By that damned recording.

The abbot chose his words, even the ones he kept to himself, carefully. It was a damned recording. And he wished with all his heart it had never happened.

This large, quiet, quite frightening man from the police had asked if he was ever wrong. He’d answered glibly that he was always wrong.

What he should have said was that he was wrong many times, but one mistake overshadowed all the rest. His error had been so spectacular, so stunning it had become a permanent wrong. In indelible ink. Like the plan of the abbey. His error had soaked into the very fabric of the monastery. It now defined the abbey and had become perpetual.

What had appeared so right, so good, on so many levels, had turned into a travesty. The Gilbertines had survived the Reformation, survived the Inquisition. Survived almost four hundred years in the wilderness of Québec. But they’d finally been found. And felled.

And the weapon had been the very thing they’d wanted to protect. The Gregorian chants themselves.

Dom Philippe would die before he’d make that mistake again.

*   *   *

Jean-Guy Beauvoir stared at Frère Antoine.

It was like peeking into an alternate universe. The monk was thirty-eight years old. Beauvoir’s age. He was Beauvoir’s height. Beauvoir’s coloring. They even shared the same lean and athletic build.

And when he spoke, Frère Antoine’s voice had the same Québécois accent. From the same region. The streets of east end Montréal. Imperfectly hidden under layers of education and effort.

The two men stared, neither sure what to make of the other.

“Bonjour,” said Frère Antoine.

“Salut,” said Beauvoir.

The only difference was that one was a monk and the other a Sûreté officer. It was as though they’d grown up in the same home, but in different rooms.

Beauvoir could understand the other monks. Most were older. They seemed of an intellectual, contemplative nature. But this lean man?

Beauvoir felt a slight vertigo. What could possibly have led Antoine to become Frère Antoine? Why not a cop, like Beauvoir. Or a teacher. Or work for Hydro-Québec. Or a bum, or a vagrant, or a burden to society?

Beauvoir could understand the path to all those things.

But a religious? A man of his own age? From the same streets?

No one Beauvoir knew even went to church, never mind dedicated his life to it.

“I understand you’re the soloist for the choir,” said Beauvoir. He stood as tall as he could, but still felt dwarfed by Frère Antoine. It was the robes, Beauvoir decided. They were an unfair advantage. Gave the impression of height and authority.

Perhaps the Sûreté should consider it, if they ever redesigned the uniforms. He’d have to put it in the suggestion box, and sign Inspector Lacoste’s name to it.

“That’s true. I’m the soloist.”

Beauvoir was relieved this monk hadn’t called him “my son.” He wasn’t sure what he’d do if that happened, but he suspected it wouldn’t reflect well on the Sûreté.

“I also understand you were about to be replaced.”

That got a reaction, though not the one Beauvoir expected and hoped for.

Frère Antoine smiled.

“You’ve been talking to Frère Luc, I see. I’m afraid he’s mistaken.”

“He seems quite certain.”

“Frère Luc is having difficulty separating what he hopes will happen from what actually will. Expectations from reality. He’s young.”

“I don’t think he’s much younger than Christ.”

“You’re not suggesting we have the second coming in the porter’s room?”

Beauvoir, who had a tenuous hold on anything biblical, gave the point to the monk.

“Frère Luc must have misunderstood the prior,” said Frère Antoine.

“Was that an easy thing to do?”

Frère Antoine hesitated then shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “The prior was quite a definite man.”

“Then why does Frère Luc believe the prior wanted him to be the soloist?”

“I can’t explain what people believe, Inspector Beauvoir. Can you?”

“No,” admitted Beauvoir. He was looking at a man his own age, in a gown and floppy hat, head shaved, in a community of men in the woods. They’d dedicated their lives to a church most in Québec had renounced and they found meaning in singing songs in a dead language with squiggles for notes.