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it. She glanced up at the television, tuned to a cable channel, trying hard not to let the ultra-conservative talk show host get to her. Despite her outward appearance of strength, Maureen hated confrontation. Even the possibility that they might be discussing her work was painful. It was like watching a devastating car accident — she couldn’t tear her eyes away, no matter how unpleasant the sight before her.
    The overzealous host introduced his esteemed guest, following with the question, “Isn’t this just another in a long line of attacks against the Church?”
    The identifying title
Bishop Magnus O’Connor
appeared under the aging face of an irate cleric as he responded in an unmistakable Irish accent. “Of course. For centuries, we have endured the slander of misguided individuals who would attempt to damage the faith of millions for their own personal gain. These feminist extremists need to accept the fact that all of the recognized apostles were men.”
    Maureen surrendered. She just wasn’t up to this tonight — it had been too long and emotional a day. With a touch of the remote control button, she silenced the churchman, wishing it were that easy in real life.
    “Bite me, your holiness,” she grumbled, as she took herself off to bed.

    A beam from the lights outside Maureen’s hotel room shone on the bedside table, illuminating her sleeping potions: a half-empty glass of red wine and a box of an over-the-counter sleep aid. A small crystal ashtray adjacent to a table lamp held the ancient copper ring from Jerusalem.
    Maureen tossed restlessly, despite her self-medicating attempt at achieving undisturbed sleep. The dream came, as relentless as it was unbidden.
    It started as it always did — the commotion, the sweat, the crowd. But when Maureen reached the part of the dream where she first spotted the woman, everything went black. She was plunged into a void for an unknowable amount of time.
    And then, the dream changed.

    On an idyllic day along the shores of the Sea of Galilee, a little boy ran ahead of his lovely mother. He did not share her startling hazel eyes and rich copper hair, as his little sister did. He had a different look, dark and intense, surprisingly brooding for such a small boy. Running to the shore, he picked up an interesting rock that caught his eye and held it up to glitter in the sun.
    His mother called a warning to him not to go too far into the water. She was without her formal veil today, and her long, loose hair billowed around her face as she grabbed the hand of the little girl, who was a perfect miniature version of herself.
    The voice of a man expressed a similar but good-natured warning to the tiny girl who had broken away from her mother’s grasp and now ran to join her brother. The child looked rebellious, but her mother laughed, glancing over a shoulder to smile intimately at the man who walked behind her. On this casual walk with his young family, his garment was unbleached and unbelted, not the pristine white robe he wore in public. He brushed long strands of chestnut-colored hair from his eyes and returned her smile with his own, an expression filled with love and contentment.

    Maureen was thrust violently back into a waking state as if she had been thrown physically from the dream and propelled into her hotel room. She was shaking. The dreams always disturbed her, but this was even more disconcerting, this feeling of hurtling through time and space. She was breathing quickly, and made a concerted effort to regain her balance and breathe in a more relaxed fashion.
    Maureen was just beginning to regain her bearings when she became aware of a movement across her room, in the doorway. She was sure of a rustle, yet sensed rather than saw the figure that appeared in the doorway of her room. What she actually did see was indefinable — a shape, a figure, a movement. It didn’t matter. Maureen knew who it was just as surely as she knew she was no longer dreaming. It