Chapter Text
“How did it go?” Cardinal Bishop Aldo Bellini asks, peering over the rim of his glasses.
“He agreed,” Cardinal Dean Thomas Lawrence replies, shutting the door to Aldo’s office behind him.
Aldo sighs, leans back in his chair, and gestures for Thomas to take a seat opposite him.
“When does your resignation take effect?"
“Two more weeks,” Thomas says. “He wants to give the Suburbicarians time to arrange their travel.”
“Another election, then…” Aldo murmurs, slipping off his glasses. He twirls the temple between his thumb and index finger, the frames making soft tinking noises against the surface of his desk.
“It’ll go smoothly, I’m sure. They will follow tradition and elect the sub-Dean as the next Dean of the College. Don’t worry, Aldo.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure—not after my bitter loss at the conclave…”
“Ah, my friend, you’re too hard on yourself. The Holy Father has made quite a good impression on the College. I’d say they are more open than ever to electing a progressive Dean. Besides, you are already established here in Rome… and you’re more familiar with the work and responsibilities than anyone else.”
Aldo raises an eyebrow at that but lets it pass without comment. Now is not the time. “I’m going to miss you, Thomas,” Aldo says with a sigh. “It feels like you’re leaving me behind in a den of holy vipers. Managing the College is like… like herding cardinals.”
Thomas tries to suppress a smile. “Well, at least they don’t fly away when things get difficult.” He pauses, then shakes his head. “No, actually, I take that back.”
Aldo huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t disagree.
“Arise, for it is your task, and we are with you; be strong and do it.[1]” he places a hand on the desk, fingers splayed, sliding his palm across the smooth surface toward Aldo, as if to reach out. “You’ll make a fine Dean, Aldo. No one’s more prepared for the job than you.”
“We’ll see,” Aldo says, slipping his glasses back on. “They’d have to elect me first, though.”
***
And thus, they do. After Pope Innocentius XIV confirms the election, the congratulations begin—there is an excessive amount of handshaking, shoulder patting, and cheek kissing. And then, at last, Aldo finds himself before the door to the Dean’s office, a place he knows well. But this time, everything is different. Now, he is Dean. And the office is his.
As he steps inside, his gaze is drawn to the bookshelves lining the opposite wall—magnificent, stretching from wall to wall and floor to ceiling, packed tight with volumes. So many voices, so many truths. Tomes, codices, folios, histories, and scriptures, both ancient and new, gleam in the soft glow of the late-afternoon sunlight, slanting through the west-facing windows at his left.
In front of the bookshelves sits a large desk of dark wood, positioned to face the door he has just entered. Aldo can almost picture himself sitting there—bent over paperwork, working late into the evening. He imagines himself pausing occasionally to lean back and take a slow sip of coffee while his gaze drifts toward the Vatican’s immaculately manicured gardens beyond the window—God’s creation, pressed and pruned into artifice, as if nature itself must bow to the will of men. The grass withers, the flower fades; but the word of our God will stand for ever[2] he thinks to himself.
In the back right corner, the door to the secretary’s office nearly vanishes into the wood-panelled wall. Behind it, O’Malley will be hard at work—finalising press statements, drafting a letter to the College informing them of the election results, and carefully wording a heartfelt personal statement from Decano Bellini himself. Of course, Aldo suspects that O’Malley had drafted it days ago, needing only to add the correct name at the top.
Finally, Aldo moves toward the small, cosy sitting area on his right, where Thomas soon joins him.
The present and the former Deans of the College recline in hideous yet comfortable armchairs—relics of some long-forgotten predecessor—nursing nearly empty cups of coffee. The upholstery reminds Aldo of a gothic chasuble if some tragic accident had not rendered it this particular shade of cat-vomit brown. Thomas exhales a slow, measured sigh as he leans forward, setting his cup on the coffee table between them. His fingers linger, twisting the handle until it aligns just so with the table’s edge. He knows he’s stalling, and judging by his cocked eyebrow, Aldo knows it too.
He sighs again and leans back into the chair, just managing to say “Aldo—” before a loud CRACK! shatters the comfortable silence, making them both nearly jump out of their skins.
The door has been flung open so forcefully that it slams against the wall, bouncing back as if to fall shut again. Only a broad, meaty hand on the panel stops it from smashing back into the intruder’s face. And so, into the Dean’s office strides the man, the myth, the perpetual thorn in Aldo Bellini’s side, Cardinal Goffredo Tedesco.
When he spots Aldo, Tedesco halts just a few steps into the room, fixing him with a stare so sour it could turn sacramental wine into vinegar fit for a Roman salad. His thick eyebrows knit together in a frown so deep they nearly touch. For a few taut seconds, neither man moves. Then, Tedesco’s gaze flicks to Thomas. The former Dean starts to rise from his chair, but Tedesco cuts him off with a single, imperious word.
“No,” he simply pronounces and, with a sharp swish of his cape, he turns on his heel and makes to leave.