She shuts her eyes and feels herself open. She is everywhere.
Beloved,I am home.
37
Aleys
There’s a knock on her door. Aleys has been keeping to the bedchamber in the bishop’s manor. In part because she can’t bear to lay eyes on the bishop, but mostly because she feels herself leaning toward solitude like a birch leaning toward sun. She would still herself, quiet herself, in preparation. They’ve announced her decision to the town. Tomorrow she will enter the anchorhold.
She rises to open the door. It’s Lukas, and beside him, Papa. His hat is in his hand, silver in his hair. Her heart swells. She throws open the door so fast it bangs against the wall.
“Aleys?” he says. “Oh, daughter.”
Papa takes one step forward and wraps her tight against his chest. Aleys feels tears spring to her eyes. There’s nothing but his strong arms, his familiar smell, the scratch of his beard against her cheek.
“Papa,” she mumbles into his collar. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“You won’t, if they lock you up.” Papa pulls back to glare at Lukas but keeps hold of her arm like he can’t bear to let go. “How can you imprison this child?”
“No, Papa,” she interrupts, taking his chin and turning his face back to her. “I’ve chosen this.”
“These men are making a puppet of you.”
“It’s my desire.”
“To become an anchoress?” His face falls. “You can’t want that.”
“Remember you said how Mama prayed to know God?”
“But—”
“I’ll be free to go where she dreamed.”
“To a cell? No. She wouldn’t want that.”
“What I seek requires solitude.”
“They say you work miracles. Isn’t that enough?”
She thinks, No. No, it’s not. He courses through me, but he doesn’t stay. “I’ve found awe, but not understanding.” She grasps Papa’s arms, makes sure he meets her gaze. “There’s more, Papa, I know there is. I can feel it.”
“You can’t find it at home?”
“No.”
He searches her eyes.
“Truly,” she adds.
Finally, he sees. He sees her. He nods. “I didn’t listen before. I won’t doubt you now.” He clasps her to him again. When Papa pulls back, his cheeks are wet. “I know God calls you.” His words come out thick and rough. “Like Mama.” He kisses her. “But you will always be my daughter.”
38
Friar Lukas
Lukas stands at the altar of Sint-Salvator. Torchlight splinters the fog of incense. The church is full, the front pews filled with aristocracy, merchants in the middle, and peasants standing at the back. All eyes are on his brother in his finest regalia. Crimson and snow, the golden vestments, the peaked cloth crown, the crosier so ornate and curled in on itself that it is hardly recognizable as a shepherd’s crook. Jan looks like God. Beside him, Friar Lukas is a brown mouse.
The balsam of frankincense pricks at his nose. Jan has brought out the best for the ceremony to mark the death of the girl who will be reborn as anchoress. Lukas glances toward the oak door in the wall, the entrance to her tomb. The anchorhold key lies on the altar, gray against white cloth. It makes him think of a relic, a saint’s finger bone amidst gleaming gold and white. Lukas remembers the taper he lit for Aleys in the parish church. It feels long ago. That simple church. He looks up at the soaring stone vault, the stained glass, the crucifix above the altar. Who would have thought it would come to this? The funeral of Sister Aleys.
