#tedesco

Mary and Gio are not on speaking terms anymore.

Like every week

They fight, they ignore eachother, one of them comes back under the pretense of needing academic help and they make up.

Then they fight.

Leading young minds was not as easy as Goffredo thought it would be.

The priest had thought that because it was a catholic college all of his kids would be as zealous as he had once been.

He was proven wrong. The kids from the English high society had shown to be way too different to the southern Italian poor boy he once was.

They were vulgar, crass, entitled, arrogant and that was just to begin with.

Maranata had once taught English as a foreign language back in Mexico, she transplanted her methods to religion and history classes.

“You decorate a box, put a bunch of scrap paper from everytime the printer has broken and just prints nonsense,” she was talking with her frizzy hair all over her face, and her lips all filled with chocolate from the coffee she drank earlier,”you cut the paper in four or six even squares and put them beside the box which has a slot, like when voting. Students put their questions in here and the next day they are either out in the corkboard with their questions answered or they become a class topic entirely on their own.”

She always tried to use until the last second of her breath to convey ideas, as if all of her silly little words could not fit inside her head, she also spoke to fast for his liking, now she looked like a poster mad woman, the poster cat-lady little girls were warned about.

“What?” it was not long until she pointed out his burning stare.

“You are lucky you are smart.”

“Excuse you?”

“Nothing, nothing. When I was a child, my nonna always said that I was the most beautiful boy in our hometown, that I was the best out of my brothers and I that whoever got with me was going to be a lucky girl.” he smiled towards the end of the sentence, his cheeky rat smile, as if he had said something genius.

“So?”

“Well, now I am a priest,” he laughs, as he always does, to a joke only he understands, “and I like you.”

“…I fail too see the humour.”

“You are not…how to put it…”

Now she can read where this is going to, she crosses her arms and switches the weight on her hips.

“I am not what, Tedesco?”

“Well you are not ugly, not at all, mai…you are not.”

“I would be very careful with my next sentence if I were you.”

He stands and stares at her, mess of a woman, but she has made a mess out of him aswell, then tilts his head and holds hers in his hands.

“Look at you, who could have told that you out of all women are making me lose my mind.”

“Me? Out of all women?”

“You. You short. You unbothered. You.” he kisses her forehead several times, his nose bumping on her forehead.

“Can you get off me? I am trying to work.” she tries to protest as he now smothers her cheeks and eyelids, covering every centimeter of her face but her lips.

“You never do any work and that is why you stay until late doing all the things you had day to do.”

“You’re never learning proper English, are you.”

Goffredo just gives a final kiss and leaves.

“And they say us women are complicated…”

Maranata still sticky from kisses from Goffredo’s smoke reeking lips makes her way towards the table of their shared library.

There she sees a bunch of letters, bills, spam.

Then there is one for her.

From a name she did not wish to hear more from.

“Magnus!”

The blonde man in the tailored suit was moving fast down the corridor, quicker than courtesy allowed.

“Magnus, please!”

He slowed just enough to turn his head, not quite stopping.

“Miss Johannsen,” he said, breath steady, voice polite but already halfway elsewhere, “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a mighty inconvenient moment.”

For once, he truly looked it—papers in hand, men waiting on him, a schedule pulling him in three directions at once. And he wasn’t even running for office anymore.

“Please, sir. Just one minute.”

Maranata reached into her apron, pulled out the small kitchen timer she used with the children, and clicked it on. The ticking began between them, soft but insistent.

Magnus glanced down at it, then back at her.

A corner of his mouth twitched.

“Well now,” he drawled, “that’s a new one.”

“One minute, Miss,” he conceded.

“They’re trying to unlawfully fire someone from the education department,” she rushed, holding out a folder. “He hasn’t done anything wrong. I can explain further, but please—sir, I know you must know someone. Please help me.”

Magnus took the papers, flipping through them with practiced speed. His expression did not change much, but his eyes slowed on certain lines.

He nodded once, closing the folder.

“I’ll see what I can do, Miss.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He tipped his head and moved on, already swallowed again by the machinery of his day.

Maranata knew she should not have done that.

She had stepped out of line—used proximity, used timing, used him.

But Elton had no one else.

And if she had any voice at all in this place, then it was meant to be used for someone who didn’t.

The rest of the day passed in routine—small hands, spilled crayons, songs half-sung and forgotten.

But beneath it all, something waited.

When the call came, she answered immediately.

“Hi, Elton. Yes, I’m here.”

“Mary? Were you able to talk to—”

“Yes. I did. He didn’t have time for a follow-up, I’m sorry.” She softened her tone. “I’m doing everything I can. I’ll speak to him again when he comes for his girl.”

Silence.

Then breath—uneven, fragile, breaking at the edges.

She closed her eyes briefly.

“Don’t worry,” she said gently. “Even if this doesn’t work, we’ll find you something else. But I’ll do everything I can to keep you where you are, alright?”

A sob came through the line.

“Yes… yes… thank you…”

“You’re welcome…”

The classroom door slammed open so violently it struck the wall.

She flinched.

A man stood there—navy vest, unfamiliar face, too direct.

“Evenin’. Paxton’s daughter in here?”

Maranata steadied herself against the desk.

“You did not knock, sir.”

“Sorry ‘bout that. Is Magnus Paxton’s girl here or not?”

“Who are you?”

“Friend of the family. He sent me to fetch her—urgent. They’ve got somewhere to be.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

“Did you not check at reception?”

He hesitated.

“The lady up front was… flustered. Said this was your room.”

Something tightened in her chest.

“Of course,” she said calmly. “Then I’ll just need your full name, phone number, address—and I’ll have to see some identification.”

“What for?”

“Daycare policy, sir. If reception didn’t clear you, then it falls to me—”

His fist struck the desk.

Hard.

“Ma’am,” he said, voice low now, “Paxton needs her. Urgently.”

Two more men appeared behind him. Cloaked. Silent. Watching.

They exchanged a glance.

A small shake of the head.

No success.

Maranata’s pulse surged.

Even if she refused, they would find the child.

Fear rose fast, sharp, suffocating.

She moved anyway.

“I’ll go get her.”

