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The letters began as immaculate things—cream paper, careful ink, the faintest trace of bergamot—each one composed with a patience that would have impressed even the most meticulous secretary of state.
Cardinal Joseph Tremblay wrote them late at night, when the corridors fell quiet and the last echoes of shoes on marble had dissolved into silence.
Your Eminence,
It would be my honor to hear your thoughts over a private supper. Your wisdom has long guided me, and I find myself in need of it now more than ever…
He signed each one differently.
Warmly.
In prayer.
Yours in Christ.
Eight letters. Eight men. Eight votes. Eight evenings he would rather have spent doing anything else.
The first dinner was with Cardinal Borgia, who smelled faintly of mothballs and spoke in long, winding sentences that never quite arrived anywhere.
Joseph leaned forward, chin resting lightly on steepled fingers, eyes bright with interest.
“—and what people fail to understand,” Borgia was saying for the third time, “is that the liturgical reform of ’79 was not a rupture, but a continuity—”
Joseph laughed softly. “Of course, Eminence. A continuity. That’s beautifully put.”
Inside, his thoughts dragged like a dull blade.
If you say continuity one more time, I will personally rupture something.
Outwardly, he tilted his head just so, the picture of attentive admiration.
“Your clarity is refreshing,” he added.
Borgia beamed.
One down.
Cardinal Herrera preferred letters to conversation. Long ones. Handwritten replies that sprawled over pages, full of theological tangents and oddly personal recollections.
Joseph answered each with care, adjusting tone like a musician tuning pitch.
To Herrera, he was thoughtful, introspective:
I find myself returning to your words about solitude. There is a strange comfort in knowing others have felt it too…
To Cardinal Okoye, he was lively and warm:
Your stories of Lagos still make me smile. I hope you’ll share more over dinner soon.
To Cardinal Weiss, he was playful:
I suspect you exaggerate your chess victories—but I would be delighted to lose to you in person.
Each letter was a mask. Each mask fit perfectly. Joseph sealed them with a small, satisfied smile.
If this fails, he thought, it won’t be for lack of performance.
—
The third dinner turned into a walk.
Cardinal Weiss insisted.
“The gardens at night,” the old man said, “they remind me that God prefers quiet to spectacle.”
Joseph nodded, hands clasped behind his back as they moved slowly along the gravel path.
“That’s a beautiful way to see it,” he said.
It’s dark. It’s damp. I can’t feel my feet.
Weiss chuckled at his own anecdote—something about a misplaced rook in 1968—and Joseph laughed exactly half a beat after him, as if the humor had just landed.
“You’re very easy to speak with, Joseph,” Weiss said.
Joseph softened his expression, letting something almost shy flicker across his face.
“I could say the same, Eminence.”
You’ve been speaking for forty minutes without pause.
They stopped near a fountain. The water murmured softly.
Weiss looked at him more carefully now.
“And tell me,” he said, “why all this attention lately?”
There it was.
Joseph let a breath escape—measured, vulnerable.
“I suppose,” he said, eyes lowered briefly, “I’ve been reflecting on the future. On unity. On… who we trust to guide it.”
Not a lie. Not quite the truth.
Weiss studied him, then nodded slowly.
“I see.”
Joseph met his gaze again, warm and steady.
Say yes, he thought. Say it without saying it.
The next dinners took on a different texture—not sharper, not more strategic, but softer, almost indulgent in their own performance, as though Joseph had realized that persuasion did not always require brilliance or precision, but something far more disarming: the careful illusion of harmlessness.
He arrived late to one of them—only by a few minutes, never enough to offend—breath just slightly uneven, smoothing down his sleeve as he stepped into the room with a small, apologetic smile that hovered somewhere between embarrassed and endearing.
“I’m so sorry, Eminence,” he said, voice warm and a little breathless, as though he had hurried more than necessary, as though the delay genuinely troubled him, “I lost track of time entirely—I was rereading something and then I thought I still had longer than I did—”
He let the sentence trail off, soft laugh following it, light and self-conscious.
Cardinal Alvarez waved it off immediately.
“No matter, Joseph, no matter.”
Joseph smiled in relief—visible, immediate, almost boyishly grateful—as he took his seat, fingers brushing the edge of the table with a kind of absent, unsteady grace.
“Thank you for your patience,” he said quietly.
Of course you’ll forgive me, he thought. You already have.
—
He dropped his fork once.
A small, clumsy slip, the metal tapping lightly against the plate before he caught it again, blinking as though surprised by his own hands.
“Oh—” he murmured, then laughed softly, shaking his head at himself, “I’m sorry, I’ve been doing that all evening.”
Alvarez chuckled.
“Nervous?”
Joseph’s smile turned a little smaller, a little more uncertain.
