He was left-handed, she realized belatedly, pondering the rarity of that for a moment. It occurred to her that Aldo Damiani was probably something of a rarity himself.
Then the homily ended and Aldo stopped scribbling, registering the shift in atmosphere and taking his cue from the people around him. He wasn’t totally oblivious, then, though he hadn’t seemed to notice that his leg was now pressing into hers. They were touching from hip to knee, a straight line of joint conjecture. He lifted his hand in the air, his fingers curling into his palm for a moment with indecision, and then he carefully retracted it.
Regan felt a spark go out of her, rising, ironically, to profess her faith.
Beside her, Aldo continued reciting things from memory. This was something he did every week, she recalled, so that made sense. This was part of his ritual. He had done it every Sunday before her, and he would do it every Sunday from this point on. She wondered how often he let other people in, considering for a moment that perhaps she was not the first, but then she dismissed it nearly as quickly. She knew, after all, which of his motions looked practiced and which of them did not. He wasn’t accustomed to someone being this close to him. This was visibly unrehearsed.
She wasn’t sure what to do with that revelation.
The priest blessed the body and blood of Christ and Regan thought nothing of it. In fairness, she thought little of vampirism, either. Nothing in her world was really grotesque. Her mind wandered elsewhere （a sin, surely, but the least of them）， and it wasn’t until Aldo reached for her hand that she remembered, suddenly, the way this usually went.
His palm was warm and dry, closing gently around her knuckles. This prayer she knew. This one even Marc probably knew, WASP that he was. Regan held Aldo’s hand loosely, not quite breathing. She lamented not being able to take stock of him in further detail until she remembered there was no compelling reason to hold back.
She would have only one more conversation with Aldo Damiani after this one.
Regan slid her hand forward, traversing the peaks and valleys of his knuckles with her fingers. She felt him look at her, a little surprised, but she was looking at his hand. There were scars on his knuckles; faint ones. One or two on his fingers. She drew over them horizontally, then vertically, down each of his fingers and up to the beds of his nails, tracing the cuticles.
The prayer ended.
He didn’t let go.
She turned his palm over, inspecting it. She ran her fingers over his life line, which curved from the side of his hand and branched off in two, possibly three, before ending around the tendon of his thumb. She closed her hand around his wrist, measuring it, and looked up to find his eyes, gauging his reaction.
He was watching her with curiosity, but not confusion.
She returned her attention to his hand.
Above the life line was the head line, then the heart line. She remembered this from a book she’d read as a girl, never removing it from the library. Her mother had Old World superstitions, but Regan hadn’t been able to stop herself from seeking out whatever new ones she could find. Both lines stretched broadly across his palm, neat and orderly. Not like hers, all splintered and webbed. She always thought hers meant she that had two hearts, two heads, two faces. She stroked her thumb over his knuckles, an expression of gratitude-reassurance-apology.
Someone cleared their throat behind her. It was time for communion.
She moved to release Aldo’s hand, about to trudge up to the altar, but he tightened his grip, stepping back to let the others pass. A slow trickle of four or so people slid by them, making their way to the center aisle, but Aldo sat down, not releasing her. She sat beside him, their joined hands floating between them for a moment before Regan decided to place them in the narrow vacancy between her leg and his, resting atop the wooden pew.
Then she swallowed, placing each of the tips of her fingers onto the raised calluses of his palm. They were more noticeable this way, when his hand was relaxed. She placed them one by one, index-middle-ring-pinky, and he curled his fingers around hers, drawing a slow circle along the knuckle of her forefinger.
They were both staring up at the altar, the rest of their respective pieces motionless and still, and she slid her fingers between his, interlacing them carefully.
His thumb stroked a hovering line over hers, journeying upwards from second knuckle to third.
She drew hers along the crease of his wrist.
The music ended. Prayer resumed.
Aldo turned her hand over, this time twining the backs of their fingers together.
She gave him a single pulse of pressure, heart banging in her throat.