“Your eyes are those of a dove?” Her small smile tilts into a question.
“Yes! You did understand. I looked for you, after the service. You know Latin? How?”
“I taught myself to read. My psalter. I read it every day.”
“That’s remarkable.” He puts his hand on his heart. “And you seek a life of prayer?”
“Yes.”
He nods to himself. “We should talk. If you are in earnest—”
“Please,” she interrupts, “there’s not much time. Can you come tomorrow?”
6
Aleys
Aleys listens and waits and listens some more. A cool breath sighs down the chimney, stirring the ashes in the grate. Henryk and Claus are finally gone to bed, the dregs of wine silting in their cups. Her brothers were all too happy to start celebrating on the wedding’s eve. Papa was unusually quiet and retired early. None of them know that a few days ago, Aleys slipped a scrap of paper to the friars at the gate. “Get it to Friar Lukas,” she whispered. “Quickly.” Now or never.
The moon traverses the window impossibly slowly, as if it will never reach the peak of the sky. Her fingertips tingle with anticipation, and she bites her palms as if to taste the coming glory. She’s about to enter the psalter. She can feel the kingdom around the corner, the armies of angels waiting just beyond sight. From the corners of her eyes the six-winged seraphim flee like wisps of cloud before the storm.Wait for me!She knows there is more to this life. She’s about to give everything for a sip of the secret honey. Everything.
Beside her, Griete snorts and turns away, pulling the bedclothes with her, creating a chill hollow in the small of Aleys’s back. She watches the rise and fall of Griete’s round shoulder, forces herself to bear the raw ache of it.I’ll miss you, she thinks.I wish I could save you, little sister.Griete’s hair is loose against the bolster. Aleys reaches out to stroke it, to feel it slip between her fingers. She’d like to plait the fair silk strands and loop them into a crown, the way Griete prefers, one last time. Aleys lets her hand fall to the pillow. She’s about to ruin them. Griete won’t understand. Griete will never forgive.
Stop, Aleys tells herself. You’re committed. You’re almost there. She shakes herself and checks the window. Now, she thinks. It is spring, the moon is risen, and my new life awaits.
She parts the bed curtains and swings her legs out, one at a time. Griete doesn’t stir. Aleys shrugs off her chemise, slips into her linens. She glances at the finery laid out for the wedding, the embroidered sleeves with their intricate metal buttons, long enough to sweep the chapel floor. The buttons wink in the moonlight like mean little spirits. She pinches one and twists it. If only she were wearing it to chapel with Finn. She releases the button. In this world, men—lovers, friends, fathers—abandon women.
Forget men. She has a new beloved now.
Aleys turns from the wedding finery to her wool dress. Her most plain dress, still not plain enough. It should be brown, the color of beasts, not dyed blue to flatter her eyes. Aleys belts the girdle around her waist and reaches for her psalter. She hesitates. The book, vivid with lapis and leaf, is anything but plain. But she can’t leave it behind. Aleys slips the psalter into its scarlet pouch and presses the silk to her cheek, feels the smooth slip against her skin, then kisses it and loops the pouch strings around her girdle with practiced fingers. She ties on her stockings and slides to the hall, shoes in hand, down the steps to the back door, the door never opened, unless to let out a casket. She will be dead to them, she knows, once they discover what she’s done.
At the back door, Farrago comes to say goodbye.You alone wait up this hour with me, she thinks. She scratches him behind the ears. “Adieu, Farrago,” she whispers. “I will miss you, dear friend, but I go to God.” She swings her cloak over her shoulders, lifts the latch silently, and is free.
She needs no light; she knows the beaten path. At the bridge, she stops. Her hand travels her dark braid, thick and sleek as a living thing, one last time. Then she picks up her pace and her joy bubbles forth, and Aleys runs, she flies toward her beloved. A pair of birds bursts startled from roadside grasses, and she stops to watch their silhouettes wing away. Angels, she thinks, this time I follow.
The church rears before her, large and close. Her feet falter, even as her heart propels. Her step stutters. Why should her feet object? She knows this church, where she was baptized, where the butcher’s wife sings off-key, where there is a drafty spot toward the altar. It is a stout and homely village church. Tonight, though, the familiar gray stone feels somber and strange, like a widow at a wedding.
