The Treasure Box by Penelope Stokes Page B

weaving the bits and pieces together to form a cozy sanctuary for its young.
    A snatch of a tune drifted through Vita’s consciousness—children’s reedy voices, singing about God’s eye being on the sparrow. Her mind latched onto the image. The bird, close against the glass, had no idea Vita was watching from the other side. Every instinct built into its tiny avian brain had guided the sparrow to the back of the bush; it had chosen this spot, the densest portion of the hedge, to guard its babies from predators and prying eyes. And yet, quite outside the realm of its awareness, the sparrow had positioned its safe haven in full view of Vita Kirk.
    Did the Almighty see human beings the way Vita saw the bird—instinctively attempting to shield against danger, desperately fluttering about, trying to create an illusion of security in a world full of peril? And did the Creator smile—indulgently, benevolently—at the creature’s attempts to hide even from the gaze of one who meant them no harm?
    No harm? Certainly Vita had no dark designs against the tiny sparrow, but how could anyone possibly say the same about God?
    For all that religious rhetoric about a loving, protective Deity, every sign Vita had seen pointed to the opposite conclusion.
    Hattie. Gordon and Mary Kate. Sophie. Rachel.
    The reality was, bad things happened to good people. And infinitely more irksome, in Vita’s mind, was the correlative truth: good things happened to bad people. Even the Bible said so, if Vita could trust a twenty-five-year-old memory dredged up from confirmation class: Why do the wicked prosper, O God?
    â€œNot likely to get an answer for that dilemma,” Vita murmured to herself as she punched the button to boot up the computer. People had been raising the question for millennia, but so far God—if such a Being existed—seemed to be taking a long sabbatical.
    Apparently Rachel Woodlea was asking the same question.
    When the familiar star-studded night sky on the computer screen gave way to a daylight scene, Vita saw Rachel, alone, walking along the river near the spot where Sophie had fallen in. The rush of the water and the song of birds overhead combined to create a placid, restful atmosphere, but Rachel seemed anything but peaceful.
    â€œWhy?” she fumed, pacing back and forth on the bank. “Why?”
    Vita could feel the girl’s turmoil in her own stomach. She hadn’t yet figured out how, but sometimes when she went into the Treasure Box program, she could hear people’s thoughts and share their feelings. Not always, and not with everyone, but often enough that she was becoming accustomed to the sensation.
    It was rather like viewing a movie and reading the book simultaneously. On screen, she saw the action and heard the dialogue. But inside, on a deeper level, Vita could actually understand what the characters thought, how they felt. She could see the world from their perspective.
    Like now. Vita had watched Rachel’s aborted wedding only a few hours ago, and yet she knew that for Rachel, two agonizing weeks had passed—fourteen days of solitude in her tiny room.
    Knew that Rachel had quit her barmaid’s job at The Judas Tree, and that Elisabeth Tyner, the dressmaker who had created her wedding gown, had offered her a position in her shop. The pay was adequate—better than what Rachel had earned at the tavern, and the working conditions were pleasant. Yet Rachel hadn’t been able to bring herself to say yes. People in town were still gossiping about the wedding fiasco, and Rachel still felt unprepared to face their pity and disdain.
    Vita watched as Rachel continued to pace.
    â€œWon’t someone answer me?” she shouted to the rushing river.
    â€œSophie? Papa? God? Anyone? Please, I beg of you, won’t someone tell me what to do?”
    At last Rachel gave up pacing and seated herself on the riverbank. She gazed out over the tumbling