“Don’t trouble yourself. Just tell us where.”

Her mind raced.

“Playground,” she said. “There’s a storage shed out back. She likes to hide in there when her father comes—to avoid paparazzi.”

The men looked at each other.

Uncertain.

Her hands trembled as she untangled the keys from her apron. When she finally freed them, she pressed them into the larger man’s hand.

“Back entrance,” she added.

They left.

Only then did her knees threaten to give.

Goffredo listened to Maranata and implemented the box of questions, as expected the children had been immature, remarkably classless and borderline blasphemous as far as anonimity would let them.

It was easy though, finding out who wrote what based on their handwritting and even the ink that they used.

Some received answers to stupid senseless questions, others detention (and also a future distrust for their professor) and some others a few words of encouragement.

Since Father Goffredo was feeling rather petty that moment some even received feedback on their grammar.

But there was one particular boy who was making him lose sleep.

Most of the kids just inherited their parents religion, not that Goffredo minded, as many catholics as possible is the rule. this is how you get them, making families have lots of kids, that was before the ‘devil’s tools’ as he called birth control, had taken over so many lives.

Most of his students blindly followed the faith they were raised in, it was the safest option, it was comfortable, it was easy.

But whoever had writen this letter was clearly not one of them, a rebel, a different breed, or just some young boy discovering poorly formulated baseline level atheism.

It had many good arguments for his age, Goffredo had to give him that, it was actually quite challenging.

There was just one person in the whole wide world that loved to snob about scripture as much as he did.

No, actually there are many, he lives in a catholic school! But he deep down knows that this is an excuse to see his ‘friend’ once more.

“Father Goffredo, we were not aware that you would make us the honor…” his colleague looked as nervous as he was surprised, he scanned him with his blue eyes looking desperately for any clue that he was there by accident.

“Good evening Father Thomas, no, I was just passing by, but, now that I am here, I had una…” despite months of living in England his English would just get worse everyday, “uhm…an…an activity for the boys to write me their questions related to their faiths, I needed a second opinion.”

“Well if I may,” kindly, Father Thomas extended his hand, committed to a task that had not yet been trusted with, “we could discuss this over tea.”

“Grazzi, fratello, mai…I came looking for Miss Johansen, you know?”

As puzzled as he looked Father Thomas obligued.

“Of course, she must be in the library, she usually gives her lessons there since it is the only room with a projector, uhm…this way here, please.”

“Grazie.” Goffredo smiled and nodded, such a kind servant of the Lord, ever since he’d met Thomass he knew that they were going to be best friends.

The Englishman showed him the way across gardens and fountains.

“Your friend…Padre she is a modern woman, right?”

“…sì, maybe too much, you know?”

“Oh, not at all, she’s been adjusting but she is absolutely delightful, for a protestant woman she is very good at her job here.”

Even though it was Goffredo’s idea to bring Maranata here to teach, he was still a bit mad and did everything in his power to warn his english friend about his girl’s heretical background.

Thomas nevertheless just became eager to bring her because of that, he thought that it was important for the young ladies to have a femenine figure around that was not a nun, someone that was tempted by the daily life and the desires of the flesh, someone with a different perspective on the same topic.

Bless his heart, the Italian thought. So much of a brilliant and devoted mind to be lost to nonsense. Thomas was not only an attractive man, he was another bright mind and heart for the Lord, Goffredo admired him so much.

Then he started to flirt with all of that liberal nonsense that was polluting the very fundaments of the church, he was okay with other faiths, gave mass in English and allowed women in jeans to his homily.

Goffredo could only pray silently that his friend’s heart would turn to the Lord as soon as possible.

“May I ask: Why specifically Miss Johansen for your theological question?”

“Il mio ragazzo…he, he wanted to know about the protestant bible and doctrines, so…I thought I would ask a friend.” he explained laughing too.

Thomas smiled slowly in understanding.

“Well, then I consider a blessing that you have such a friend.”

Oh Thomas. Goffredo laughed and swallowed nervously. If he only knew…

What if he knew?

Would he judge him for being the most conservative man in the group of friends? Would he endorse this little flirtation of him like Bishop Alexander had done before learning that it was a formal courting instead of a fling?

Was Thomas going to dispprove of him?

And if he did so, why?

Because he is a priest or because she is protestant?

“Sì…a blessing, scussi,” Goffredo adjusted his collar, “it’s getting warmer all of a sudden.”

They finally made it to the library, Maranata was dusting the tables.

“Miss Johansen, please the nuns can take care of that.”

“Oh, please, it is fine, after all it’s just the girls’ mess that I am picking up. How may I help you Mr. Lawrence.”

“I believe that you have a visit.”

Goffredo emerged happy to see Mary, it was getting harder to come up with excuses as of to why the priest of the boarding school for boys had to see the supplementary literature teacher for the barding school for girls every day three hours per day.

“Maranata.”

“They let just anyone here these days, don’t they?” she jokes to Lawrence who laughs back at her.

“Well, my dears, if you need something else I shall be at my office where you know you can find me.” he nods and bids farewell.

Both Mary and Goffredo nod and look back at eachother.

“So, my dear. What do you want?”

Maranata let the men go, even after they closed the door and evacuated the room the heavy atmosphere lingered.

She leaned down her desk and whispered “Good girl, you were very quiet.”

Jackie did not speak back, she just clung to her legs with an unreadable and bored expression.

“If those men come back I need you to be very, very quiet, okay?”

The toddler nodded as Maranata quickly stood up to close the door with a key and close the blinds.

Everyone was going crazy over the spring festival so the school’s supervision was at an all time low.

Her fingers immediately dialed the one number that she could rely on.

Every beep from the line felt like a stab to her guts, the silence and suspense was killing what anxiety had left alive of her.

Then after excruciating minutes finally there was an answer.

“Good evening Miss Johansen, I am afraid that Magnus can’t come to the-”

“Ma’am…I need you to tell me something…” she interrupted the secretary with no repair, her voice still shaky and her eyes watery.

“I know miss, your friend’s firing, but we are afraid that Magnus…” the voice was getting lost on her.

“No, no, please. Just tell me one thing ma’am, nothing to do with that.”

