I leaned forward and bit into it without hesitation. The flesh was white and perfect, and the juice ran down my chin. He grinned, wiping it clean with his finger before offering me another bite.
This time, it was wrong. The taste coated every surface of my mouth, inescapable. Ash, everything always tasted like ash.
I jumped back and found his fingers blackened, the apple rotting, crawling with worms that spoke in Latin.
You are the gateway of the Devil; you are the one who unseals the curse of that tree, and you are the first one to turn your back on thedivine law; you are the one who persuaded him whom the Devil was not capable of corrupting.?1
Heinrich still smiled, but his teeth had grown sharp, and his eyes reflected flames. Behind him, the trees were burning—no, they had always been burning; I simply hadn’t noticed. The golden light was not sunlight at all but fire, spreading through the orchard like inescapable judgment.
“You knew,” Heinrich said, but his voice was different now, beautiful and terrible. “You have always known.”
The grass beneath my feet turned to hot coals. The gates of the garden slammed shut as I tried to run. I gripped the iron bars, and they flexed under my hands, now scaled. Snakes coiled around my arms and legs, yanking me to the ground as the flames drew closer. They licked at my skin, but now they were hands and lips, just as hot and destructive.
I called out to Heinrich, but he was no longer there. An angel with a flaming sword stood where he’d been, burning so bright that my eyes couldn’t comprehend him.
But I saw the sword rise into the air as that terrible voice declared, “Do you not know that we shall judge angels??2”
I woke gasping, the taste of rot still thick on my tongue. I scrambled from my bed, practically crawling across the floor in my haste to reach the stairs.
The stone was cold beneath my feet as I ascended from my cellar chamber, hoping to breathe in the fresh outdoor air. But as I emerged into the world above, I found something far worse. The summer sun was completely blotted out by smoke rising from the city center. A burning. Whose, I did not know, but it was likely more than one by the amount of smoke. Before I could retreat, the wind shifted, and the smell of burned flesh filled my nostrils until I gagged, retching out the open stone window before me.
As Iemptied my stomach, a bee landed on the back of my hand. Then another, and another, until the sky was filled with ash and buzzing. A buzzing that filled my head until there was nothing else. Then they were gone as quickly as they had arrived.
A warning.
“What? What is coming?” A single bee remained. It danced across the back of my palm before flying off toward the sick house.
My feet were moving before I’d even caught my breath.
The air was thick with sickness that no amount of incense could hide. Death had already made his selection and was simply waiting for the flesh to catch up with what the soul already knew. Morning light filtered through high windows, catching dust motes drifting like souls caught between Heaven and earth. I watched them swirl and spiral, and even with no wind in the chamber, they all gathered over a single bed holding a very small body.
Little Wilhelm lay in the bed nearest the window—I had moved him there myself two days ago, thinking he might like to see the sky. Now I wondered if I had done it so that God might see him more clearly, might remember this small life amongst so many.
He’d been kicked by a horse four days past. His ribs were broken, his breathing shallow and wet. But worse than that—something inside him had ruptured, something no prayer could reach and no herb could mend. His skin had taken on the yellow-gray pallor of internal rot, and his fever burned so hot I could feel it radiating from him before my hand even touched his brow.
He would likely die before sunset. We both knew it—Sister Margareta and I—though neither of us spoke the words aloud. That was the unspoken rule of the sick ward: hope until the last breath, even when hope was a lie. Especially then.
The sill of the window seemed to move as a swarm of bees settled on the outside.
I sank onto the stool beside his bed and dipped a cloth intothe bowl of cool water. When I pressed it to his forehead, he turned toward my hand instinctively, desperate for any small comfort. My throat tightened.
Just a few weeks ago, I’d seen him fashion a sword from a fallen branch and spend the evening slaying invisible dragons, his laughter bright and sharp in the spring air.
Now he lay dying, his joyous days reduced to labored breaths and whimpers of pain. I traced my fingers over his feverish forehead, and a tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.
He was so small under my hand. So fragile. The bones of his skull felt as delicate as a newborn’s beneath the damp cloth.
Why had God chosen him to suffer like this? What sin could a child of seven years possibly have committed to deserve this slow, agonizing end? The priests would say that suffering was a gift, that it purified the soul, that Wilhelm’s pain was preparing him for paradise. But I had seen too many children die in this ward to believe that anymore. I’d held too many small hands as they went cold.
If this was God’s mercy, I wanted no part of it.
Sister Margareta appeared at my shoulder, pressing a fresh cool cloth into my hands. Tears filled her eyes as she peered down at Wilhelm, and she did not try to hide them as I did.
“It is always hardest when they are young,” she whispered.
I couldn’t speak. If I opened my mouth, I would scream, and once I started, I was uncertain I could stop.
She seemed to understand. She always did. Her hand rested briefly on my shoulder—steady as I shook with silent sobs—and then she began to sing. I didn’t recognize the language, but I assumed it was from her home province far to the south. The melody was soft and mournful, a lullaby for the dying, and Wilhelm’s labored breathing seemed to ease slightly as the notes washed over him.
