The mist had settled low on Kensington Gardens as Silas limped into a quiet hollow out of sight.
Kneeling on the wet grass, he could feel a warm stream of blood flowing from the bullet woundbelow his ribs. Still, he stared straight ahead.
The fog made it look like heaven here.
Raising his bloody hands to pray, he watched the raindrops caress his fingers, turning them whiteagain. As the droplets fell harder across his back and shoulders, he could feel his body disappearingbit by bit into the mist.
I am a ghost.
A breeze rustled past him, carrying the damp, earthy scent of new life. With every living cell in hisbroken body, Silas prayed. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed for mercy. And, above all, heprayed for his mentor... Bishop Aringarosa... that the Lord would not take him before his time. Hehas so much work left to do.
The fog was swirling around him now, and Silas felt so light that he was sure the wisps wouldcarry him away. Closing his eyes, he said a final prayer.
From somewhere in the mist, the voice of Manuel Aringarosa whispered to him.
Our Lord is a good and merciful God.
Silas's pain at last began to fade, and he knew the bishop was right.
