His loins spent, Anna dismissed, Padre Antonio deliberately left his hands unwashed so that, at evening mass, between collect and acclamation, he might furtively enjoy that heavenly-hellish aroma which lingered so powerfully on his lips and fingers: sweet, pungent, rich as treacle.
“Corpo di Cristo.”
“Amen.”
Kneeling to receive, bewimpled Suor Angelica recognised that scent too – similar to her own, yet subtly different, awakening in her an unprecedented yet irresistible desire. And as she knelt in thanksgiving, her hand fumbled subconsciously under her habit for folds yet softer.
Now she too knew what she must do.
