Page 15 of His Elder

"Fifteen."

"Fifteen months of faithful service. Zero early transfers. Exemplary companionship with Elder Hoffman before his release." He glanced meaningfully at Vance. "President Dalton chose your placement carefully, Elder Price. Your influence is desperately needed."

The compliment should have felt good. Should have settled warm in my chest, confirmation that I was doing what Father expected, what the Lord required. Instead, it sat like a stone in my stomach, heavy and cold. Because Kempton wasn't praising me. He was using me as a cudgel to beat Vance with.

Vance had gone perfectly expressionless. That careful, practiced neutrality I'd seen him deploy against President Dalton, against the Catalan grandmothers who'd slammed doors in our faces, against me when I'd pushed too hard about companion study. He stared at the wall, breathing slow and even.

"Which brings me," Kempton continued, setting down hisnotebook with theatrical precision, "to a matter of some concern."

Here it comes, I thought. My fingers tightened around my pen.

"I've been reviewing the district's statistics, and I'm troubled by what I'm seeing. Or rather, what I'mnotseeing." He turned his attention to Moss and Brown, who'd somehow managed to slouch even further in their seats. "Elders, your teaching numbers have been abysmal. Three lessons in the past week? Three?"

"We had to travel for—" Brown started.

"Excuses." Kempton's voice cracked like a whip. "You had to travel for zone conference, which consumed exactly four hours of one day. That leaves you with, what, a hundred and twenty-five remaining hours of your week? And you managed three lessons."

Moss opened his mouth, closed it. Shrugged.

"This is yourmission," Kempton said, leaning forward, palms flat on the desk. "Not a Mediterranean vacation. Not a chance to sample every pastry between here and Tarragona. This is the Lord's work, and you've been called to consecrate your time and talents to building His kingdom. Do you understand that?"

"Yeah," Moss muttered. "Yes, Elder."

"I sincerely hope so." Kempton straightened, adjusting his tie. "Because the Saviour didn't die on the cross so you could spend your mornings hunting downchurros con chocolateinstead of searching for His lost sheep."

Brown's ears had gone scarlet. Beside me, Vance made a sound—tiny, aborted—that might have been a laugh dying in his throat.

Kempton's gaze snapped to him. "Something amusing, Elder Vance?"

"No." Vance's face remained carefully blank. "Nothing."

"Because I'm glad you're entertained." Kempton picked up his notebook again, flipped through pages with sharp, angry movements. "Given that your own statistics are equally concerning. Five discussions this week—better than our slacker companions here, I'll grant you that—but your baptismal goals remain at zero. No potential dates. No investigators progressing toward the font."

"We're working with—"

"ElderPriceis working with the Moreno family," Kempton cut him off. "You've been in the area for one week, Elder Vance. One week, and already I'm hearing reports that concern me."

My stomach dropped. Reports. From whom? We'd barely interacted with anyone outside our companionship except—

Except Maria.

"I received a call from Elder Torres yesterday," Kempton said, confirming my fears. "He mentioned running into you and Elder Price at Parc de la Ciutadella. Said you were sitting alone. Sketching."

Vance said nothing. His knuckles had gone white where his hands gripped his knees.

"That's not accurate," I heard myself say. The words came out stronger than I felt. "Elder Vance was street contacting. We'd split up to cover more ground."

Kempton's eyebrows rose. "Is that so."

"Yes." The lie tasted like ash, but I forced it out anyway. "He was sitting near the fountain because it's a high-traffic area. Good visibility for approaching people."

"And the sketching?"

"A conversation starter." Another lie, smoother now. Father had always said I was good at thinking on my feet during business negotiations. Apparently, that skill translated. "Elder Vance is an artist. It's an effective way to build rapport with locals."

For the first time since the meeting started, Kempton looked uncertain. His gaze flicked between us, searching for the crack in our unified front.

"I see." He set the notebook down slowly. "And did this, uh,artistic street contactingresult in any teaching opportunities?"