inclining his head toward the small redheaded boy who had first given him a tour of the school, sitting next to a slightly taller boy with black hair and glasses. “He came here a year and a half ago. Although eleven years old when we saw him first, he looked hardly older than eight. His parents had neglected him to the point of starvation. A wealthy Catholic family in the neighborhood where Matthew was found digging through garbage cans is paying his tuition here. The boy he’s sitting with is the son of the people paying Matthew’s tuition. Neither of them knows that. They became friends on their own.”

Kingsley swallowed, said nothing and followed Stearns from the dining room.

“I think Father Henry meant for you to tell me what time classes start, that sort of thing.”

“Breakfast is at seven. Chapel is at eight. Classes start at nine. Tomorrow you’ll meet with Father Martin, who will set your class schedule.”

“I suppose Father Martin is a hero, too.”

“Father Martin is an astronomer. He discovered three comets and invented a formula for calculating the expansion of the universe. Retired now. His eyes aren’t strong enough to keep searching the heavens. So now he teaches math and science to us.”

Stearns led them from the dining hall, outside and to the library. The main room was empty but for three boys about Kingsley’s age huddling by the fireplace on the west wall. Stearns picked up an abandoned book off a table, glanced at the spine and headed to a bookcase not far from where the boys sat and talked.

“Stanley Horngren—he’s the one wearing the jacket,” Stearns said, inclining his regal blond head toward one of the boys. “He has twelve brothers and sisters. He works two jobs every summer in order to pay his own tuition here and not burden his family with the extra expense. James Mitchell, sitting next to him, is here on a full academic scholarship. Rather impressive considering he is completely deaf and never had access to a school for the deaf. When you speak to him, speak clearly and make sure he can see your lips. And speak only in English,” Stearns said, giving Kingsley a dark look. He slipped the book onto a shelf in what was no doubt the correct spot. “The boy on the sofa is Kenneth Stowe. He spent two years in an institution because his teachers thought he was mentally deficient. In reality he has a minor learning disability and a genius IQ. He is now a straight-A student. The library closes at nine. If you need to stay later, you can ask Father Martin for a pass.”

Stearns turned on his heel and headed back outside. He paused outside the door to the church.

“Weekend Mass is at 5:00 p.m. on Saturdays and 10:00 a.m. on Sundays. It’s a traditional Catholic mass. Are you Catholic?”

Kingsley shook his head. “We’re descended from the Huguenots.”

Stearns exhaled through his nose. “Calvinists.” He said the word like a curse before continuing on. “You are encouraged but not required to attend chapel. You will not be asked to cut your long hair. You will be asked to wear the school uniform, but for no reason other than it helps foster an environment of equality. None of us here is better than any of the others. You do understand that, yes?”

Kingsley stared at the floor. “Yes.”

Stearns took them to the dormitory building, stopping outside long enough to gather an armful of logs. Kingsley picked up some firewood as well, thinking they would be carrying it up to their dormitory room on the second floor, but instead Stearns went into the room where the youngest boys slept and piled the wood neatly next to the hearth.

He took the wood out of Kingsley’s arms and added it to the pile.

Several young boys sat on their beds reading. Only one managed to mumble a muted “thank you” as the two of them walked out. Stearns said nothing, only tapped the boy lightly on the forehead in a gesture almost brotherly. All the boys in the room followed Stearns with wide, awe-filled eyes.

Kingsley trailed after Stearns to the top floor of the dormitory, where the oldest boys slept.

“Lights-out is at nine,” his guide continued in his shockingly fluent French. Had Kingsley not known otherwise, he would have assumed Stearns was a native. “If you have homework that keeps you up later, you can work in the common room downstairs. As Father Henry says, ‘Firewood does not grow on trees.’ Please replace any of the wood you use.”

“Bien sûr,” Kingsley said, but knew he wouldn’t have thought to replace the firewood without someone telling him.

“Eighteen of us sleep in this room. Nineteen now that you’re here. Nathan Weitz has night terrors for reasons he hasn’t chosen to share with anyone yet. At least once a week he wakes up screaming. Ignore it. He will go back to sleep in a few minutes. If you see him sleepwalking, follow him. Last winter he wandered outside and nearly developed hypothermia. Joseph Marksbury is in charge of the chore list. I suggest you talk to him before he comes to you, unless you want nothing but bathroom duty for the entire semester. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to my Portuguese.”

“You’re learning Portuguese, too?” Kingsley asked. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Eight.”

“I’m bilingual. What do they call someone like you?”