A sight from the other side, reluctant agreement.

“Yes?”

“Did you sent someone for Jackie today?”

“Excuse me miss? Could you repeat yourself?”

“Did you sent someone to pick up Jackie today? S-some men came for her but I did not let her go because I did not know them…”

On the other side there was an immediate agitation, no further answer from the secretary as she could distinguish the sounds of several voices on the line.

Then, footsteps approached the door rapidly, her heart stopped at the possibility of the men coming back for her.

Must have been someone else because they did not bother stopping by.

“Mary? What happened?” Magnus’ voice brought her back to earth in the worst way possible.

“Magnus, listen to me, three tall men came asking for Jackie, they said you had sent them to pick her up but we don’t know them…”

“I am sending someone right away, don’t move, don’t let them get to her please.”

This was worse. It was either the shame of being paranoid in the best of cases, but now, turned out that her fears were confirmed.

Someone was after Jackie.

He did not answer immediately.

Instead, Goffredo reached into his coat with a kind of ceremony that did not belong to him—too deliberate, too careful—and placed the folded letter on the table between them.

Maranata did not touch it at first.

She looked at it the way one looks at something brought from far away—curious, measured, already anticipating its weight.

“You look like a man bringing evidence,” she said lightly.

“Worse,” he replied. “A question.”

That made her glance up.

“From you?” she asked. “Now I am concerned.”

He exhaled through his nose, something between amusement and irritation.

“From one of my boys,” he said, nudging the letter slightly toward her. “And not a stupid one.”

That, more than anything, made her pick it up.

She unfolded it slowly, smoothing the page with the flat of her hand. Her eyes moved line by line, steady, unhurried. The room seemed to narrow around that quiet act—dust motes suspended in the late light, the faint scent of paper and polish lingering in the air.

Goffredo watched her read. She had some glasses on, even though she did not really need them for other than prolonged reading time.

They rested on the tip of her nose, her brows furrowing as she made sense of the words in the paper.

To think this could have been his daily view.

To think that this would have been a common occurence before sleeping other than a ceremony that he had to carefully plan.

This was meant to be their life together, reading letters, correcting essays, teaching together.

Instead, now they only bark at eachother and then stay still for days.

Not impatiently. Not quite.

When she finished, she did not speak at once.

She folded the page again, precisely along its original crease, and set it down.

“Well,” she said at last. “He’s not wrong to ask.”

Goffredo’s mouth twitched.

“I know,” he said. “This is why it is annoying.”

She almost smiled.

“He’s careful,” she added. “That makes him dangerous.”

“Sixteen,” Goffredo muttered. “And already writing like he is publishing a paper.”

“That’s not the worst thing he could be doing at sixteen.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it is more work for me.”

She laughed.

“It is.”

“So…what do you think?” he asked in his characteristic thick accent.

“I think…that you have created an ambience comfortable enough for your students to feel like they can reach out to you…” she said with a smile she was clearly teasing him.

He smelt it, and tilted his head “italianly” as she once had put it.

Goffredo did not have to say a word, he just approached her table, leaned in and stared onto her eyes, way too close.

“Is that so?” he whispered to her, teasing back.

She took his jaw in a hand and squeezed.

“Yes, that’s so.”

He smiled and sat by her side.

“Compelling child that you have…but I do wonder, mio caro, what has this child of yours been consuming for him to come out for these questions, maybe if we knew the source material for this ideas we could actually tackle the root, and not just trim the barks.”

“…barks?”

“Is another word for branches.” she clarified, fruitless since he still looked at her like she invented words.

Blank stare.

“The arms of the trees, Goffredo.”

“Ah…”

“Look, let’s break it down, okay? He clearly has his head all over the place and the questions overlap.”

She takes out her notebook. He leans resting his arms on the desk, getting as close as he can to her.

“Benne.”

Everything after blurred.

Police.

Sirens.

Reporters.

Magnus.

The law.

The principal, pale with humiliation.

A kidnapping attempt.

Not just any child.

The niece of a Texas senator—Randall Paxton.

Maranata’s voice repeated the same story again and again, each time to a different face, a different microphone, a different urgency.

Cameras wanted her.

Questions clawed at her.

But her thoughts drifted elsewhere.

To Jackie.

Small. Bright. Unaware.

How does a child hold something like this?

Then suddenly—

Nothing.

Silence.

Like the ocean swallowing sound.

The reception couch dipped beside her.

“Miss Johannsen… thank you.”

She turned.

Magnus.

His blue eyes met hers, but the shine in them had dulled.

She nodded once.

“Is Jackie okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. She is.” His voice softened. “She don’t quite understand what happened yet. We’ll… we’ll talk to her when we get home.”

A pause.

The fan hummed overhead.

“Look,” he said, quieter now, worn down to something more human, “I mean it this time. If you ever need somethin’—you call me.”

Maranata exhaled slowly.

Now.

“Were you able to check my friend’s case?”

Magnus nodded, but his gaze shifted away.

“Yeah. I did.”

Nothing more.

“…And?”

“And,” he said, straightening slightly, something of the politician settling back into his posture, “I’m sorry, Miss Johannsen. I don’t rightly see what you expect me to do about it.”

Her body turned toward him sharply.

“That’s it?” Her voice rose. “That’s all you have to say?”

“Mary,” he said, firm but controlled, “you want me to march into the Department of Education and tell ‘em not to fire him?”

“Yes! Or help me relocate him—find him another job! This is his life, Magnus. It’s not fair, and you know it.”

Magnus’ jaw tightened.

He did not agree.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she pressed. “Don’t tell me you think he deserves it.”

“I don’t see why he ought to stay,” he replied, voice steady now.

“Because he has done nothing wrong! He is an outstanding worker.”

“Mary,” he said, slower now, heavier, “I’ve read his file. I spoke to his superiors—”

“And you believed them?” she snapped. “The same people trying to get rid of him?”

Magnus’ gaze hardened.

“No reason?” he repeated quietly. “You really gonna stand there and say that with a straight face?”

She held his stare.

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping.

“That friend of yours is a homosexual,” he said plainly. “You know it full well. And you’re askin’ me to pretend that don’t matter.”

