“It’s a cat, Stefan,” Bjorn said. “You can laugh.”

  “What did Rose have to do with Catarina or Cronwall? Why would she want them dead?”

  Bjorn leaned forward. Stefan could feel his breath on his neck.

  “Rose is dead, Stefan. You should be in here praising God instead of questioning His ways. ”

  “Tonight is Bastion’s last night here. He did his job, rooting out the witch who stirred up trouble among us. I’ll accept that. But I will see that he is gone by tomorrow morning.”

  Bjorn looked confused. “You do not know?”

  “What?”

  “Rose confessed during her questioning. She said there are dozens more witches in our village. Witches that fly with the Devil to Sabbath meetings, where they smash the sacred Host wafers under their feet and commit evil, indecent acts with their demon lovers, or even Satan.”

  Stefan’s stomach pushed up into his throat, making him want to vomit. He shook his head. “Do you hear yourself? This is madness. It will end tonight, and Bastion will leave in the morning.”

  Bjorn smiled, a kind, pitiful smile that comes with bad news. “No. Bastion has only begun.”

  Alma stirred in her bed, her little rump sticking up in the air, her thumb rooted in her mouth. Mia did not wake her even though the breakfast was ready. Margarite sat by the window, staring out at the spring green leaves fluttering on the trees, inhaling the sharp scent of the evergreens. Mia had sprinkled some seeds outside the window to draw the birds, seeds that had split as she dried them and were of no use to her garden. A brilliant red cardinal found them first, but he did not eat alone for long. Margarite seemed to enjoy the activity.

  The morning mist had burned off early, promising them all a perfect spring day. Bjorn had not slept late after all, though. He had said no more than five words to her last night, coming home stinking of smoke and the sharp metal tang of blood, and he had nothing to say when he woke. Mia’s heart ached. Rose had been the witch. Mia must have done something to make her vengeful or hurt her. Even Rose’s dying words were a curse on Mia. She wondered why Rose would do that, tell Mia she would burn too. Mia was no witch. She had never even visited the old healer in the forest, not even when the other wives had told Mia about her.

  “Come with us, Mia,” Rose had begged her when Mia had been big with child. “She can make sure you deliver a boy.”

  None of the women ever spoke in public about the healer, never acknowledged her when she slunk through the market gathering herbs and oils. Mia knew that to be invited was to be welcomed into the secret sisterhood of the village, a sign Mia had passed their invisible tests. But Mia knew something they didn’t. Mia knew what people did when they were frightened by new knowledge, new beliefs. Mia would get her answers from Father Stefan. God would honor that.

  “No, I should get home and cook for Bjorn.”

  The women had rolled their eyes and gone on without her. Dame Alice had started to say something to Mia, but Rose shushed her.

  Mia wanted to tell all of this to Bjorn, to lay it all out for him. He might see where she had committed her error.

  Mia had held her breath when he came home last night, waiting for some sign of their new life now with the witch gone. Bjorn had slept hard and left in the dark hours of the morning with nothing to say.

  Mia’s thoughts were interrupted when she saw Bastion standing in her doorway.

  Mia gasped in her embarrassment, being caught daydreaming when the day’s work stretched out before her. Bastion only smiled and leaned against the door frame.

  “May I enter?”

  Alma cried out from a nightmare. “Excuse me,” Mia said as she whirled around to attend to Alma. The girl was sitting up awake in her bed, pushing herself against the wall in fear. Mia patted her and turned back to Bastion. He had moved closer, standing next to her now.

  “She is still recovering,” Mia said, looking down. Her stomach fluttered. “She was unwell her whole first three years.”

  “’Tis no wonder, with the witches about. Would you walk with me outside? You would feel more comfortable, I think.”

  Mia nodded. It would get him out of her house before anyone could see him in here. “I’ll be just beyond the door, Alma. Play with your doll for a few moments.”

  She stepped outside into a perfect spring morning, into a world oblivious. Had she imagined the strange and unwelcome feelings Bastion aroused? He was smiling and kind today. But on a morning such as this, anyone could be mistaken for a saint, she supposed.

  Bastion offered her his arm.

  She quickened her pace.

  “You said ‘witches’?” she asked. “You meant to say ‘witch,’ of course.”

  “Why does that alarm you? I wonder, do you wish your troubles gone or do you wish me gone?”

  The words stuck on her tongue, hard to say. “Rose is gone. Alma has been much better. I do believe she was healed that night.”

  “The night I came to you?” He had baited her again, she suspected.

  “Shouldn’t we be careful to give God the thanks for the miracle?” She smiled at him, as if in innocence, to see how he would respond.

  He did not reply, but his eyes narrowed. There was wariness in them, recognition that she might be a challenge.

  No use trying to outpace him, she thought, stopping. She had spent too many years trying to outrace her fear and sorrow. She refused to do it any longer.

  “What if it’s me?” Mia blurted out. “What if I am the cause of all this trouble? I brought it with me.”

  “You are such a kind, godly woman. Your fear is proof of it.”

  “Can you just go? Now that Rose is gone, you’re finished here. Can you leave us now?”

  “Mia, you are a mystery. What do you think I am?”

