Free The Collector of Dying Breaths by M. J. Rose

mentor visited with each monk as he lay on his deathbed and offered solace and succor along with a syrup that he claimed made death less painful. Prepared with ground and liquefied grains of seeds from the poppy, it offered dreams of the next world to those about to leave this one. But that was not all he did while attending the dying men. Serapino also collected their breaths so he had samples to work with.
    If Jacimo mentioned any of this, a search of Serapino’s workplace might reveal the items I was hiding, and that would be a catastrophe.
    Again, I thought of the lesson Serapino had taught me: Always keep your own secrets and silence. Never reveal any more than you have to. Watch and listen more than you speak.
    “No, I don’t know of a connection, Father,” I said.
    The abbot spoke to Jacimo now: “Are you satisfied with his answer?”
    “Yes,” Jacimo said. “Brother Adamo died slowly of a disease of the heart that I do not believe was contagious. Something not uncommon in the elderly. I was just making an observation.”
    “And so, René Bianco, your mentor was growing more and more sickly?” The abbot returned to the previous line of questioning.
    “Yes, and as the pain became more intolerable and the syrup offered less relief, he spoke to me about hastening his death.”
    “And why would he do that? He was a man of God. We do not hasten death. We wait for God to take us.”
    I was about to speak when I realized the hopelessness of the position I was in. If I told them what Serapino believed and what he’d desired, I would be painting the picture of a true heretic. I would be betraying him. At the same time, the only way I might go free was to tell that truth.
    “He thought such suffering was not necessary.” I chose each word carefully. Maybe I could make an argument that was based on the science Serapino practiced. “With all the formulas and elixirs he prepared, he knew that there were some that could bring about peace sooner.”
    “Elixirs or poisons?” the archbishop asked.
    “Elixirs,” I answered.
    “But elixirs that were poisonous?”
    “Yes,” I said in a lowered voice.
    “And Serapino mixed these poisons?”
    “Yes. In smaller doses, some were cures.”
    “And one of these poisons is made from almonds?” asked Beneto.
    “Yes,” I answered.
    “And that is what I smelled on Brother Serapino’s breath.”
    “Yes.”
    I couldn’t tell if I was making things any better or worse. He was throwing the questions at me quickly, and I didn’t have much time to think through the case he was building.
    “And this particular poison, was it something Serapino made often?”
    “Yes, he kept it on supply, in the laboratory.”
    “He made it?”
    “Yes.”
    “And did you, in the past, ever help him to make it?”
    “Yes, I assisted in all things in the laboratory.”
    “So you know how to make it also?”
    I had stepped into the first trap. It was too late to figure out how to get out of it. “Yes.”
    “So you might have made the particular dose that killed Serapino yourself ? In fact, didn’t you mix it? Is that not what you told me that night?”
    “Yes, I did mix it. Serapino asked me to.”
    “When did Brother Serapino take the poison?”
    “Several hours before he died.”
    “But he was weak, was he not? He had not come to meals in over three weeks. Had not left the laboratory to come to a single Mass.”
    “Yes, he was weak.”
    “So if he could not come to Mass, a man of the cloth who lived his life for God, how could he get up off his sickbed and get a vial of poison?” Beneto asked.
    I could have argued that the same energy was not required to walk five steps as to travel the length of the monastery.
    “Serapino asked me to give it to him.”
    “And you obeyed him.”
    “Yes.”
    “Knowing that he was asking you to help him die.”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you try to talk him out of that?”
    “At first, yes, I did.”
    “You did? Why is that?”
    “I cared for