Free The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell

me to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, naked and you clothed me, sick and you cared for me, imprisoned and you came to me.’"
    The words lingered in the air as the fire popped and hissed softly. Sandoz had stopped pacing and stood motionless in a far corner of the room, his face in shadows, firelight glittering on the metallic exoskeletons of his hands. "Don’t hope for more than that, John," he said. "God will break your heart." And then he left.

    A ND WENT ALONE to the room he’d been given and stopped short, seeing that the door had been closed. He felt a volcanic anger well up as he struggled with his hands but forced himself to beat the rage down, to concentrate on the simple tasks of opening the door and then leaving it open a hand’s breadth behind him, the horror of being caged now only barely stronger than the urge to kick it shut. He wanted very badly indeed to hit something or to throw up and tried to control the impulses, sitting in the wooden chair, hunched and rocking over his arms. The overhead light had been left on, making the headache worse. He was afraid to stand and walk to the switch.
    The nausea passed and when he opened his eyes, he noticed an old ROM periodical with a windowed memo overlaying the text, lying on the night table next to the narrow bed. He stood to read it. "Dr. Sandoz," the memo said, "there has been a reconsideration of Mary Magdalene in the years of your absence. Perhaps you will be interested in the new thinking. —V."
    The vomiting went on long past the point when there was anything left to bring up. When the sickness abated, he stood, sweating and trembling. Then he willed his hands to grasp and smash the ROM tablet against the wall, wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and turned toward the door.

7
    CLEVELAND AND SAN JUAN:
2015–2019
    F INISHED AT J OHN Carroll and asked for a preference, Emilio Sandoz requested that he be sent back to La Perla in Puerto Rico. The request should have gone through the Antilles Province for administrative review, but Emilio was not surprised when Dalton Wesley Yarbrough, the Provincial in New Orleans, called him.
    "Milito, you sure? We got a professorship for you up at Le Moyne, now we done jerkin’ you around. Ray’s been chewin’ everybody’s ear off ’bout getting you for that linguistics position," D.W. said. The Texas twang was nearly impenetrable unless you knew him well. D.W. could speak standard English when he pleased but, as he told Emilio once, "Son, with the vows we take, there’s a limited range of opportunity for eccentricity. I get my laughs where I can."
    "I know," Emilio said, "and Le Moyne’s got a great department but—"
    "Weather ain’t that bad in Syracuse," D.W. lied cheerfully. "And La Perla ain’t forgot nothin’, son. Won’t be no welcome-home parties."
    "I know, D.W.," Emilio said seriously. "That’s why I should go back. I need to put some ghosts to rest."
    Yarbrough thought that over. Was it affection that made him want to agree, or guilt? D.W. had always felt about half responsible for the way things had turned out, good and bad. That was arrogant; Emilio had made his own decisions. But D.W. had seen the potential in the boy and hadn’t hesitated a minute when he’d gotten a chance to pull the kid out of La Perla. Emilio had more than lived up to his expectations; still, there’d been a price to pay. "Well, okay then," D.W. said finally. "I’ll see what I can do."
    Entering his office two weeks later, Emilio spotted the glowing message light. His hands shook a little as he opened the file and he was tempted to blame this on the Turkish coffee he’d developed an unholy taste for, but he knew it was nerves. Once he admitted that, he was able to bring himself back to calmness.
Non mea voluntas sed Tua fiat
, he thought. He was prepared to do as he was bidden.
    His request had been accepted without comment by the provincials