Page 14 of His Elder

"It’s an idiom, you idiot." Brown’s face was turning a blotchy red. "In Spain,mojar el churrodoesn't just mean dipping a pastry. It means... getting your wick wet. Having sex."

Moss froze. "No way."

"Yes way. The abuela at the market? You basically asked her if she wanted to get laid."

"I didn't askher," Moss defended, though his voice squeaked. "I asked if she helped her husbandmojar el churroevery morning."

Beside me, Vance made a sound like a strangled cough. I stared resolutely at the wall, willing my ears to stop burning, while Brown buried his face in his hands.

"She laughed," Moss muttered, looking horrified. "She laughed and gave me an extra one for free. I thought she was just being nice."

They dissolved into stifled laughter—Moss out of shock, Brown out of delight—the kind of easy, thoughtless mirth that hadn't touched my chest in months. Maybe longer. I watched them with something uncomfortable twisting beneath my sternum—not quite envy, not quite contempt. They'd been out for twenty-one months, both of them. Trunky as hell, counting down the days until their flights home, and utterly unconcerned with the fact that they were accidentally propositioning elderly women in the market.

Vance shifted beside me, and I caught the barest quirk at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. Just that infuriating hint that he found the whole spectacle amusing.

The door to the room swung open, and Elder Kemptonemerged like a general surveying troops who'd already failed inspection.

Twenty years old. Three months from release. Kempton wore his authority the way other missionaries wore their name tags—pinned directly over his heart, impossible to miss. His shirt had been ironed within an inch of its life, creases sharp enough to draw blood. Not a single dark hair out of place. His scriptures—leather-bound, gilded, annotated in colour-coded tabs—rested in the crook of his arm like holy writ handed down from Sinai.

He didn't sit. He stood behind the desk, hands clasped, and let the silence stretch until Moss and Brown's laughter died into nervous throat-clearing.

"Elders." His voice carried the flat, measured cadence of someone who'd practised this speech. Probably in the mirror. "Shall we begin with an opening hymn, or would you prefer to continue your discussion of fried dough?"

Brown's face went crimson. Moss studied his shoes.

"Hymn it is." Kempton's smile never reached his eyes. "Number 169. 'As I Have Loved You.' Brother Moss, if you'd be so kind as to conduct."

Moss stumbled to his feet, flapping his hand in an approximation of the proper three-four time while the rest of us mumbled through the verses. My voice cracked on the second line—With compassion and with caring, With patience and with love—and I focused instead on keeping my planner perfectly aligned with the edge of my chair. The hymn felt like indictment. Like every word had been specifically chosen to remind me how thoroughly I was failing.

I tried to focus on the hymnbook, on the notes and the lyrics about love and patience. But Eli was too close.

The metal legs of our chairs were touching. Every time he shifted his weight, the movement vibrated through the frameand into my own leg. He wasn't singing, just mouthing the words with a bored, lidded expression, but I could hear his breathing.

I stared at his hands resting on his knees. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms that were dusted with dark hair and veined with ink stains from his morning sketching. I had a sudden, violent urge to reach out and touch the pulse point on his wrist, just to see if it was racing as fast as mine.

Stop it,I commanded myself, gripping the hymnbook so tight the cover bent.Look at Kempton. Look at the Saviour on the wall. Look anywhere but at him.

"Brother Vance." Kempton's tone could've frozen Barcelona harbour. "Perhaps you'll offer our opening prayer."

Beside me, Vance went still. Not the stillness of reverence—the stillness of a fox that had just spotted the hounds.

"Sure." He rose with deliberate slowness, folded his arms, bowed his head. "Dear Heavenly Father, we're grateful to be here this morning. We ask thee to bless this meeting, that we might feel thy Spirit and, uh, remember why we're doing this. Help us to teach with sincerity and—"

"Withpower," Kempton interrupted, eyes still closed. "We teach withpowerand authority, Elder Vance. Not sincerity. We hold the priesthood."

Vance's jaw tightened. I watched the muscle jump beneath his skin, watched him swallow whatever response had clawed its way up his throat.

"—with power," he continued, voice flat. "In the name of Jesus Christ, amen."

"Amen." Kempton opened his eyes, already flipping through a leather notebook that probably contained a ranked list of our collective inadequacies. "Thank you, Elder Vance.Though in future, I'd appreciate prayers that reflect a proper understanding of our sacred calling."

He let that hang in the air—poisonous, pointed—before turning to me.

"Elder Price." The shift in his tone was immediate. Warmth flooded in where ice had been. "I understand your area has seen remarkable progress. President Dalton mentioned the Moreno family is preparing for baptism?"

My throat went dry. "We're, uh, we're working with them. Sister Moreno has expressed interest in attending church this Sunday."

"Outstanding." Kempton actually smiled, the expression transforming his angular face into something almost approachable. "That's the kind of dedication we need from our district. You've been out, what, fourteen months now?"