Chapter Ten

As Camerlengo Father Patrick McKenna walked through the deserted, quiet, dark halls of the Vatican toward Conclave, he heard soft crying. He paid it no heed and walked down the hall to the Swiss guards that guarded the door to Conclave. "I've been summoned by the College of Cardinals," he said.

They opened the doors, allowing him inside.

All of the cardinals stood in a group, staring at him solemnly. In that second, he knew. His plan had failed. They knew it was him.

Cardinal Strauss and one of the Swiss guardsmen walked toward him, their faces blank. Patrick backed up and walked out.

Patrick descended the stairs, hearing the guards following him. He went toward the entrance, but the doors opened showing more guards. Still more guards blocked every other exit.

Finally, he grabbed two lamps, blowing one out, and hurried down into the nook behind the high altar. Illyria sat leaning against a pedestal, crying her heart out.

Patrick set down the lamps and touched her shoulder. She jumped and glared at him. "It was you!" she said condemningly, sobbing.

"Illyria, listen. I did it to save the church. I love you. You are the most beautiful girl that has ever lived, and it is worth dying to have kissed you. Forgive me for what I'm about to do," he said, emotion filling his voice. He bent down further and gently kissed her one last time. She did not, could not, resist him. After all these years, her heart was his. (quote from Dylan Thomas)

He stood and poured the oil from the unlit lamp onto himself. He then threw the other lamp onto the ground, starting the fire that would burn him alive.

She screamed even before he did, though in horror rather than absolute, unendurable pain. The guard that got there first ran down the steps and pulled Illyria back, away from the flames. She struggled in a vain attempt to reach him.

oooooooooooooooooooooooo

Awhile later, the same guardsman led her back to the Vatican hospital. There she could rest and be watched through her case of shock.

As soon as he entered, holding her up with his arm, the guard was practically assaulted by Robert hurrying over and taking Illyria from him, asking frantically, "Is she alright?"

"She is in shock, Mr. Langdon," the German guard answered.

"Illyria, what's wrong? What happened?" he asked his cousin frantically.

Her pale lips moved slowly, slowly forming words before saying very quietly, "P-t-pat-patrick...he's dead...he-he killed himself..."

"What?" Robert exclaimed. "What happened?" he demanded from the guard.

"The Camerlengo burned himself alive," he answered solemnly, obviously trying very hard to conceal his emotions.

"Illyria, it's okay. Come over here and sit. Everything is fine," Robert said soothingly. He had seen her like this once before. He knew what to do.

He guided her over to a chair and sat her down in his lap, holding her tightly to him. "It's okay, Cous."

It took some time, but she did return to a relatively rational state of mind. Only then did he ask the question burning in his mind. "How close were you two when you were in Rome?"

Illyria sighed sadly, but she did not lower her gaze as she once would have. "We were very close," she admitted. "I loved him...Of course, I didn't tell him that. I thought we were like siblings, like you and me...I was very wrong. He felt the same as I...When I- When it happened, he felt responsible. When he was offered a priesthood, he wasn't going to accept. He wanted to stay with me. He wanted to protect me..."

"And I got you the professorship then?" Robert asked, recognizing that event for a turning point in her life.

Illyria nodded. "If it hadn't been for that, he would have stayed with me. He couldn't follow me to America, though..."

"You told him to become a priest," Robert said.

"Yes, and I regret it now more than ever," she admitted.

Robert frowned. "Because you have been apart so long?"

"No...He said he still loves me...I-i-i couldn't say it back, not when he is a priest...was a priest..." Illyria said.

Neither of them had noticed the bustle of nurses, doctors, and patients through the hospital around them until a gurney was rolled through, holding a very familiar figure. Quickly, Robert stood from his chair, pulling Illyria up with him. "Olivetti?" he asked, recognizing the barely conscious man.

Illyria gasped at the sight of the man's blood.

The Italian noticed. His glassy eyes looked up at her. The pain was obvious on his face and in his voice as he whispered in Italian, "Non preoccuparti per me, piccolo angelo." (Don't worry about me, Little Angel)

"Come io non posso?" (How can I not?) she returned gently, smiling as two nurses rolled him away.