“Perhaps a little,” he admitted, glancing down briefly before looking back up again, eyes open and unguarded in a way that was entirely constructed and entirely convincing.
“You’ll have to forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Alvarez said warmly.
Joseph let out a quiet breath, shoulders relaxing just slightly.
There never is.
With Cardinal Bernard, he leaned even further into it.
“I’m not sure I’m following,” Joseph said again, lips pressing together faintly in something that almost resembled a pout, brows knitting just enough to suggest effort without frustration, “you’ll have to explain it to me one more time—I feel as though I nearly understand it, but not quite.”
Bernard smiled, indulgent, already preparing to repeat himself.
Joseph shifted in his chair, leaning forward with his chin resting lightly against his knuckles, eyes lifted toward the older man with a kind of soft, attentive curiosity that made him seem younger than he was, softer than he was, easier.
“Just one more time,” he added, quieter now, almost sheepish.
Go on, he thought. You want to.
Bernard did.
Of course he did.
That particular dinner had been unfolding with a slow, almost syrupy ease, the kind Joseph had learned to navigate with half his attention and all of his performance, his posture relaxed just enough to appear unguarded, his voice softened into that careful register that made every word sound like a quiet confidence rather than a calculated offering.
Cardinal Ricci—had chosen a smaller table this time, closer, more intimate, their knees nearly within reach beneath the white linen that fell in heavy folds to the floor, the candles low, the air warm, everything arranged in a way that suggested familiarity rather than formality.
Joseph noticed it immediately.
Of course he did.
He noticed everything.
But he smiled anyway, settling into his chair with that same gentle, slightly clumsy grace, adjusting his sleeve, brushing an imaginary crease from the tablecloth as though he needed something small and harmless to occupy his hands.
“You’re very kind to make time for me, your Eminence!” he said, voice light, appreciative, eyes warm.
Ricci waved it off with a pleased sort of humility.
“The pleasure is mine.”
Yes, Joseph thought distantly. I’m aware.
The conversation drifted—nothing new, nothing demanding—stories, reflections, small recollections that Joseph received with the same attentive ease, nodding, laughing softly at the right moments, occasionally letting his gaze drop as though considering something deeply before looking back up with that familiar, open expression that invited the other man to continue.
He let his hand slip once while reaching for his glass, catching it quickly with a small, embarrassed laugh.
“I’m terribly uncoordinated tonight,” he murmured.
Ricci chuckled.
“It happens.”
Joseph smiled, a little sheepish.
It doesn’t.
—
And then—
it happened.
A touch.
Light at first, almost tentative.
A hand brushing, then settling—just barely—against Joseph’s leg beneath the table.
There was a fraction of a second—no more—where everything in Joseph went completely still, his expression unchanged, his posture soft, his smile faintly present as though nothing at all had shifted—
—and then he reacted.
Sharply.
A sudden, startled yelp broke from him, high and quick and entirely convincing as his leg jerked violently in reflex, striking hard—far harder than necessary—against Ricci’s beneath the table with a solid, unmistakable force.
The sound of it was dull but real.
Ricci recoiled.
Joseph did too.
“Oh—! Oh Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed immediately, hands lifting slightly as though he didn’t know where to place them, eyes wide with alarm, cheeks flushing just enough to sell the moment completely as he leaned forward, voice tumbling over itself in rapid apology, “I am so sorry—I didn’t—I thought something—”
He stopped, breath catching, shaking his head quickly as though flustered beyond coherence.
“I didn’t mean—did I hurt you?”
Idiot, his mind snapped coldly, the warmth gone in an instant beneath the surface. How dare you lay your hand on me?
Outwardly, he looked mortified.
Truly, painfully so.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he repeated, softer now, his voice dipping into something almost fragile, almost shaken, his hands settling awkwardly back onto the table as though unsure of themselves.
Ricci blinked, clearly thrown, rubbing his leg slightly beneath the table.
“No—no, it’s nothing—just startled, I suppose.”
Joseph let out a small, relieved breath, his shoulders easing just a fraction as he offered a tentative smile—uncertain, apologetic, just this side of embarrassed.
“I’m so clumsy tonight,” he said quietly, eyes dropping for a moment before lifting again, searching Ricci’s face for reassurance.
“You must think me impossible.”
Ricci shook his head quickly.
“Not at all.”
Joseph smiled—small, grateful, a touch shy.
Good, he thought, the cold edge settling back into place beneath the softness. You’ll think twice next time.
The gifts began arriving quietly—one by one at first, then in a steady, almost embarrassing procession, each parcel more carefully wrapped than the last, each bearing a handwritten note that tried, with varying degrees of success, to appear modest about what was very clearly not modest at all.
Joseph accepted them all with the same gentle surprise, the same soft laugh, the same insistence that it was “too much, truly,” while never once suggesting they be taken back.
