“It’s not true.”Let it be true.
Aleys pulls her head back, suddenly wary, as though unsure she can trust him. That’s not the question. Can he trust her? His jaw tightens. He draws in a breath and holds it like a discipline. His discernment, his judgment, his duty to protect his order from charlatans are all held in this breath. He’s aware that he’s trembling.
A sudden gust sweeps through the open door, as if invisible attendants have joined at her shoulders. He waits. She must speak. Everything hangs on her answer. Her cheeks color, and he doesn’t know how to read the blush. Boldness? Shame? Humility?
Did she, or did she not perform a miracle? He can’t let himself be duped by a child. But if it’s true—if it’s true—he hardly dares think of it. Lukas feels boyish wonder rise. It threatens to fill him, and he must resist. He wants to believe. His faith shivers, cautious and hungry, out on a limb. She’s the apple at the tip of the branch. He wants to lunge for the fruit.Please. Everything, everything, depends on her answer. He is waiting for God to speak to him through a woman.
But he remembers Adam, seduced by a woman. “I order you to deny it.” He lets the words hang like a challenge.
“Please, Father. Listen.” She hugs her hands to her stomach. “I don’t know what happened.”
“How can you—?”
“I was just praying. And the boy woke up.”
“No. It was more than that.” He hears himself. “There were witnesses.”
“It was a dream.”
“It was more than a dream.” What is he doing? He’s leading her.
“I don’t know.” She won’t meet his eyes. “I don’t think so.”
“God spoke through you.”
“Father, I’ve prayed my whole life to meet God. But not for this. I don’t know if it was real.”
“God guided your hand.” He stretches for the fruit.
Her face contracts in confusion. “You just ordered me to deny it.”
“Tell me the truth!”
Frustration floods his hands, bursting open his fists. Before he can help himself, he grabs her arms. He knows he shouldn’t touch her, he knows he’s out of control. He starts shaking her. He can’t stop. Roiling waters surge within him, press through his chest, spill over his shoulders, course the length of his arms. He jerks her as if he would shake loose devils. How dare she? “You think you’re Saint Clare? That you can perform wonders?” He hears her teeth rattle. “You wicked child.”
She turns her head, tries to pull away. Wool slides through his hands until he is gripping the bare flesh of her wrists, so small he could snap them. “Why won’t you tell me the truth?”
He is breathing hard, and she is, too, gasping for breath.
He feels it then, a vibration. A buzzing coming from her clenched hands. He turns them over. Her knuckles are white, her small pink nails pressed hard into the heels of her palms.
“What are you hiding?”
“Nothing.”
“Open them.”
She shakes her head.
“Don’t make me force you.”
She flashes her hands open like a slap. Her palms are empty. And buzzing.
“What is this?”
“Since the hospital. Like I hold wasps.”
He touches his thumbs into the center of her palms and she winces. The humming grows stronger as he clamps her hands, a kernel of vibration, just where ... He is picturing iron spikes driven through tender flesh.