The air between them shifted.

“These comparisons usually come from a handful of sources,” she began. “Not hundreds. The same few get repeated.”

He watched her, attentive now—not defensive, but aware he was stepping into her territory.

He shifted closer without announcing it. Not enough to interrupt—just enough that his shoulder nearly brushed hers when he leaned in to see the page.

“First,” she said, “Mesopotamian flood narratives.”

He nodded vaguely, though his body had already angled toward her, attention divided between the explanation and the quiet permission of proximity.

“Yes. The famous one.”

She gave him a look.

“There are several,” she corrected gently. “But the most cited is the Epic of Gilgamesh.”

Blank stare.

“Goffredo.”

“I have heard the name,” he said, slightly defensive. “Do not look at me like this.”

She almost smiled.

“It includes a flood story,” she explained. “A man warned by a god, instructed to build a vessel, survives a divine catastrophe.”

He leaned in a little more—not just to see, not entirely.

“And this comes before Genesis?”

“Yes. By centuries.”

He frowned—not disturbed, but thinking. His arm slid onto the table beside hers, close enough now that their sleeves brushed when she moved.

“So this is what the boy sees,” he said. “Flood here, flood there—so one must come from the other.”

“Exactly.”

“And you say this is… parallel, not dependence.”

“I say it could be either,” she corrected. “But similarity alone doesn’t prove direction.”

He nodded slowly.

“Good,” he said. “We keep it open, but not naïve.”

She continued.

“Then there are the so-called ‘dying and rising gods.’”

Goffredo made a small, skeptical sound, though his posture softened, his weight beginning to lean—not away, not even beside, but toward her.

“Yes, this one I have heard. Always very dramatic.”

She ignored the tone.

“Figures like Osiris in Egypt,” she said. “Sometimes Mithras is mentioned, though that comparison is… weak.”

“Weak?” he echoed.

“Very,” she said. “Most of what people claim about Mithras—birth narratives, resurrection parallels—is either exaggerated or simply incorrect.”

He let out a short breath of approval, but instead of straightening, he stayed there—close, listening, almost quiet now.

“Ah,” he said. “So not all of this is serious scholarship.”

“Much of it isn’t,” she replied. “Especially when it’s simplified.”

She leaned slightly closer to the notebook, her voice more precise now.

“With Osiris, for example, you do have a death and restoration motif. But it’s cyclical. Symbolic. Tied to agricultural patterns, the Nile, fertility.”

Goffredo listened, brow slightly furrowed—but now his shoulder rested fully against hers. Not accidental anymore. Not quite deliberate either. Just… there.

“So not… historical,” he said.

“Not in the way Christianity claims,” she answered. “It’s mythic structure, not a claim about a singular event in time.”

He nodded once.

“This is important,” he said.

“It is.”

A brief pause.

Then she added:

“There’s also Zoroastrianism.”

He blinked.

“Now you are just inventing words.”

She exhaled, half amused.

“Persian religion,” she clarified. “Pre-Christian. It introduces ideas like final judgment, dualism—good versus evil, light versus darkness.”

He leaned back slightly—only to reposition, closer again, as if distance had become uncomfortable without him noticing.

“And this influences Christianity?”

“It may have influenced the Jewish thought-world during the exile,” she said carefully. “Which then informs the context in which Christianity emerges.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

“So… indirect influence.”

“Possibly,” she said. “But again—context is not corruption.”

He repeated it quietly.

“Context is not corruption.”

She nodded.

“Exactly.”

Goffredo rested his chin briefly against his knuckles, studying the page—then, almost absentmindedly, let his weight drift further.

It happened slowly.

His shoulder pressed more firmly into hers. His head tilted—hesitated—then came to rest, light at first, against the curve of her shoulder.

Maranata did not stop speaking.

“So the boy,” he said slowly, voice softer now, closer to her ear than before, “collects all of this… puts it together…”

“And concludes that Christianity is assembled from parts,” she finished.

He scoffed lightly, though the sound came muffled now, against her.

“Like a machine,” he said.

“Or a collage,” she replied.

He shook his head, just slightly, the movement brushing against her.

“No,” he said. “This is too simple.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “That’s the problem.”

Silence settled again—but this time it carried something else entirely.

Goffredo did not move away.

Instead, his arm shifted—hesitant, uncertain—and came around her side, not fully embracing, not quite holding. Just… there. As if he had forgotten himself.

Maranata’s pen slowed.

She stared at the page a moment longer than necessary.

Then—

“Gio…” she murmured, low, careful.

He didn’t lift his head.

“Why do we fight so much?” he asked quietly. “I miss you when we are not like this…”

The words did not belong to the argument. They slipped through it, fragile and unguarded.

Maranata closed her eyes for a brief second.

Then she exhaled, soft.

“Me too…” she said. “I miss you.”

“Then why we fight?”

“Because you are dumb.” she tried to joke but his eyes were too teary for that.

He leaned and kissed the bridge of her nose.

“I am dumb…?”

She nodded hesitantly with his forehead against hers.

“Very.”

“I told you I killed a man, you did not believe me.”

That’s when the curse broke, she stood up.

“Gio not now, even if you did it — which I don’t believe — what makes you think that I am mean to know about it? You are putting me at risk just for telling me!”

“’Confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed’ it is James five sixteen Maranata. Your protestant heretical beliefs took away the beauty of confessional, the accountability that comes from telling your sins, exposing yourself raw.”

“You see that is why we fight. You cannot see past our differences and refuse to acknowdlege the things that bring us together.”

“Our differences are a bit too big to ignore ain’t they? Our differences are not ‘you like coffee with milk, I like without’ Maranata, we are dragging centuries of theological differences! And that is generous considering that your church barely has any sort of it.”

She did not respond, just exhaled softly and leaned onto her hands.

He kept ranting but the noise came blurred to her, she rubbed her eyes as his voice became a muted sound.

After some minutes Goffredo finally realized that she was not paying attention to him, so he decided to intervene physically, he put a hand on her shoulder which she moved abruptly.

“What will I do with you…”

Silence, she was irritated, starved and nearly exhausted.

