Brother Odd

suspects. And because if his suspicions are correct, he may be up against a power with which he cannot reckon."
        Sister Angela said, "Oddie, is there any power with which you cannot reckon?"
        "Oh, it's a long list, ma'am. The thing is-I need to be sure I'm right about the name. And I have to understand his motivation, which I don't yet, not fully. It might be dangerous to approach him without full understanding."
        Turning to the Russian, Sister Angela said, "Surely, sir, if you can share with Oddie the name and motivation of this man, you will do so to protect the children."
        "I wouldn't necessarily believe anything he told me," I said. "Our fur-hatted friend has his own agenda. And I suspect he'll be ruthless about fulfilling it."
        Her voice heavy with disapproval, the mother superior said, "Mr. Romanovich, sir, you presented yourself to this community as a simple librarian seeking to enrich his faith."
        "Sister," he disagreed, "I never said that I was simple. But it is true that I am a man of faith. And whose faith is so secure that it never needs to be further enriched?"
        She stared at him for a moment, and then turned to me again. "He is a real piece of work."
        "Yes, ma'am."
        "I'd turn him out in the snow if it wasn't such an unchristian thing to do-and if I believed for a minute we could manhandle him through the door."
        "I don't believe we could, Sister."
        "Neither do I."
        "If you can find me a child who was once dead but can speak," I reminded her, "I might learn what I need to know by other means than Mr. Romanovich."
        Her wimpled face brightened. "That's what I came to tell you before we got into all this talk about Jacob's father. There's a girl named Flossie Bodenblatt-"
        "Surely not," said Romanovich.
        "Flossie," Sister Angela continued, "has been through very much, too much, so much-but she is a girl with spirit, and she has worked hard in speech therapy. Her voice is so clear now. She was down in rehab, but we've brought her to her room. Come with me."

CHAPTER 45
        
        NINE-YEAR-OLD FLOSSIE HAD BEEN AT ST. Bartholomew's for one year. According to Sister Angela, the girl was one of the minority who would be able to leave someday and live on her own.
        The names on the door plaques were FLOSSIE and PAULETTE. Flossie waited alone.
        Frills, flounce, and dolls characterized Paulette's half of the room. Pink pillows and a small green-and-pink vanity table.
        Flossie's area was by contrast simple, clean, all white and blue, decorated only with posters of dogs.
        The name Bodenblatt suggested to me a German or Scandinavian background, but Flossie had a Mediterranean complexion, black hair, and large dark eyes.
        I had not encountered the girl before, or had seen her only at a distance. My chest grew tight, and I knew at once that this might be more difficult than I had expected.
        When we arrived, Flossie was sitting on a rug on the floor, paging through a book of dog photographs.
        "Dear," said Sister Angela, "this is Mr. Thomas, the man who would like to talk to you."
        Her smile was not the smile that I remembered from another place and time, but it was close enough, a wounded smile and lovely.
        "Hello, Mr. Thomas."
        Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her, I said, "I'm so pleased to meet you, Flossie."
        Sister Angela perched on the edge of Flossie's bed, and Rodion Romanovich stood among Paulette's dolls and frills, like a bear that had turned the tables on Goldilocks.
        The girl wore red pants and a white sweater with an appliquéd image of Santa Claus. Her features were fine, nose upturned, chin delicate. She could have passed for an elf.
        The left corner of her mouth pulled down, and the left eyelid drooped slightly.
        Her left hand was cramped into a claw, and she braced the book on her lap with that arm, as if she had little other use for it than bracing things. She had been turning pages with her right hand.
        Now her attention focused on me. Her stare was direct and unwavering, full of confidence earned from painful experience- a quality I had also seen before, in eyes this very shade.
        "So you like dogs, Flossie?"
        "Yes, but I don't like my name." If she had once had a speech impediment caused by brain damage, she had overcome