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a desire for it and a fear of being without it. The very strange thing—another of those powerful and strange things, you see —is that I did not lose my faith — I achieved it. Abandoning my pose of knowing God, I came to truly know Him. So I believe, anyway.”
    “Then perhaps you can tell me where He is in all of this?” Adrienne asked. “His THE SHADOWS OF GOD
    angels are loose in the world without any governor, and it is impossible to distinguish between those angels fallen and those still in grace — if there ever was a distinction. Monstrous things tear at His creation, destroy His beauty, and war is everywhere. I cannot see God. Where is He?”
    For an angry instant she thought Castillion’s answering gaze contained pity, and so she nearly told him to go to hell, if he still believed in it. But then she realized that his eyes reflected something more complex, with no hint of condescension in them. He tapped his chest and then, carefully, hers. “He is there,” he said. “You cannot see Him —that would defeat His purposes, I think.
    Spectacles make Him no more visible than the naked eye, nor telescopes nor microscopes nor that fabulous hand of yours. It is the mistake that Newton and other philosophers in his vein made—to think that in dissecting the universe they would at last find God. God is not to be seen; He is to be felt.”
    She drew back from him a step, staring at him with new suspicion. Not long ago, in a dream, she had heard nearly those same words, spoken by a creature who claimed to be Sophia, the mother of angels. Was this really the priest who had taught her so many years ago? Or was he more than he seemed?
    And so she raised her right hand and looked, peeling away the gauze of matter that covered Father Castillion, dissecting him in just the way he had just been complaining about, revealing the ghostly etching of the vortices and secret knots that bind the world. She saw nothing unusual there, no hidden ifrit or angel.
    But she no longer had faith in her power. What she saw with her hand came from Uriel, an angel she did not trust—who might not even be alive, for she had not heard from him since the battle of New Moscow.
    Castillion hadn’t noticed her reaction or her deep glance. He was still preaching, looking not at her but at the distant skyline. “Some things we see may reveal God, however, by opening our hearts. You feel nothing when you see that?” He gestured at the vast herd. “No joy, terror, awe, worship? I do, and I think you do, too. I said you looked like a little girl just now. Is it not said that only coming as a little child shall we find the Lord? That is what I mean.
    Mademoiselle, when I lived as a Jesuit, I never once felt like a child.”
    Something in that lodged in her throat and pressed behind her eyes. With that THE SHADOWS OF GOD
    foolish suddenness she had avoided for many, many years, her eyes filled with tears. She looked away, to hide it from him, but he would not be fooled. He took one of her hands and squeezed it. His hand was warm and rough, and it felt good. She felt foul for having doubted his humanity.
    “Do you still hear confession?” she murmured.
    “I do not,” he replied, “though I am willing to talk of anything you wish. Your confessions do not need me for God to hear them and forgive.”
    “It is not forgiveness I need. It is advice.”
    “I offer whatever I have, but I will not pretend to perfect wisdom.”
    “You know by now we are searching for the tsar.”
    “I know you follow the prophet and his army,” Castillion said cautiously. “I know you think the tsar may be a prisoner.” His brow wrinkled. “But there is more to it. You want to talk about the boy, the prophet.”
    She nodded. “When I met you, you said you believed that this ”prophet‘ was the Antichrist, come to destroy the world. All of that is written in the Bible, yes? If we are to believe the Bible, this time was bound to come —God ordained that it