“Are you using my help or not?”

“…there is no way that you believe me…is it?”

Maranata blinked twice as she looked at the notebook with scribbles.

“Alright. I’ll believe you. Who did you kill?”

The meeting resumed at the break of dawn.

The first pale light of morning filtered through the blinds, cutting the office into long, quiet stripes.

Magnus was already there.

Seated behind his desk.

Waiting.

His fingers tapped steadily against the polished mahogany — not impatient, not nervous, but measured, like a man accustomed to time bending around him.

“Johannsen,” he said without looking up at first, “go on and have yourself a seat.”

She did.

“Good morning, Magnus.”

“Morning, ma’am.”

A pause.

A breath.

“Alright,” he sighed, leaning back slightly, rubbing his jaw as if the night had not granted him much rest. “I took another look at the records.”

He opened a drawer and pulled out several folders, placing them neatly in front of her.

“Elton Kaplan,” he began, voice even, professional. “Curriculum design, Department of Education. Thirty years old. Born into a Jewish family up in New Jersey. Moved down here ‘round middle school age.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I met him in college.”

Magnus nodded once.

“Well… your friend’s got himself a decent background. Solid. Not exceptional, but solid.”

Her hands tightened over the fabric of her skirt.

“He’s been workin’ with the department since before he even graduated,” Magnus continued, flipping a page. “And on paper? His record’s clean. Real clean.”

He paused.

Then closed the folder with a deliberate motion.

“But,” he added, quieter now, “we can’t ignore his… situation.”

Maranata’s voice sharpened.

“The situation of being fired without cause? Denied severance, denied recommendations, effectively blacklisted from future employment?”

Magnus exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Well now,” he said, leaning forward, forearms resting on the desk, “that’s one way of tellin’ it.”

He met her eyes.

“But truth is, Mary… your friend put himself in a mighty difficult position.”

Her jaw tightened.

“He did his job,” she said.

Magnus tilted his head slightly.

“He did more than that,” he replied. “He made himself visible.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then, more firmly:

“I spoke with his supervisor. And I didn’t go in there blind, neither. I know how these departments operate. I know what they tolerate, and I know what they don’t.”

He tapped the folder lightly.

“And in this state — in this climate — with my brother sittin’ in that Senate seat and half the legislature watchin’ every move we make…” he let the sentence hang for a moment, letting its weight settle, “you don’t get the luxury of pretendin’ these things don’t matter.”

Maranata leaned forward.

“So that’s it?” she asked quietly. “Optics?”

Magnus’ expression hardened just a fraction.

“Optics,” he repeated, “is another word for responsibility.”

Her breath caught, but she did not interrupt.

“You’re askin’ me to step in,” he continued, voice low but steady, “to lean on a state department, to make calls, to shift things around… for a man whose situation—whether you like it or not—is exactly the kind of thing folks out there are watchin’ for.”

He gestured vaguely outward, toward a world beyond the office walls.

“Parents. Churches. Voters.”

He leaned closer.

“My name don’t just belong to me, Mary. It’s tied to my family, to my brother, to the people who put him where he is. Every move I make reflects on that.”

Maranata did not look away.

“So you’re going to let them destroy him,” she said.

Magnus shook his head slowly.

“Ain’t about destroyin’ anyone.”

“Then what is it about?”

He held her gaze.

“It’s about understandin’ the cost of standin’ where you’re standin’,” he said. “And your friend… he chose not to be careful.”

The folder disappeared back into the drawer with a soft, final sound.

For a moment neither of them spoke.

Magnus did not return to his papers. He stayed where he was, hands resting on the desk, eyes fixed somewhere just past her—as if weighing whether to leave things where they stood or to step further into them.

He chose the latter.

“Mary,” he said, quieter now, less official, more man than office, “you and I both know this ain’t just about paperwork.”

She didn’t answer.

He leaned back slightly, studying her.

“You’re a believer,” he continued. “Raised in the Word. You’ve read it, studied it deeper than most folks I know. So I’m gonna ask you plain.”

His gaze settled fully on her now.

“What do you think Scripture says about this?”

Maranata swallowed.

Her hands folded over each other, tight.

“It is clear,” she said at last, voice steady but low. “The Bible does not affirm it.”

Magnus nodded once.

“That’s right.”

Silence stretched again, but this one was different—heavier, more intimate.

“And yet,” he went on, “you’re sittin’ here askin’ me to step in and protect a man who’s livin’ openly in contradiction to that.”

Her eyes flickered.

“I am asking you to protect a man who has done his job,” she corrected softly.

Magnus shook his head, not harshly, but firmly.

“That’s where you and I part ways on this, Mary.”

He leaned forward again, elbows on his knees now, voice lowering.

“In your mind, you can separate the two. His work on one side, his life on the other.” A small pause. “But for a whole lot of people in this state, that ain’t how it works.”

“He is not harming anyone,” she insisted.

Magnus’ jaw tightened slightly.

“That’s not the measure folks are usin’,” he replied. “The measure is obedience.”

The word settled between them like something placed carefully on a table.

Maranata looked down for a moment, then back at him.

“And what about mercy?” she asked.

Magnus’ expression shifted—just slightly.

“Mercy don’t mean callin’ something right when it ain’t,” he said.

“I did not say that.”

“But that’s how it ends up lookin’,” he answered. “Out there,” he added, gesturing vaguely, “people don’t see nuance. They see endorsement.”

Her voice softened.

“I am not endorsing anything. I am trying to keep someone from being crushed.”

Magnus held her gaze.

“And I’m tellin’ you,” he said quietly, “that if I step in, that’s exactly how it’s gonna be read. Not just by strangers. By churches. By families. By the same folks that trust me—and my brother—to stand firm on these matters.”

He paused.

“This ain’t just your friend’s situation. It becomes mine the moment I touch it.”

Maranata’s fingers trembled slightly against her skirt.

“He does not deserve this,” she said.

Magnus sighed, long and low, rubbing his hands together.

“Deserve’s a hard word, Mary.”

Then, after a beat:

“You ever read where it says we all fall short?” he asked.

She nodded faintly.

“Of course.”