  “You said there were witches? More than one?”

  “Yes, there are others. I had only to get the names from Rose.”

  “No. Surely I would have known.”

  “I doubt that. You do not seem to have many friends. And you should quit trying to find the fault with me. Do I not know my work? You have a problem, and you won’t admit it.”

  “I have no problems.”

  “I’ll tell you what it is if you want me to.”

  Mia started walking.

  “You’re blind, Mia. Beautiful and blind. You don’t even know your own husband has been unfaithful.”

  Mia’s mouth fell open. Bastion caught up to her, wrapping an arm around her waist as if for support.

  “Bjorn has been bewitched, my child. Have you not noticed his odd hours, his preoccupations? Has he not been cold with you?”

  “You do not understand Bjorn,” she said in a tiny child’s voice, afraid to take a deep breath, fearing her body would press further into his warm palm. “He is strong. Even if what you say is true, he could be bewitched and not sin. He could.”

  Bastion nodded, his mouth a tight line. “I have upset you. I can be such a fool sometimes. Not everyone is ready for the truth.”

  Mia shook him off. “You did not speak the truth.”

  “Perhaps these would be of some consolation?” He produced a string of pearls with a clasp that Mia knew at once. She frowned to see them in Bastion’s hand.

  “I will not tell you where I found them, so do not ask. Not today. No more truth today for you. You need rest. And comfort.”

  The ground went soft under her feet. Bastion caught her as she fell. He held her up, pressing her into his body.

  “Why?” Mia asked. “Why is this happening?”

  “No more talk of witches, I said. I will keep you safe if you will let me. I can keep you all safe.” He gestured toward her home and Alma. “I am not a monster, Mia. I am a good man.”

  “Why would you care about me? You don’t know me.”

  “I know you better than you can imagine. I see who you are, how you strive to be a good and faithful wife. It moves me.”

  He pressed his lips against her neck, moving up. “Give me a kiss to seal my pledge to you.”

  Mia turned her head and looked down to the side. She did not know what to do. She had no experience with bold men.

  He pressed his mouth on hers, but she did not respond.

  He pulled back and looked down at her, then kissed her again until she responded. She did not know what another man’s lips would feel like or the taste of his skin. He tasted salty, the skin around his mouth rough, just like Bjorn’s. But Bastion did not push her away.

  He moved her hand, hanging at her side, and placed it around the small of his back. “It’s all right,” he whispered.

  She left her palm there. She remembered the warmth of flesh. He pulled her to him until her belly was pressed against his. She could not tell if his stomach burned like hers. He took her other hand and brought her palm to his mouth, kissing it before he wrapped this one behind his back, too, and they stood entwined. She lost herself, not knowing his limbs from her own, not knowing where he was taking her, or if she led them there.

  His mouth on hers was an education. Men had appetites too, hungers that waited and grew no matter what good women did. She rattled off her childhood lessons in her mind. Was she not modestly dressed? Had she not refused his advances? And still he desired her. Those lessons had not been wrong, but they had been incomplete. Not all appetites could be guarded against. No one ever taught that. But she suddenly saw that now. No matter how good she tried to be, how faithful and devoted to God, she lived in a broken, bitter world, a world of raging hunger. She struggled to break free.

  He released her.

  “I will not fail you,” he said. “I am not Bjorn.”

  Mia looked back at the home. Alma was standing in the doorway watching them.

  “Leave. Get away from me.”

  “You are protecting your family. You are a brave and good woman. Perhaps that is why no one trusts you. You live in a village of secrets.”

  Mia shook her head. There was nothing good about what she had just done. Even a fool like herself knew that.

  “Mia, look at me. Do not dwell too much on your emotions, for by emotions many women are snared by the Devil. You must trust me.”

  Mia looked again at her house, empty save for a table and a bed, where her husband ate and slept. There was a tiny mattress nearer the fire, a child’s bed that would be empty this winter if the healing did not hold. Mia looked down at her hands, at her ring of betrothal. Hope held it all together. Nothing else. Only her blind, foolish hope.

  “Who am I,” she asked, “that a great Inquisitor should show me any affection? What have I to offer you?”

  “Any other woman would ask what I, a great Inquisitor, could offer her.”

  “I did not bid you to come.” Her heart beat fast as she spoke, so fast that she rushed the words out before she lost nerve. “You came to me because you want something. Even a fool like me knows that. Why can you not find it among the other women?”

  “A man spied a pearl in a vast field of stones, and he went and sold all he had. He purchased that field and claimed his treasure, and none could stop him.”

  “And Jesus said this was like the kingdom of God.”

  Bastion raised his eyebrows. “Do you know the Bible?”

  “Not as well as I should.” Mia could not hide the pain in her voice.

  He bent for another kiss, but she pushed him back.

  Bastion bowed and departed.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Stefan looked at the boys’ dirty faces. Their bodies were smeared with ashes. The eldest insisted he should be paid more, as he had collected the bones. Bastion requested the bones be saved for him. He would smash them and scatter them in the river, sending Rose’s—the witch’s—remains out into the sea, where she would be lost forever. Stefan pressed a coin into each palm covered in ash and grime.

