Father Gustavo Silvio stood beside me, looking back and forth between Rafael and I. He looked young, perhaps in his mid-twenties. That would have put him at maybe ten years old when Catholicism was banned in Aztlan—too young to have been ordained by anything but an underground practitioner of the faith. He wore lay clothes—naturally enough, since he couldn’t wear a priest’s vestments—and was strikingly handsome—good-looking enough to make me wonder if Catholic priests still practiced celibacy. He had the lean body of an athlete, dark hair that swept back from his face in a series of curls, and eyes that were intense and somehow sorrowful at the same time.