“Then you know none of us stand where we stand ‘cause we earned it.”

His voice softened, but it did not yield.

“But there’s a difference between fallin’… and plantin’ your feet somewhere the Word calls sin and refusin’ to move.”

Maranata closed her eyes briefly.

“He is not defiant,” she said. “He is… he is trying to live.”

Magnus’ gaze lingered on her, something almost sympathetic flickering through—but it did not last.

“Ain’t we all,” he murmured.

The room grew quiet again.

“I’m not askin’ you to change what you believe,” she said after a moment. “I am asking you to act justly despite it.”

Magnus shook his head slowly.

“For me, those two things ain’t separate.”

Her breath caught.

“So that’s it,” she whispered.

Magnus didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he stood up, walking around the desk slowly, not looming, but closer now—closer than a politician needed to be.

“Mary,” he said, voice low, steady, unmistakably certain, “you’ve got a good heart. Truly. And I respect that about you.”

It sounded almost like regret.

“But you’re tryin’ to carry somethin’ that ain’t yours to carry.”

Her eyes lifted to meet his.

“He is my friend.”

“And that matters,” Magnus said. “It does.”

A pause.

“But it don’t change what this is.”

Silence settled one last time.

He stepped back, putting distance between them again—not just physical, but final.

“I ain’t gonna intervene,” he said.

Maranata drew in a breath, steadying herself.

“Magnus… I hate to play this card,” she said at last, voice calm but firm, “but you owe me. You said it yourself.”

Magnus’ posture straightened almost imperceptibly.

“I kept Jackie safe,” she continued. “Three men—twice my size—walked into my classroom, asked for your girl, raised their voices at me. I stood there alone.”

“And I thank you for your—”

She lifted her hand.

Not sharp. Not rude.

Just enough to stop him.

“No. That was nothing, truly,” she said, almost dismissive. “But do you know how many television stations would give anything to hear what really happened in that room? How many have been calling me? Calling my family?” A small pause. “They’ve been… very generous.”

Magnus’ expression shifted.

Subtly.

“I’d appreciate your discretion on the matter,” he said, voice lower now, more careful. “For me, for my family. My brother—he’s in a delicate position right now. The last thing we need is… competing versions of that story making their rounds.”

Maranata nodded, watching him.

He wasn’t finished.

“…and about those offers,” he added, after a beat, “whatever number they’ve put in front of you—I can match it. Double it, if that’s what it takes.”

She shook her head immediately.

“No, Magnus. Friends don’t charge each other.” A faint, almost tired smile. “And that is what we are, isn’t it? I had no intention of selling anything before. I certainly don’t now.”

“Yes,” he said quickly, seizing the word. “Yes, we are. And I’d like to keep it that way, despite our… differences.”

“Of course.”

She remained standing.

He remained seated.

Neither moved to end the meeting.

The clock ticked on the wall—slow, relentless, indifferent.

Magnus glanced at it once.

Then back at her.

She did not look away.

She waited.

He knew it.

A long breath left him, heavier this time.

“…Alright,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw, the politician slipping just a fraction. “I’ll see what I can do, Mary.”

She tilted her head.

“What can you do, Magnus?”

He looked at her then—really looked this time, as if measuring how much ground he was willing to give.

“I can’t keep him in that position,” he said plainly. “That’s not on the table.”

She said nothing.

“But,” he continued, slower now, “I can make sure he walks out with his head held high.”

A pause.

“I can have his full severance honored. Every dollar of it.”

Another.

“I can make sure the official reason for his departure doesn’t follow him around like a stain.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her bag.

“And I can write him a recommendation letter myself,” Magnus added. “Not a formality. A strong one. One that’ll open doors instead of closin’ ‘em.”

Silence.

“I’ll make calls,” he said. “Quiet ones. Places that’ll take him without askin’ too many questions.”

Maranata’s gaze softened just a fraction.

It wasn’t justice.

But it was something.

Magnus leaned back, exhaling.

“That’s as far as I can go.”

The words landed with the weight of a boundary carefully drawn.

She studied him for a moment longer.

Then nodded.

“…Alright.”

“Thank you, brother in Christ.”

She turned, ready to leave, ready to let that be the end of it.

“But—”

His voice cut in before she could take a step.

“This leaves us uneven.”

Maranata turned back sharply, something already rising in her chest, ready to push, to argue, to refuse—

But Magnus was already standing.

“No, no,” he said quickly, lifting a hand, stepping around the desk toward her. His tone softened, almost placating, but there was calculation beneath it. “Don’t take it that way.”

He stopped a few steps from her, close enough now that this was no longer a conversation across furniture, but between two people standing on the same ground.

“It does leave us uneven, Mary,” he continued, quieter, more deliberate. “What I’m doin’ for your friend… that’s not small. And if it ever sees daylight the wrong way…” he gave a faint, humorless breath, “well, let’s just say it ain’t exactly the kind of story my brother needs floatin’ around right now.”

Her expression tightened.

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“I know,” he said, cutting gently but firmly. “I know you didn’t.”

A pause.

Then, smoother now:

“Which is why I’d like to even things out proper.”

She watched him, wary.

Magnus adjusted his cuff, casual on the surface, intentional underneath.

“Got a gala tonight,” he said. “Donors, press, a handful of folks who like to feel important.” A small smile tugged at his mouth. “You know the type.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“Come with me.”

Maranata didn’t answer immediately.

“Be my guest,” he added, voice dipping just enough to make it sound like an offer rather than a request. “My plus one, there I will tell you what I really need from you.”

She smiled politely putting up the church girl act.

“Can’t it be here and now?”

“It would kill the suspense, would it not? Don’t feel like I am trapping you, consider it a Queen Esther going to her husband to invite him for a banquet.”

“…okay…I will see you there.”

“Great. I will have my chaffeur pick you up.”

Maranata did not look up from the page.

“It is not fine,” she said, though there was no sharpness left in it—only fatigue, threaded with stubbornness. “We’re circling the same formulations. It’s not landing.”

Behind her, Goffredo did not withdraw.

His arms remained loosely around her, more presence than restraint, his chin hovering just above her head as if he had decided that proximity itself was an argument.

