Ross arrived at St Patrick’s on a Tuesday morning, the sky over Manly pale and uncertain, like an unpolished pew. The seminary loomed before him, sandstone walls rising in sharp, unwavering lines, windows tall and narrow, the spires cutting a thin silhouette against the early sun. It smelled faintly of wet stone, varnish, and old books, a scent that promised discipline and whispered authority in equal measure.