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I can be forgiven, I think, for my joy. Even for my ebullience, although I know I do a good job modulating it once we get back to St. Columba’s. I don’t plan on sauntering in and announcing that I’m no longer going to be a monk before striding off with Elijah over my shoulder like a kidnapped princess. No, I owe it to Abbot Jerome not to cause a scandal while on his dime. And I owe this conversation to him within a framework of respect and decorum—or as much decorum as I can summon up, given the circumstances.
But it still feels impossible not to hold Elijah’s hand, not to stare fondly at him, not to shadow him everywhere for the rest of the day, even when he goes to his cell to work. And during prayers, I just want to pull him into my lap and kiss his neck while he sings, I want