“You think too much about landing,” he murmured. “He is sixteen, not a conference.”

She turned a page, slower this time.

“He’s not asking like a sixteen-year-old,” she replied. “If we answer him like one, he’ll notice.”

Goffredo hummed softly, not quite disagreeing.

Another kiss, absentminded, to her hair.

Maranata closed the book.

The sound of it—firm, final—cut through the quiet.

“Then we change strategy,” she said.

He stilled, just slightly.

“How?”

She leaned back just enough that his arms shifted with her, her head almost brushing his shoulder now instead of the other way around.

“We stop trying to defend everything,” she said. “And we define what can actually be defended.”

Goffredo tilted his head, listening more carefully now.

“Archaeology,” she continued. “We’ve been treating it like an accessory argument. It’s not.”

He exhaled softly.

“Finally,” he said. “Something solid.”

She reached for another book, flipping it open with practiced ease.

“Not solid in the way you want,” she corrected. “But solid enough.”

He smiled faintly at that, though she couldn’t see it.

“Go on, dottoressa.”

She traced a line with her finger.

“We need to make a distinction he’s not making,” she said. “Archaeology does not prove theological claims.”

Goffredo nodded immediately, his voice lower now, steadier.

“Yes. Good. This is where people make fools of themselves.”

“But,” she added, lifting her gaze slightly, “it does confirm historical context with remarkable consistency.”

He leaned in a fraction closer.

“Examples,” he said.

She turned the book slightly so he could see, though she knew he wasn’t really reading.

“Take Assyrian records,” she said. “Sennacherib’s campaign against Judah is documented outside the Bible.”

He frowned faintly, concentrating.

“The siege?” he asked.

“Yes. The prism inscriptions.” She tapped the page. “They describe his victories, his dominance—everything except the fall of Jerusalem, which the biblical account also presents as… complicated.”

Goffredo let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“So both sources align,” he said slowly, “but not perfectly.”

“Exactly,” she replied. “Which is what you expect from independent records, not coordinated fiction.”

He nodded once, sharper now.

“Good,” he said. “Very good.”

She continued.

“Or the existence of Pontius Pilate,” she added. “Confirmed by Roman inscriptions. Crucifixion practices—well documented. The political structure of Judea under Roman governance—consistent across sources.”

Goffredo’s arms tightened just slightly—not possessive, not quite—but attentive.

“So the Gospels,” he said, “are not inventing a world.”

“No,” she said. “They’re operating within a verifiable one.”

He rested his chin lightly against her head again.

“This is what he needs to understand,” he murmured. “The text is not floating.”

“It’s embedded,” she said.

He smiled faintly.

“Yes. Embedded. Better word.”

She flipped another page, her movements slower now, less strained.

“And then there’s textual transmission,” she added. “Thousands of manuscripts, across regions, languages. Variants, yes—but traceable ones.”

Goffredo made a small sound of approval.

“Not chaos,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “Controlled variation within a stable tradition.”

He went quiet for a moment.

Not disengaged—thinking.

Then:

“So what do we tell him?” he asked. “Simply that archaeology supports the Bible?”

Maranata shook her head.

“No,” she said. “That would be dishonest.”

He frowned slightly.

“Explain.”

She turned in the chair just enough to look at him—really look at him.

“We tell him that archaeology supports the world of the Bible,” she said. “Its settings, its actors, its cultural framework.”

“And the rest?” he asked.

She held his gaze.

“The rest,” she said quietly, “is a different kind of claim.”

He studied her face, searching.

“Faith,” he said.

“Not blind faith,” she corrected. “But not empirically demonstrable either.”

He let that sit.

For once, he didn’t rush to sharpen it, didn’t try to push it further.

Instead, his hand shifted—resting more securely at her side, grounding rather than claiming.

“So we separate the categories,” he said slowly.

“Yes.”

“History…” he began.

“…and theology,” she finished.

A silence followed.

Not tense.

Not easy either.

Something in between—honest, perhaps.

Goffredo exhaled, softer now.

“You see?” he murmured against her hair. “This is not useless.”

Maranata let her head rest back just slightly, not quite leaning into him—but not pulling away.

“It’s getting there,” she admitted.

The pages turned again.

Not with urgency now, but with that quiet persistence Maranata had when she refused to abandon a line of thought simply because it had grown difficult. Her pen moved, paused, crossed something out, began again.

Behind her, Goffredo had gone still for a while.

Too still.

It never lasted.

“There is another thing,” he said at last, voice returning with that familiar edge—thoughtful, but already leaning toward dispute. “This idea that the word ‘homosexual’ was never in the Bible.”

Maranata did not look up.

“Mhm.”

“They say it is modern,” he continued, shifting slightly behind her, his chin brushing her temple as he spoke. “That it was added later, mistranslated, manipulated.”

Her pen kept moving.

“It’s a popular claim,” she said, neutral.

“It is a bad claim,” he replied, sharper now. “Linguistically, it does not hold. The Greek terms—arsenokoitai, malakoi—they are not… ambiguous in the way people pretend.”

She paused only to dip the pen again.

“They are debated,” she said.

He exhaled softly, a hint of impatience returning.

“Everything is debated if you want it to be,” he said. “But the semantic field is clear enough. It refers to men with men. This is not… invented in the twentieth century.”

Maranata underlined something on the page.

“I’m not arguing the lexical range right now,” she said.

“But people use this,” he pressed, voice tightening just slightly. “They build entire reconciliations on it. ‘It was never there, so it is not condemned.’ It is… convenient.”

She closed the book halfway, her fingers resting between the pages to hold her place.

“People get homosexuality wrong, Gio.”

That made him still.

“Is there a way to get it right?” he asked, almost too quickly. “It is sinful.”

She turned her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder.

“Isn’t that the point of all this?” she said quietly. “That we are sinful? Where sin abounded, grace did too.”

The words did not land softly.

They settled between them with weight.

Goffredo’s jaw tightened.

“Gay is a disease,” he said.

She turned fully now.

“No,” she said. “Gay is a sin—one that is treated differently than the ones we ourselves commit.”

His brow furrowed, something sharper surfacing.

