The Tuscan Child

by Rhys Bowen

and if I’d only listened to Father’s admonitions, I would not be in the position I was now. It was too bad he had died before he’d had a chance to say, “I told you so.” He would have enjoyed that.

As one raised with only the minimum of Anglican exposure, I always found Catholic churches to be frightening places—one step away from black magic.

“Don’t look so sad,” she said, touching my cheek. “All is well. We are tested and we survive, and life will be good again.”