Of course not.
That would have ruined everything.
The watch came from Cardinal Weiss.
Elegant. Understated. Old.
Joseph turned it over in his hands later that night, thumb brushing over the engraved back, where a small inscription had been added beneath the original maker’s mark:
To Joseph — for the time you give so generously.
Joseph smiled at that, a quiet, private curve of his lips as he lay back against the pillows.
“How poetic,” he murmured.
How predictable.
Still, he fastened it around his wrist, admiring how perfectly it fit.
—
The pen was from Herrera.
Heavy, black lacquer, his initials—J.T.—worked into the metal in delicate, almost obsessive detail.
Joseph uncapped it slowly, testing the weight, the balance.
“Of course you’d choose something like this,” he said under his breath, amused.
He imagined Herrera writing the accompanying letter, pausing, reconsidering every word.
Joseph smiled more genuinely this time.
At least this one understands the value of precision.
—
The painting was… unexpected.
Cardinal Borgia.
Of course.
A small but unmistakably expensive piece—some solemn religious scene rendered in dark, dramatic tones.
Joseph stared at it for a long moment after unwrapping it, head tilted slightly.
“…it’s dreadful,” he said plainly.
Then, after a pause:
“It’s perfect.”
He leaned it carefully against the wall anyway.
—
The rosary—gold, intricate, almost ostentatious—came from Alvarez.
Joseph ran the beads through his fingers slowly, the metal cool against his skin, the craftsmanship impossible to ignore.
“So subtle,” he murmured, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
You might as well have sent a crown.
Still, he kept it close.
Very close.
—
The bouquet arrived in absurd proportions.
Cardinal Okoye.
Of course it was.
Joseph actually laughed—properly laughed—when he saw it, stepping back as though the flowers might overwhelm the room entirely.
“Well,” he said aloud, hands on his hips, “that’s… unmistakable.”
He buried his face in them anyway, inhaling deeply, eyes closing for just a moment.
At least this one knows how to make an entrance.
—
The crucifix came later.
Silver. Tall. Imposing.
Ricci.
Joseph didn’t even need to check the note.
He traced the figure with a fingertip, expression unreadable for a beat longer than usual.
“Mm,” he hummed softly.
You’re reminding me what this is supposed to be about.
He set it carefully against the wall beside the painting.
Balance.
Cardinal Martin unfortunately was unable to attend any date due to poor health, but Joseph visited him often and made sure to send him letters frequently.
He received a ridiculously expensive, rare fragrance—something old, refined, the kind of scent you don’t just buy, you hunt down.
Joseph accepted it with that soft, touched expression he’d perfected:
“Eminence, this is far too generous…”
(he kept it. obviously.)
—
And then—the Bible, from Bernard.
Leather-bound, dark with age, the edges worn but lovingly preserved, its cover embossed with intricate patterns that spoke of another century entirely.
Joseph went very still when he opened it.
The pages were delicate, illuminated in places with hand-worked designs that could not be replicated now, no matter how much money one threw at the attempt.
He exhaled slowly.
“…where did you even find this?”
A pawnbroker, perhaps. A collector. Something discreet, something expensive, something meant to impress.
It worked.
He turned a page with careful fingers, reverent in a way he had not quite expected of himself.
This one, he thought, this one cost something real.
That night, Joseph didn’t bother with the desk.
No letters. No lists. No calculations.
He picks up the perfume bottle, studies it, already knowing it’s absurdly expensive… and then, because he can, because no one is there to see him, because indulgence has become a quiet little reward—
he applies it.
Before bed.
Just a touch at his wrist. Another at his neck.
He lay stretched across his bed instead, silk robe loose around him, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other lazily turning the watch over and over between his fingers while his gaze drifted from one gift to the next, scattered around the room like trophies he had not needed to win fairly to claim.
The bouquet spilling over the table.
The painting leaning in quiet approval.
The crucifix catching the low light.
The Bible resting beside him, closer than the rest.
He turned on his front and swung one foot idly in the air, then the other, an absent, almost playful motion that didn’t match the careful composure he wore so effortlessly in public, his expression softer now, unguarded in a way no one else ever saw, a small, satisfied smile lingering as he took it all in—not the objects themselves, not really, but what they represented, what they confirmed, what they proved.
“They need me...” he said lightly, almost teasing the empty room.
Then, after a pause, quieter:
“Then... they shall have me!.”
The watch ticked faintly in his hand.
Joseph glanced at it once more, then let it rest against his chest, eyes drifting half-closed as the smile deepened just slightly—not warm, not kind, but pleased in a way that ran deeper than either.
For all the boredom, all the irritation, all the endless performances—
this part, at least, was undeniably satisfying.