“How is it treated differently?” he asked. “How are we meant to treat it, if not as something… disordered? Something to be corrected?”

There it was.

Not anger—yet.

But the beginning of it.

Maranata held his gaze, steady.

“As the woman Christ saved from stoning,” she said. “Caught in sexual sin.”

He did not interrupt.

“‘Get up,’” she continued softly. “‘Sin no more.’”

Silence.

“It sounds to me like you are resentful, Gio,” she said, not softly, not harshly—simply placing the thought where it could be seen. “Someone close to home came out of the closet and rocked your world the wrong way, I can’t see why you’d bring it up right now.”

His jaw clenched.

The reaction came first—instinctive, defensive—but it did not fully take shape. Because she was not looking at him like an accuser. There was no triumph in her voice, no quiet I’ve figured you out.

Only observation.

Only care, in its most inconvenient form.

“My nephew,” he said after a moment.

The words felt heavier than the argument.

Maranata didn’t move.

“Someone else knows?” she asked.

“No.” He shook his head quickly. “He came to my parish. Confession.” A pause. “My brother has no idea.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty four.”

She absorbed that quietly.

“Do you have plans on telling his family?”

Goffredo turned to her sharply.

“Of course not,” he said, almost offended. “I would never do that… they would kick him out.”

The certainty in his voice lingered.

Maranata tilted her head slightly.

“Why do you care whether they do that?”

He frowned, the question catching him off guard.

“He is a good boy,” he said, as if that explained everything. “He is just… confused. He does not know what he wants from the world and now he’s got those stupid ideas from college in his brain…”

His voice trailed, thinner at the edges.

Maranata watched him—not correcting, not interrupting.

“…do you consider that,” she asked carefully, “your views on homosexuality were different before he came out?”

That landed.

Not like an accusation.

Like a mirror.

Goffredo didn’t answer.

He stepped away from her instead, the absence of his weight immediate, almost abrupt. He walked toward the window, the faint reflection catching him—distorted by the glass, dimmed by the late hour.

For a moment, he only looked.

At himself.

At something he did not quite recognize.

“You don’t have to answer right now, Gio,” she said gently behind him. “Just know that Jesus dined with sinners, and urged us to do likewise. I am not milking any more information about you, but—”

“You?”

She blinked.

“…me?”

He turned, slowly.

“Do you have a homosexual in your life?” he asked. “Someone close.”

The question did not carry the same softness hers had.

But it wasn’t cruel either.

It was searching.

Maranata looked down.

Her notebook lay open, forgotten. The ink had dried mid-sentence. Her fingers rested against the margin, unmoving.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then her lips parted—closed—then parted again.

“Yes,” she said at last. “A… a very close person.”

The room shifted.

Goffredo’s gaze sharpened—not suspicious, not entirely—but alert.

“Family?”

“Yeah, you could say so.” That was not a lie. Not entirely.

He studied her, something careful behind his eyes.

“Do you love him or her?”

She inhaled.

“…sometimes it’s hard to…” Her voice faltered, just briefly. “I’ve… prayed a lot for this person.”

The words thinned before they could fully form. She felt them catch, somewhere between truth and restraint, somewhere she could not cross—not with him, not yet.

Silence followed.

Fragile. Tense.

And for once—rare, almost miraculous—Goffredo did not press.

He saw it.

The limit.

And he turned away from it.

“You got a letter?” he asked instead.

Maranata blinked, almost startled by the shift.

“Yeah… an old… acquaintance from Texas.”

She reached for the envelope and held it up, as if it might explain itself.

He took it from her hands without hesitation.

His eyes scanned the name.

Alex Taylor.

“Who is him?”

She hesitated.

“…Alex was… a pivotal character for my personal development.”

Something in him shifted instantly.

Quiet.

Sharp.

Possessive in a way he did not try to hide.

“Was he?”

Her eyes flickered, searching for a version of the truth that would not unravel everything.

“Yeah.”

He stepped closer.

“Did you like this Alex?”

A soft laugh escaped her, light but not careless.

“What am I to do with you, Gio…” she murmured, lifting a hand to his cheek. “You read me like I am scripture, don’t you?”

He leaned into her touch instinctively—resting there—but the tension did not leave him.

“So you like Alex.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Alex was my first love.”

She leaned closer, just enough to catch his eyes again, something playful flickering through the weight of everything unsaid.

“Are you jealous?”

“No,” he said immediately. “He could not have been more handsome than me.”

She smiled, wider now.

“Oh, I would not say that. At some point, every mother in Texas had a picture of Alex in their living room. You could say that my love was the standard for Southern beauty for quite a few years.”

Goffredo’s expression tightened—not anger, not quite—but something sharper.

“…do you still love this man.”

The question came quieter.

More dangerous.

Maranata’s smile faded—not completely, but enough.

“I…” She paused. “I am not sure.”

She looked down for a moment, then back at him.

“If it serves you something, we did kiss once. But… it was a stolen kiss.”

A beat.

“And I did not like it.”

Goffredo held her gaze.

Longer than before.

Searching—not for the words, but for what sat beneath them.

Then, slowly, he handed the letter back.

“Okay.”

She blinked.

“Okay?”

“You can write to this Alex.”

Her brows lifted.

“Oh, so now you’re giving me permission to write to whom?”

“Yes,” he said plainly. “You are my woman, forgot?”

The words landed—half jest, half claim.

“Tell Alex that he can get on his cowboy horse and ride away,” he continued, a faint edge of mockery in his tone, “kiss him goodbye and tell him that you have a more handsome man waiting for you at home.”

She tilted her head, amused.

“And when am I going to meet that man?”

The pinch came quick to her side.

She gasped, squirming, a startled laugh escaping her as she tried to pull away.

“Gio—!”

He laughed—openly now, the tension breaking just enough to let something lighter through.

“I have to leave,” he said, stepping back at last. “Ciao.”

“Ciao,” she replied.

He turned.

Walked away.

And just like that, the room felt larger again.

Quieter.

Maranata stood there for a moment, the letter still in her hands.

Then she looked down at it.

At the name.

At everything it carried.

And for the first time that evening—