Colin frowned. “How does that make Sunniva a saint?”
The priest raised his midnight eyes to him. “Forty years later, Olaf Tryggveson, the Christian king of Norway, ventured to the island to look into reports of a strange light coming from the cave. He unblocked the entrance and found skeletal remains and the incorrupt body of a beautiful woman.”
“Sunniva, the Irish princess,” Colin said, sitting back with whiskey in hand. “What’s ‘incorrupt’?”
Emma swirled the amber contents of her glass. “An incorrupt body is one that doesn’t decompose in the natural process. Long after death, the person continues to appear as if he or she has simply fallen asleep.”
“Incorruptibility isn’t a requirement or a guarantee of sainthood, and it’s no longer considered a miracle by the church,” Bracken said.
Colin sat forward. “Sunniva and company probably should have been more specific about what they were praying for. They got their wish, but they also ended up trapped in a cave.” He set down his glass. “I suppose dying in a cave is better than getting burned at the stake.”
Bracken shrugged. “It’s unlikely the Vikings would have burned Sunniva and her companions at the stake. More likely they’d have carried them off into slavery or hacked them to death.”
“Easier to be an incorruptible if you die of natural causes in a cave,” Colin said, not letting it go. “Did many saints live to a ripe old age?”
The priest traced a fingertip along the edge of the Bracken Distillers label. “Some.”
“Saint Augustine lived into his seventies. He’s a classical theologian, one of the most important figures in the ancient church.” Emma spoke quietly, staring into her whiskey as if she were transfixed. “He was from North Africa. He didn’t convert to Christianity until his thirties.”
Bracken watched her a moment, then said, “We must remember that each recognized saint was a flesh-and-blood human being. Saints aren’t gods. In fact, that’s the whole point. We pray to them not as gods, not to perform miracles, but to intercede with Christ on our behalf.” He kept his gaze on the woman across from him. “Their example shows us what is within our grasp as human beings and moves us toward lives of faith, hope and charity, a deeper understanding of what is truly holy.”
“Except the saints that were made up,” Colin said.
Bracken sighed. “Some saints are certainly the product of a reinterpretation of local legends or the mingling of fact and legend. Saint Sunniva is a patron saint of Norway. A Benedictine monastery was built on the site of her cave on Selje. That’s powerful imagery, but her story is likely more legend than fact. Nonetheless, she is still venerated as a model of faith.”
Emma seemed to tune back into the conversation. “Sunniva became a saint before the church centralized and formalized its canonization process.”
“That’s right,” Bracken said. “In the early days, saints were often declared by popular acclaim, or by the local bishop, for local reasons. The pope was rarely involved until several hundred years after King Olaf discovered Sunniva’s intact remains.”
Colin pushed back his chair and stretched out his legs. The sky was dark over the harbor, and the diners were beginning to thin out. A priest and an art expert discussing saints was interesting, but did it get them closer to discovering Sister Joan’s killer? He glanced at Emma, her green eyes picking up some of the amber color of the whiskey as she took another swallow. Did the talk of saints get him closer to understanding her? Did he want to know if it did?
He twitched in his chair, restless. “You should eat something,” he told her.
She shook her head. “I’m not hungry.”
“You had one bite of that muffin today. Fin—”
“I recommend soup,” he said. “I’ve grown fond of Hurley’s clam chowder.”
Colin grinned. “Best in New England.”
Plump Jamie Hurley herself brought cups of chowder and little packets of round oyster crackers. Emma picked up her spoon without protest.
“Jack d’Auberville had an interest in Vikings,” Colin said. “He painted a room that includes possible Viking artifacts and is dominated by a painting of a Viking warship coming after Saint Sunniva. He kept the painting, stuffing it in his studio for his daughter to find thirty years later.”
“What was his relationship with the Sharpe family?” Bracken asked.
Emma sprinkled the oyster crackers on her chowder. “I don’t know of one.”
Colin wasn’t hungry and really didn’t want chowder but dug in anyway. “What’s the story with Ainsley and your brother?”
“They saw each other for a short time last summer. Obviously whatever was between them is over, since she’s engaged to Gabe Campbell.”
“Who broke things off?” Colin asked.
Emma dipped her spoon into her chowder and crackers. She clearly didn’t like being the one answering questions. “I always thought it was mutual, with no drama. They were never that serious. Ainsley had finally zeroed in on what she wanted to do as a painter.”
“Would Lucas have told you if they had been serious?”
“Either he’d have told me, or I’d have figured it out.” She tried the chowder, not looking at either Colin or Bracken. “We’re a tight-knit family. We get together here in Maine regularly, even before I was assigned to Boston.”
Colin gave up on his chowder. “Is your brother an expert in Vikings and saint art?”
“No,” she said. “He’s an expert in art crime.”
She was cool, logical, not easily ruffled. She was also, Colin thought, still holding back.
He tore open his packet of crackers but didn’t eat any. “Why didn’t you stick with the family business?”
“Because I joined the FBI.”
“Ainsley didn’t go to you with her father’s painting. She went to Sister Joan.”
“Ainsley wanted the painting cleaned. There was no reason to involve me.”
“Sister Joan thought there was. That’s why she called you.” Colin saw color return to Emma’s cheeks, but he didn’t know if it was him, the whiskey or the steam from the chowder. “Ainsley’s a spoiled rich girl?”
Emma set aside her chowder. “It’s easy to reduce her to that, I suppose. She
