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“Ah,” he says slowly, running his fingers over his jaw. “I suppose you’re right. I’m just so close to it that I’ve never noticed. Don’t tell me you’re about to become a woman of faith.”

“I’m not a woman of anything,” I say stiffly. “Just of free mind and free will.”

“And yet the other day, you were judging the very people who come here to worship.”

“I’m not saying I agree with what they are worshipping,” I explain. “It’s only that I can feel that they do. It’s not about God. It’s about desperation.”

Silence stretches between us, and I worry I’ve offended him, even though I want to offend him.

“I see,” he says carefully, rubbing his lips as he ponders my words. “You ought to be careful; your thoughts are bordering on blasphemous.”

“And why would I care?”

“Because you’re the one who just asked me how to pray.” He takes my arm again and leads me over to the front of the church, a raised area in front of the aisle. There are a few steps leading up to it and then a long table lit with candles, draped with white lace. Behind that, a large silver cross is mounted on the wall, various other crosses and portraits of people on either side with windows made from colorful glass.

“Here,” he says in a low voice, dropping down to his knees on the step and gesturing for me to do the same.

I pull up the hem of my skirt and attempt to kneel beside him, my movements awkward as I bend my knees in such a way, the green satin pooling around me like water. I watch everything he does—the way he places his hands together, palm-to-palm, fingers up, how he looks to the cross, the way he bows his head and rests the tips of his fingers on his forehead, closing his eyes.

“Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” he says in a low, rich voice, a quieter version of the one I’ve heard booming during mass. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven.”

He then falls silent, and I can’t help but hold my breath.

Finally, he opens his eyes and shoots me a shy glance. “You’re supposed to repeat after me.”

“Oh!” I exclaim softly. “My apologies. Can you repeat it?”

He shoots me a patient smile and then repeats the prayer over again, pausing at the end of each sentence for me to say it back.

“What happens after?” I ask.

“You can pray for specific things,” he says, glancing up at the cross. “Or you can leave it as it is, as long as there is meaning in each word, as long as you are seeking to make this prayer a bridge between you and God. You don’t just recite the words and not think about what they mean. That’s pointless. Might as be elsewhere.”

“So this is how you pray?”

He gives me a curious look. “Me in particular? No. It’s just how most people pray.”

“But I want to know how you pray.”

His blue eyes study me carefully, and I know I have to rein it in. “Curious thing, aren’t you? Wanting to know so much about the human world you despise.”

“I never said I despised it!”

“I believe you said you killed men not because they were tasty but because they deserved it. In your words, one less man is doing this world a favor. Now, perhaps I’m reading into this, but that doesn’t sound like you care all that much for mankind.”

My eyes narrow. “You’re a man—of course you wouldn’t understand what I mean. I can think men are the most dangerous creatures of all and not want to condemn all of humanity for their crimes.”

“Fair enough,” he says, splaying his palms in a show of acceptance.

“So what do you ask for when you pray?” I ask.

His chin jerks inward. “You can’t ask me that.”

“Why not?”

His mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words. “It’s personal.”

“Is it like a wish? If you tell someone, it doesn’t come true? We have that with the spinefish. Break off one of the spikes on their back and make a wish, but if you tell a soul, it will all be for naught.”