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passed before the value of contrition can be judged?’
    â€˜The intention to reform, made with an honest heart, is enough,’ Tristan replied, missing the trap that had been set, ‘or else the priest could not have the power of absolution, having himself no clear view of the future.’
    It was a rare mistake and the rector seized on it.
    â€˜It is not the priest who offers absolution, Tristan; he is nothing more than the agent of God. And God floats free from the constraints of time and so has little trouble measuring the depth of our resolve. We shall be judged not by our intentions, Tristan, but by our deeds. We reconcile not with our past, but with our future.’ The rector’s rose voice to grand heights, as if the judgment he was passing was not on the quality of Tristan’s argument, but the quality of his soul. ‘Tonight, you shall stay behind and complete your recitals.’
    Recital was the punishment reserved for the boy who had performed most poorly during the questioning and this was Tristan’s first time. The reciter was made to stand at the lectern and give lonely voice to whichever portion of The Holy Works the rector chose, while the other boys retired for the night. Sometimes the penance lasted no longer than it took the slowest boy to complete his ablutions. On other occasions Tristan had heard the boy stumbling into his bunk deep in the night, left to weave together what little sleep he could from the scraps before dawn.
    Tristan was left for nearly two hours and by the time the rector returned his voice was rubbing dry. The rector stood in the aisle, his face as unreadable as ever, and raised his hand, signalling to Tristan that he might stop. From his high vantage point Tristan noticed for the first time the perfect symmetry of the rector’s baldness, the scalp stretched tight and shiny across its bony skull.
    â€˜I have been looking at your folders, Tristan. You have a fine hand for illustration.’ The rector spoke gently.
    â€˜Thank you,’ Tristan mumbled, avoiding the rector’s eyes. He knew too well how easily the acknowledgment of a compliment could lapse into self-satisfaction. It was not beyond the rector to snare a boy in this way.
    â€˜I would like you to draw for me.’
    The rector turned without further explanation and it was only when he stopped halfway down the aisle and motioned with his hand that Tristan realised he was to follow.
    Tristan was thirteen and considered himself to be the better part of a man. He was proud of his learning, which he believed had trained him to dive deep beneath life’s surface. But his education had been as selective as it was demanding. Nothing he had heard or thought had prepared him for what he would find in the rector’s study.
    â€˜Come in, Tristan.’
    The rector beckoned with his oversized fingers. Tristan froze in the doorway, surprised beyond speech or movement.
    A girl huddled in the corner as a trapped animal might, her every fibre yearning to become insubstantial amongst the shadows. Tristan could not comprehend it. No female set foot inside the compound. This was the rule, as unflinching as the walls themselves. Even mothers were not permitted to visit. Augustine himself had taught that woman was temptation, the devil’s lever.
    But she was there, as real as the dark cool stone surrounding her. Tristan stared. For six years he had seen only boys and men. He couldn’t not stare. The girl’s dark brown eyes darted to the floor, stung by the sin of contact. Tristan remained paralysed, blushing and uncertain.
    He waited for the rector to speak again, for order to return, but the rector said nothing, in a way that made it clear that saying nothing was the rule tonight. This was to be an act without commentary, that on completion it might disappear.
    The rector pointed to his broad desk of dark mahogany. Laid out upon it was a sheet of the finest sketching paper and a