A blemished moon watches through new leaves. Aleys shivers as if the moon’s gaze might freeze her to the spot. There is God, there is the devil, and there is the witness moon. It looks skeptical, somehow, like it mocks her commitment. If only the church itself didn’t look so cold. She shakes herself. God has called me here. My beloved is within. That thought lightens her heart, and she sprints across the yard and pushes into the church.
The oak doors bang against the walls. At her feet, rose and brown tiles stretch in a diamond path to the apse. A lone taper burns vigil on the altar cloth. Vaulted wooden ribs press from above, a known weight. Her rapid breathing fills the space. She’s never seen it empty. The merchants, the baker, the blacksmith, their wives in their woolens. They are all abed, safe. It’s rather exciting, being alone in the church. It makes her want to dance.
She closes the doors softly, and the flame reaches toward her. A faint honeyed fragrance, beeswax, floats down the aisle. It’s her bridegroom beckoning. Aleys presses her back against the door. She wants a sign. She wants to see him.Show yourself, my Lord. I am offering my life to you. Show yourself to me.
And, quietly, before her, she beholds a small miracle, the tiniest of miracles. The flame atop the taper deepens from shivering primrose to something lustrous and deep, a burnished copper. A radiant halo graces the snowy altar cloth, the oak prayer rail, the high cross. The candle burns so vivid it seems alive, both flame and more than flame. It leaps out in sudden relief, borders distinct in the air, colors more brilliant than gems. It is singular. The flame seems not of this world, more real than reality, so real that it throws everything else in doubt. Aleys looks down at her hands, solid and true, and back to the altar. The halo of light is still there. She’s not imagining it. He is here.
Her breath comes quick and shallow. She wants only this grace. She feels the kernel of fire deep in her chest, the hiddenmost desire, rush to meet its marriage in the flame, and the joy within her expands and breaks her surface. She will inhale no doubts, exhale no questions. It is all she needs, this sign. She runs to the altar as to an embrace of light.
7
Friar Lukas
Friar Lukas starts at the sound of the church doors banging open. He can’t see the girl from his vantage in the side chapel, but he can hear her. Her ragged breath fills the space, fast and urgent, as if she’s run like a fox along the canal. He is slightly shocked but corrects himself. After all, he brought her to Christ’s chamber door. So the bride is keen, he thinks. I should not begrudge my Lord an eager spouse. Her shallow breaths, coming so urgent, have an almost marital intimacy, as if she and Christ were already joined. A warm shame ascends his throat. He hears her close the doors quietly like she’s sealing a bedchamber. He wants to see her face.
Lukas rises from his knees and steadies himself against the wall. He creeps along the passage to its intersection with the nave. He keeps to the shadow, he knows not why. When he peers around the corner, he sees he would have been invisible to her, even in broad daylight. The girl is aglow, her eyes glittering and greedy, her braid glossy, her cheeks burning. Her gaze is fixed on the flame of the taper he lit for her, as if it were a living thing. As if, he thinks, she is witnessing angels.
He glances to the crucifix above and back to the girl, who is under the candle’s spell. An annoyance flicks through him; it seems a small heresy to ignore Christ for a candle, but nor can he tear his eyes from her light. The flame burns and she burns with it, and the sweet smell of beeswax seems to come from her and the candle. The air thrums with desire.What do you see?He wants to ask.What do you feel?His longing is an ache at the base of his spine. His hands dangle cold at the end of his wrists. If he could reach her, touch the back of her hand, her heat would travel his arm and scorch his heart. Her passion would engulf him, would burn away his failures. His sins, his doubts, would become light as cinders. He wants—he holds his breath at the thought—to be consumed in the bonfire. He doesn’t move. He watches her from the shadow, his cheeks hot with shame. He can’t say which is worse to witness, Aleys’s ardor for Christ or Christ’s ardor for Aleys.
She sprints toward the altar. Lukas reaches for the robes and the knife and steps to meet her.