  “Bless you, Father,” one boy called, running for home. Their mothers would be filled with joy at the money. Or maybe they would pause for a shy moment before extending their palms, thinking this was blood money—blood money that Father Stefan had brought to them all.

  It had been the right thing to do, calling for an Inquisitor. A murder had occurred—two murders, in fact. Left on the church steps like a dare. Bjorn could not have been counted on to understand the enormous opportunity. He had even seemed hostile to the idea of calling for an Inquisitor. Stefan heard tales of Inquisitors, always busy in more prominent towns, always doing great works that the church fathers would not soon forget. The village of Dinfoil could be remembered too. Great works could be done here. Two murders gave reason enough to call for an Inquisitor.

  “I have done what was right,” Stefan prayed aloud, “and yet, Lord, my soul is not at peace. Something raw lies in my heart that will not let me rest. Is it something I have done? Have I failed You somehow?”

  The candles below the altar burned but did not dance. Stefan saw that nothing stirred the air. He was alone. Maybe he had always been alone in here. Or maybe God would not answer because the answer must be brought up from Stefan’s heart.

  Stefan cleared his throat, grateful to be alone. He was going to say something foolish. “I brought Bastion here. But the suffering he caused does not seem right to me. I cannot argue with what he says. He is smarter than I am, and better educated. All I have is a painful sense that You are not pleased. Is it me, O Lord? Do I displease You? What more do You have for me to learn?”

  After a long, empty silence, he looked around, his eyes noting the seat Rose had preferred. He had known her for more than ten years, since her husband came to work the land for the baron who owned much of this village. She had arrived in winter, and Stefan had gone at once to welcome them. Rose had clutched his hand and thanked him, over and over, for such kindness. To a frightened young bride in a new village, a kind priest was a lifeline.

  She had attended every service, except when her husband’s recurring illnesses prevented her from leaving their home. He had declined fast after the wedding, leaving her with work and no children for comfort. After the funeral, Rose had continued to stay on in the village, a faithful, friendly face as he said Mass. Two springs had passed since she stopped attending so often, even struggling for words when she sat in the confessional. I was a poor priest, he thought, to fail in giving sustaining words. He had no idea what was wrong with her. Her faithful, friendly face turned dark and hard, sitting through Masses with an accusing eye.

  Eventually he became glad when she did not attend.

  But had she been a witch?

  Behind the altar, in the back of the church, was a hallway. The sun came in through a single window. Stefan watched as the light illuminated particles of dust floating in the air. They swirled and flew up like sparks. Something had stirred them.

  “Hello?” Stefan listened and heard nothing. “Who is there?”

  He heard a scratching sound.

  Stefan grunted loudly, ignoring his quivering hands, and stood, walking past the altar, approaching the hallway. The sound intensified. He stepped into the hallway, his hands curled into fists.

  A cat scratched at the door at the end of the hall, wanting to be let out. Stefan’s shoulders slumped down, and he laughed, scooping it up, ruffling the fur around its ears. The cat meowed in outrage. A big female, probably just had kittens, too, Stefan judged by her loose, flapping belly. He opened the door and placed it on the ground, letting it flee before he shut the door once more. He didn’t turn around. What he really feared, the course of all his deepest dread, rested behind him.

  In the forlorn hours of the night, years ago, a stranger had come to the church. Stefan had fallen asleep on a pew before the altar, too tired from his midnight prayers to walk back to the dormitory. A noise disturbed his sleep, and he woke to find a cloaked man placing something on the altar. Stefan sat up.

  “What are you doing?” he had called.

  The man turned, and Stefan looked into his face. He would never forget the man. The stranger had haunted eyes with dark circles underneath. His face looked gaunt, his body thin like a saint who fed on suffering. Stefan reached for his bag to offer the man a coin, but the man fled back down the aisle and out into the night. Stefan rose to examine the gift left by the stranger on the altar. It had been a book. Stefan opened the cover and looked inside, as the hairs rose along his arms. He could be excommunicated if caught with this.

  Stefan considered burning it, simply walking down the aisle and throwing it into the fireplace in the dormitory. No one would ever know. The flames would destroy all evidence. He would only have memory, and memories could prove nothing.

  Stefan stood, his palms pressed against the altar, staring down at the book he had been so thoroughly warned against. Tearing the empire apart even now, the book ripped apart churches and families. No one disputed that it was God’s Word. But the Word became a sword flashing back and forth across all kingdoms, and people disputed God’s will. Was it wise to read it? Was it best left to the educated priests?

  Stefan lifted the book to carry it to the dormitory, but his legs did not move. He held it in midair, deciding.

  He felt a clear and certain piercing in his soul. Truth was the one incurable wound in this world, the rip in the wineskin. If he opened the book, if he set his mind on understanding God as revealed in these words, there might be no end to the suffering in this village. Men like Bastion persecuted witches, but other men burned those who dared read this book.

  Stefan carried it into the hall and hid it in an empty cupboard. Stefan had always hated that cupboard. He prayed for riches to fill it with serving pieces or relics like the other churches had. God never seemed to hear those prayers.