The chapel stood above the villa, on a flat ledge of light-coloured stone that looked like bone in the moonlight.

The path there was short, but that night it seemed longer than any sea voyage between Australia and England. The wind came up from the sea and swept through the cypress trees, as if it wanted to make the whole island scream out what the house was keeping secret. No one walked alone. Wolfgang led the way, Sun slightly to one side, Vittorio behind them, the rest in an irregular procession that was neither family nor company nor a group of fugitives.
Brian carried the chestnut-coloured cushion in front of him as if it were a most dubious piece of fabric.
“I should like to point out that I have never stood naked with a cushion in front of a chapel, and I have certainly shown ambition in my life. I shall behave myself nonetheless, because even I recognise that this night has reached a point where respect should no longer be confused with decency. Should God be on duty today, however, he may explain to me later why he employs a lynx, a barbiturate and a lack of clothing as dramatic effects.”
Justin looked at him, but this time with only a barely perceptible hint of reproach. Emmett, still wrapped in his rug, nodded in solemn agreement, as though Brian had already been elevated to the status of patron saint of the embarrassingly surviving.

Vittorio unlocked the chapel.

It was cooler inside than out. The air smelled of wax, dry stone, old wood and that subtle metallic note that chapels sometimes possess when chalices, candlesticks and grilles have heard more prayers than people for decades. The room was in the Neo-Renaissance style, but not ostentatious: pilasters with gilded capitals, a coffered vault, dark-green marble plinths, wall panels with painted garlands and Latin inscriptions, the gold of which flared only occasionally in the dim light.
The high altar was dedicated to Saint Hippolytus of Rome. Above it, the martyr was depicted not as a frail old man, but as a stern, young priest with a book, a chain and a team of horses in the background, as though the chapel had sought to reconcile the Roman legend with the Greek name in a single figure. To the left stood the side altar of Mary Magdalene: the saint with her hair loose, a jar of ointment and eyes that betrayed neither shame nor love. To the right stood Sebastian, beautiful, pierced, bound to a tree, his face not ecstatic but still with pain.

The women moved of their own accord to the left, towards Mary Magdalene. Mary first, then Fiona, Meghan, Justine and Sun. Not in agreement, not affectionate, but on the same side. The men took Saint Sebastian’s side: Vittorio in front of the altar, Wolfgang near the aisle, Lito with his hands clasped, Justin beside Brian, Emmett a little behind them, still wrapped in the rug and therefore facing Saint Sebastian in a most unclassical manner.
Justin stopped, looking at the candlesticks, the censer and the small sideboard next to the altar.
‘I can serve as an altar boy. I’m not saying this because I’ve suddenly discovered a religious calling, but because I learnt how to do it at school.’
Vittorio looked at him. A brief, almost warm smile flitted across his face.
“Then serve, Mr Taylor. Tonight, no one is obliged to be merely a spectator, and perhaps the altar is the only place where your powers of observation can be put into action. You will hold the candles, hand me the aspergillum, and not prevent Mr Bogdanov from lighting the incense in the way he is accustomed to from his Orthodox church.”

Wolfgang stepped over to the sideboard. The censer lay there, alongside charcoal, tongs and a small vessel containing grains of incense. He took the charcoal with a naturalness that did not stem from this chapel, but from darker churches, golden iconostases and the heavy breath of Orthodox liturgy.
“I don’t know your Roman rules well enough to claim I’m doing it right. But I know how to make charcoal glow without setting a house on fire, and I know that incense isn’t decoration, but smoke that draws a boundary. If everything is wiped away tonight, then at least the smoke should show that something has risen up here.”
Vittorio nodded.
He lit the candles on the high altar: first the two tall candlesticks beside Hippolytus, then one candle each at the altars of Mary Magdalene and Sebastian. Justin held the flame, reaching out, drawing back, moving with surprising calm. Nothing about him was mocking. Not even Brian’s nakedness beneath the cushion made the gesture ridiculous, because he did not make it ridiculous.

Then Vittorio spread a black cloth out in front of the steps leading up to the main altar.
It was plain, without gold, without a coat of arms. Just a dark rectangle on the stone floor. No coffin, no body, no name on it. Precisely for that reason, the room grew even quieter. The cloth did not say: ‘Here lies Dane.’ It said: ‘Dane is missing here.’
Meghan was the first to sink to her knees.
She almost fell, catching herself with both hands on the pew, and Lito moved to help, but Fiona merely raised her hand. ‘Leave her be.’ Meghan knelt on the St Mary Magdalene side and looked not towards the altar, but at the black cloth.
Justine knelt beside her, but at a distance. The distance was neither hostility nor familiarity, just space. It was the truth of this evening.
Mary knelt more slowly. So did Fiona. Sun knelt last, under Magdalena’s gaze, her hands resting calmly on her thighs, as if she knew other forms of mourning yet was nevertheless drawing herself into this one without understanding it.

On the Sebastian side, the men knelt. Brian did so without comment. Justin glanced at him briefly. Emmett knelt as if he first had to work out where to place his carpet, his hands and his guilt, but then found a posture that was touchingly sincere. Wolfgang stood for a second longer, until the incense began to smoke, then he too knelt—not like a Catholic, but like a person who knows that the dead demand to be remembered.
Vittorio stood before the black cloth.
“We keep vigil for Dane Cleary, son of his mother, brother of his sister, grandson of his family and child of God. We keep this vigil in the faith of eternal life.”
Meghan closed her eyes.
The cardinal opened the small book he had fetched from the sacristy. It was a complete funeral service. He began with the sign of the cross, which the Cleary women immediately joined in with, and recited three psalms; at the end of each, the Cleary women and Lito added the versicle praying that God might grant Dane eternal rest and eternal light. He looked around the room, and his gaze did not linger on the Clearys.
Vittorio nodded to Lito.

