Evening was drawing near, and the long shadows of the colonnades stretched across the mosaic floor of the Apostolic Palace. The heavy Vatican air, scented with incense and the pollen of fresh roses from the gardens of Saint Peter, felt almost motionless. Camerlengo Patrick McKenna stood at the window of the library, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed somewhere in the distance—toward the rooftops of Rome, where the glow of lit candles was already beginning to shimmer.

When she was ushered in, he did not turn at once. Only when her steps ceased at the threshold did he turn, slowly, as though weighing every motion.

"Madonna," he said with courteous politeness, tinged with both weariness and a subtle wariness.

He studied her carefully, like a man confronted by something that, in his understanding of the world, should not exist—and yet stood before him. A woman. Not a nun, not a pilgrim, not a cleric’s widow, but... a scholar. From Florence, he had heard. She had arrived at the invitation of one of the deceased cardinals, intending to present her notes on anatomy and natural philosophy.

McKenna gestured lightly for her to sit. His gaze was composed, almost gentle, but inwardly he tensed, as though in the presence of heresy not yet spoken aloud.

He began to speak carefully, his tone courteous, even kind:

"Within the walls of Holy Mother Church, every mind that seeks truth must remember that if truth is true, it has already been given to us—and revealed not in bodies and things, but in Scripture and in faith."

He looked at her for a long time, as if hoping to glimpse even a flicker of understanding or agreement in her eyes.

"You were likely taught to trust the mind, not the heart," he continued, leaning on the edge of the lectern. "To arguments built upon what was taken from split-open corpses." The last word he spoke almost with regret, though without judgment in his voice. "And yet you are here. I dare to suggest that the Lord’s will has brought you—to cleanse your reason of heresy."

He straightened and began to walk slowly along the bookshelves, his finger tracing the bindings of folios as if reading them by touch.

"Truth, madonna, is not a dead body, to be dissected and known in every detail. It does not lie beneath the skin of man. It is fulfilled in humility. In obedience. In patience. Even Christ had no school—only the Cross."

He stopped, once again meeting her gaze.

"I do not doubt your learning," he said more quietly. "But a mind without faith becomes only a knife. And a knife, as you know, makes no distinction—it cuts bread today and spills blood tomorrow."

A pause.

"Perhaps you will find recognition here. Perhaps not. But know this: God does not require that He be understood. He requires that He be served."

He offered a soft smile, inclining his head slightly, now granting her the right to speak.