chanting his name. “Hear me. I want to make confession.”
Stefan looked around for Bastion but saw no one. She was either very clever or pitiful and sincere. He could not refuse her, since he was a servant of God. She might ask for mercy. She might want to be delivered. Or she might be blaspheming. He edged closer to her hand, her fingers clawing at the air.
“I know you’re there,” she whispered. “I hear you breathing. You are afraid.”
“I am here.”
“I want to confess. I want to be clean.”
The witch belonged to Bastion. Bastion should know what she said, that she called for confession. Bastion should be there. Bastion would know what to do, handle it all effortlessly, probably rolling his eyes at this rural priest who could not even handle a confession.
Stefan held his breath. He would do it. Bastion would sleep through it all. Stefan would deliver this woman in the name of the Lord and present her to the people the next morning. Their awe at the power of God, through Stefan’s hands, would be immeasurable. What Bastion could stir up, Stefan could stir up. Word would spread.
“God help me,” Stefan prayed. “Help me to free this woman at last. Deliver her through me.”
He grasped her hand, ignoring the grit beneath his fingertips. He whispered Latin words like a lullaby, waiting to hear of her deep and unthinkable shame.
He thought of Bastion’s face, what it would look like when he saw that Stefan had delivered this hardened witch. And he was still picturing Bastion’s face as the witch yanked him toward the bars, as her teeth sank into his ear, ripping off a piece of his flesh. Her grip was stronger than any man’s, the fury of the Devil himself digging her fingers into his flesh as she bit into him again.
Only in later hours would Stefan remember the moment clearly and swear silently to himself that he had heard the distant sound of laughter.
Chapter Twelve
Bjorn walked Mia home in silence, deep in thought.
“You sat and waited? The whole time I sat with Stefan and Bastion?”
“Is that all right? You wanted me to come, didn’t you?”
He nodded, saying nothing more.
She flexed her toes with each step, trying to get blood back in them, to keep the remaining toes from turning gray and hard. She said nothing, though. He did not need to hear of her troubles or discover a new flaw.
He kept his hand at her back much of the way, except when he had to help her climb over a fallen tree, or step over a narrow turn in the creek. She wanted to thank him, or praise him for his kindness, but she did not know if other wives did that. It might call too much attention to her, make her seem insincere. She tried to copy the speech of other wives in town, but it always sounded false.
The dark path provided welcome distractions. She loved the changing scent as they walked, weaving through the trees back to their home. Sparse areas had clean, quiet air, but deeper in, the moss scrambled and the trees rioted together, creating a denser air. Smells of decay and dirt and hidden dens mixed with the smell of crushed ferns and warm sap. Already there were flowers coming up. Mia wondered what else had grown underneath her, and all around her, during the long winter. She watched where she stepped.
Mia paused for a moment to inhale a long draught of air, trying to fill her belly and keep herself moving. Her home sat away from the town square, away from other farms and families. Bjorn didn’t like noise or other people. He said he got enough of both in his work.
Mia wanted to fill the house with more children, but Bjorn had resisted. Whether he did not want more children or just didn’t want Mia anymore, she never dared ask. She couldn’t even ask herself in the quiet at night, those long nights when he was working or having beer with townsmen. She worked to please him. She had pledged herself to him, bursting with so much gratitude she would have done anything for him, had he asked it.
Still,
Stefan looked around for Bastion but saw no one. She was either very clever or pitiful and sincere. He could not refuse her, since he was a servant of God. She might ask for mercy. She might want to be delivered. Or she might be blaspheming. He edged closer to her hand, her fingers clawing at the air.
“I know you’re there,” she whispered. “I hear you breathing. You are afraid.”
“I am here.”
“I want to confess. I want to be clean.”
The witch belonged to Bastion. Bastion should know what she said, that she called for confession. Bastion should be there. Bastion would know what to do, handle it all effortlessly, probably rolling his eyes at this rural priest who could not even handle a confession.
Stefan held his breath. He would do it. Bastion would sleep through it all. Stefan would deliver this woman in the name of the Lord and present her to the people the next morning. Their awe at the power of God, through Stefan’s hands, would be immeasurable. What Bastion could stir up, Stefan could stir up. Word would spread.
“God help me,” Stefan prayed. “Help me to free this woman at last. Deliver her through me.”
He grasped her hand, ignoring the grit beneath his fingertips. He whispered Latin words like a lullaby, waiting to hear of her deep and unthinkable shame.
He thought of Bastion’s face, what it would look like when he saw that Stefan had delivered this hardened witch. And he was still picturing Bastion’s face as the witch yanked him toward the bars, as her teeth sank into his ear, ripping off a piece of his flesh. Her grip was stronger than any man’s, the fury of the Devil himself digging her fingers into his flesh as she bit into him again.
Only in later hours would Stefan remember the moment clearly and swear silently to himself that he had heard the distant sound of laughter.
Chapter Twelve
Bjorn walked Mia home in silence, deep in thought.
“You sat and waited? The whole time I sat with Stefan and Bastion?”
“Is that all right? You wanted me to come, didn’t you?”
He nodded, saying nothing more.
She flexed her toes with each step, trying to get blood back in them, to keep the remaining toes from turning gray and hard. She said nothing, though. He did not need to hear of her troubles or discover a new flaw.
He kept his hand at her back much of the way, except when he had to help her climb over a fallen tree, or step over a narrow turn in the creek. She wanted to thank him, or praise him for his kindness, but she did not know if other wives did that. It might call too much attention to her, make her seem insincere. She tried to copy the speech of other wives in town, but it always sounded false.
The dark path provided welcome distractions. She loved the changing scent as they walked, weaving through the trees back to their home. Sparse areas had clean, quiet air, but deeper in, the moss scrambled and the trees rioted together, creating a denser air. Smells of decay and dirt and hidden dens mixed with the smell of crushed ferns and warm sap. Already there were flowers coming up. Mia wondered what else had grown underneath her, and all around her, during the long winter. She watched where she stepped.
Mia paused for a moment to inhale a long draught of air, trying to fill her belly and keep herself moving. Her home sat away from the town square, away from other farms and families. Bjorn didn’t like noise or other people. He said he got enough of both in his work.
Mia wanted to fill the house with more children, but Bjorn had resisted. Whether he did not want more children or just didn’t want Mia anymore, she never dared ask. She couldn’t even ask herself in the quiet at night, those long nights when he was working or having beer with townsmen. She worked to please him. She had pledged herself to him, bursting with so much gratitude she would have done anything for him, had he asked it.
Still,
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