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Morgan bent closer to the glass. What had looked like a finger was just another vial containing a sliver of bone, such a tiny relic for a place that loomed large over the religious history of the city.
She sighed as she straightened up, looking around the church for any other shrine. There was nothing. “I guess an easy ride was too much to hope for.”
They walked around to the museum behind the chapel on the edge of a peaceful rose garden leading to the cemetery beyond. Old pictures of the Mission over the years sat next to a Franciscan habit, original construction tools, and even a doll from one of the children who had been raised here.
Morgan thought back to the statue of Junípero Serra in Palma, Majorca, where the priest stood with his hand on the head of a Native American boy wea