“Mr Rodriguez, you will read the first reading. Do not read as an actor, but as a man who learnt tonight that light sometimes only becomes useful when no one looks good any more. Read for those who awaken in darkness and do not know who carried them there.”
The Cardinal blessed Lito with a Latin invocation, then Lito stepped forward. He took the book in both hands. For a moment, he did not seem glamorous, funny or handsome, but simply present.
He read from Job, about a man who sits in darkness and yet does not quite stop reaching out for the Saviour. He read slowly, without any theatrics.
When he finished, Vittorio responded softly with the responsory. The others followed more firmly. The voices were not beautiful. They were tired, dry, broken. Precisely for that reason, they sounded true.
Vittorio looked at Justin.

“Mr Taylor, you will read the second reading. You see visions, and that is dangerous tonight, but also necessary, because some people only believe what they see before them. Read for Dane not as a symbol, not as the son of a mystery, but as a young man for a young man.”
Justin stepped forward. Lito handed him the book. Their hands touched briefly.
Justin read from the Lamentations so that the congregation could get a feel for the tone: a ruined city, bitter tears, no one to comfort them, and yet a glimmer of hope that comes not from emotion but from perseverance.
Justine listened with her eyes closed. Beside her, Meghan was breathing irregularly. There was no peace between them, but a shared direction: towards the black cloth.
Vittorio took the book back, recited the second responsory and turned to Sun.
“Mary, you will read the third reading of this Nocturn!”
Mary stood up.
She did not step forward solemnly, but simply. Her movements were controlled, yet not cold. Under Magdalena’s gaze, she took the book.
She read from the Gospel, of Mary Magdalene at the tomb, seeking the dead and finding at first only the gardener. At the words ‘Woman, why are you weeping?’, Meghan raised her head. Mary looked to one side. Fiona remained very still. Justine opened her eyes.

The smoke rose higher.

Vittorio recited the third responsory. Then Justin handed him the aspergillum. The holy water vessel stood beside the black cloth. Justin took it with unexpected care, as if the slightest careless movement tonight would be an insult to all the dead. Vittorio sprinkled holy water on the cloth and incensed it.
“Mr Honeycutt, you read. You have said more today than many would have credited you with, and in doing so you have shown more dignity than your carpet would suggest. Read for the people who are embarrassed, guilty, tender-hearted, and yet not lost.”
Emmett stood up. Emmett took the book, took a breath and looked towards the altar of Saint Sebastian, as if the pierced saint were discreetly lending him courage.
He read from Augustine’s letter to Fausta.
Then Wolfgang stepped forward, after Vittorio had beckoned him to do so. He remained on the side of Saint Sebastian, but close enough to the smoke.
Vittorio looked at him for a long time. Wolfgang was given an excerpt from a sermon by John Chrysostom to read. Afterwards, Vittorio pointed to the censer, with which he incensed the cloth before handing it back to Wolfgang with the words: “Incense it according to your custom! Do it as best you can!”
Wolfgang raised the censer.

He swung it differently from a Latin altar server. 
Heavier, deeper, with an almost circular motion. The smoke settled over the black cloth, rose towards Hippolytus’s altar, drifted left towards Magdalene, right towards Sebastian, as if binding together forbidden love, a wounded body and the dead man, for whom no body lay in this chapel.
Then Vittorio began the ‘Libera’ alone at first.
“Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna…”
Brian replied, with surprising confidence. Perhaps from childhood, perhaps out of defiance, perhaps because some things remain in the body, even if one hasn’t used them for decades. Emmett found his line after him, more softly. Lito hummed at first, then joined in. Sun didn’t sing the Latin words, but she stayed in the breathing rhythm of the song. Wolfgang’s bass came deep beneath, with an unfamiliar timbre, yet supportive.

On the Magdalene side, Mary sang with a voice that was old but not broken. Fiona knew all the words, but couldn’t quite hit some of the notes. Meghan sang barely audibly. Justine sang more clearly than she had expected, and when the curse against eternal death was uttered, she didn’t think of her childhood, but of Dane in the water.
Vittorio took the aspergillum from Justine once more.
He sprinkled the black cloth. Once, twice, thrice. The drops remained briefly visible on the fabric, like tiny matt stars against the black. Then he signalled to Wolfgang, and Wolfgang brought the smoke. The cloth was incensed once more, as if a body were truly lying beneath it, as if absence in this chapel were no less dignified than presence.

Vittorio prayed.

“God, receive Dane into your light, for you are merciful and alive. Free him from his guilt, lead him into the heavenly dwellings, and comfort those who mourn for him here. Through Christ, our Lord.”
Meghan bowed her head until it rested on her hands.
Justine remained upright, but her eyes were wet. Fiona made the sign of the cross. Mary looked at the black cloth, and for a moment it was impossible to tell whether she was thinking of Dane, Ralph, Carl or her own unborn children.
Justin handed the holy water font back to Vittorio. His hand trembled almost imperceptibly. Brian saw it and said nothing. Emmett saw it too and pretended he was only looking at the cloth. That was perhaps his first good deed since the yellow room.
Vittorio made the sign of the cross.

“Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine. Et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace.”

“Amen,” they all said at once.

Outside, the wind battered against the door.
No one moved straight away. The solemnity of the vigil held them fast. In the villa, rooms had lain still, tables had bent, traces had been erased. Here, a black cloth gave Dane a presence that he himself, as a living person, had never had.
Meghan opened her eyes. She looked at the cloth.
“Dane,” she said, not aloud.
Justine heard it anyway.

This time, the name did not sound like a reproach directed at her, but merely like a longing for a son and his father.
And for a brief moment, whilst the incense hung beneath Hippolyt’s painted horses, liturgy was stronger than chaos.