Sweet Sanctuary by Kim Vogel Sawyer Page B

masquerading as a bed. Nothing more than a worn, sagging mattress on a rusty iron frame that folded up on itself, the bed promised to be very uncomfortable. But she wouldn’t need to spend too many nights on it. Father had warned her to prepare for a lengthy stay in New York, claiming there was no way to know for certain how long it would take to find Mrs. Fenwick. But Nicky needed rescuing now, and Lydia trusted God to guide her quickly to the woman.
    Her hands paused in their task and she drew in a slow breath, a smile twitching at her lips. How wonderful to rest confidently in the assurance of God’s attention to her need—especially since Micah’s attention seemed sorely lacking. She had pulled outher Bible and read some passages in Matthew while eating her simple supper, and she reflected on a section of Scripture. The words “If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed . . . nothing shall be impossible unto you” had nearly leaped from the page onto her heart. Bending forward, she smoothed the wrinkles from the sheets as she reminded herself even if right now her faith was small—no bigger than a mustard seed—it was still sufficient. And just as a mustard plant grew from a tiny seed, her faith would continue to grow as she placed her trust in God. The thought brought a pleasant rush of peace.
    A breeze pressed in through one of the windows, riffling the back of her hair and carrying a mildewy odor. Crossing to the closest window, she pushed the simple off-white curtain aside. Palms resting on the dirty sill, she leaned out slightly and gazed left and right. The army-ordered dim-out resulted in the city resting beneath a muted glow, but the dimming of lights seemed to have little effect on activity. The afternoon’s busy traffic had slowed with the descent of evening, but groups of people loitered on the sidewalks, talking and laughing.
    At the corner, a pair of teenage boys leaned on the iron light pole, cigarettes dangling from their lips, while they jostled one another and whistled at any young woman who wandered by. While Lydia watched, one of the boys lifted his head and fixed his gaze on her. He punched his buddy, pointed, and then both boys leered at her. Lydia withdrew and closed the window as the boys’ raucous laughter filtered to her ears. She whisked the shades downward on both windows, sealing herself away from any other prying eyes. Then she busied herself emptying the contents of her suitcase.
    Shelves tucked into a cubby near the tiny kitchen held most of her belongings, but her suits required hanging. A search of the apartment revealed no closet, so she made use of a seriesof pegs along one wall. She slipped out of her yellow travel suit and hooked it carefully over a wooden peg. A smear of blood marred the lapel of her jacket. Lydia slid her fingers across the brownish stain, and an image of the frightened little girl she’d held filled her mind. How quickly the child’s countenance had changed with gentle attention. What a wonderful service Micah provided, seeing to the needs of the city’s immigrant population. She nibbled her lower lip, pondering. Might the package he needed to retrieve be supplies? If so, why did he seem upset rather than grateful?
    Reaching for her pajamas, she started to dress for bed. But an inner restlessness changed her hands’ direction. Instead, she donned a pair of trousers and a blouse. Despite the bedtime hour and her long hours of travel, she wasn’t ready to turn in. Perhaps a few minutes of taking in the night air would clear her mind and allow her to sleep. Leather slippers on her feet and the key Mrs. Flannigan had given her in her pocket, she left the apartment.
    On the stairway, she passed a couple locked in a rather ardent embrace and an older woman who muttered insults at the unconcerned couple. Her slippers slapped softly against the concrete stairs, her shadow creeping along beside her. She