Remembering that night, Stefan lifted the heavy book and set it on the top of the cupboard. The table sat under a good window, and the sun allowed for perfect reading. Straightening his shoulders, he opened it. He thumbed through the pages for the first time, examining the Tyndale Bible that caused so much outrage throughout the empire. Stefan stepped back, rubbing his hands down his legs.

  “I cannot believe I am doing this,” he said, kneeling. “God, treat me as a child. And forgive me as such, if what I do here is wrong. I have no idea where to find what I need. I do not even know if it is in this book. But I know that Bastion’s words do not seem right, yet no one can argue with him. If this is indeed Your true nature, to burn and scourge, to ask your saints to punish the sinners, then show me. But if Bastion is wrong, if You are indeed a kind and gentle God, even to the worst among us, show me that.”

  Stefan stood and opened the book once more. His eyes fell to a wood-block illustration, a scene of sorrow and grief. A blade had carved into soft wood to show Christ crucified, His mother mourning at the foot of the cross, His disciples staring helplessly. In the background, a triumphant rooster crowed.

  Turning the page quickly, he saw another woodblock of an empty tomb. A huge stone rested against the edges of the frame. Inside the tomb a great, gaping hole slashed into the wood by the unseen artist, Stefan saw darkness. Nothing remained inside it except for grave clothes, discarded. His stomach twinged. He flipped the pages once more and saw another woodblock, an illustration of Christ, triumphant, broken hands stretched out to the people. Stefan worked to sound out the strange words, words in his own language:

  “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent Me, I am sending you.”

  Stefan glanced over his shoulder, thinking of his village. They had no peace. Their graves remained filled. Where was Christ in this village?

  Erick rang the bells for Mass. Stefan replaced the book and went back to his work. He had to tend to people, not riddles.

  The afternoon warmth faded as evening approached. Mia stepped outside to close the shutters, pulling her cloak in a bit tighter. Alma’s afternoon nap stretched into the mealtime hour. Mia smiled. Alma had played hard today, chasing the kitten through the bursting green leaves, returning every few minutes with a new bloom for Mia.

  She had smelled rain as she gathered wood earlier today, watching Alma. It might rain yet, she thought. Hard to judge from the dull gray sky, hanging low and listless above.

  Bjorn came down the path. “Leave the shutters,” he called. “I’ll attend them.”

  Mia stood with her hands at her sides. Her face turned hot, so she looked down, picking her skirts up so she could see the condition of her shoes. Bjorn’s work made him good at spotting a liar. He would be just as fast uncovering betrayal. They were the same thing, really.

  He went to work fastening the shutters into place, then squinted up at the sky. “I smelled rain earlier today. ’Tis a shame it did not come in the afternoon and cool us off. I got soaked through with sweat.”

  “It was that hot today?” she asked. “I did not think so.” She pressed her lips back together. “Were you working hard?”

  “What goes through your mind? What else would I be doing?”

  Mia flinched and stepped back.

  Bjorn cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I had a lot of work today. Last night Bastion gave me a list of inquiries to be made. He wanted me out the door early this morning, to get it all done.”

  “I did not mean to say I doubted you. I didn’t know.”

  “Because I didn’t say anything, I know. But Bastion asked me not to. He even asked that I not tell you of that conversation. He didn’t know I would have to defend myself to you. He’s not married. Probably knows nothing about women.”

  Mia rested her fingertips against her mouth, bringing her other hand to her throat. She said nothing.

  Bjorn sighed. “Rose gave us names. I had to make arrests today, bring women to Bastion for interrogation later.”

  “Did you see Bastion today?”

  He slammed a fist against the window frame. “Of course I saw Bastion. I am following his instructions.”

  “I only meant to ask of your day. I am not trying to provoke you.”

  A light rain began. Bjorn put a hand on her back, lightly pushing her toward the door.

  Mia tried a new approach. “Last night Bastion said many new things, things I have never heard.”

  “Yes.”

  “And today? Did he say anything of interest? Anything you would want to share?” Mia paused at the doorway.

  “Who cares what he said today? I arrested seven women. I worked hard.”

  “Of course.”

  “Bastion told me that you would seem skittish today. A lot happened last night. Your mind needs more time to understand it all.”

  He pushed past her and went in, heading for the pottage pot. Mia nodded to herself, grateful she had attended to it earlier. Her home looked perfect, swept and tidied, serene with its full pottage pot. She could not bear to be idle today; at every moment she had found work to do. She had not sat down once, save to feed Margarite and Alma.

  “I wish Stefan was not so offended by this man,” Bjorn said. “I would like to talk of these things with someone.”

  “You can talk to me,” Mia said, in her quiet child’s voice, though it didn’t suit her anymore, she knew. A different version of her had taken over, one who hungered.

  Bjorn snorted. “You can listen. But do not offer anything to me in conversation.”

  Mia tried not to feel the sting of his words. “I will listen, then.”

  “Bastion says women are a necessary evil. He is a bachelor. What does he know of my pain?” Bjorn watched Mia’s face as he laughed. She kept her expression still and empty, and Bjorn settled down into his chair with a bowl of pottage, talking between bites. He didn’t look at her again. “Bastion is a true man of God. His words change me. Today I learned even more. The Devil may occupy the body, but not the soul. A man may be essentially pure and good and right before God and still be driven by lust to a mistress’s bed, all by the power of a witch—a witch with charms, or the Devil occupying his mind and body. ’Tis a wondrous thing. A good man who sins is not always guilty. There is a type of madness, a strange lust that does not come from his own heart, but another’s. It’s as if something possesses him, and in this mad fit, he does things he should not.”

  “I don’t know if you are accusing someone or confessing to something,” Mia said.

  “Talking with you is a fool’s errand,” he muttered.

  Mia’s father had known this moment would come. That is why he hadn’t wanted her to learn those letters, to learn how letters made words and words made a new world. Master Tyndale had taught her the letters, and she had learned how to lay them in the wooden case to make his words and sentences. Mia also printed pamphlets for the church and for profiteers, even spent weeks on one volume titled The Good Wife’s Guide. She could read by that time, and she read that one so many times that she committed entire sections to memory.

  “You’ll put your father out of business,” Tyndale had laughed. “You’ll stand in the market and recite it all, line by line.”

  “Not so. I’ll be married. I’ll be so busy being a good wife that I’ll have no more time for books.”

  Tyndale scowled. Mia wrinkled her nose back at him, inching closer to him so he could hear her whisper.

  “Unless you would let me sell your book, along with the others in the market,” she said. “You can trust me with it.”

  Tyndale took her by the shoulders. “I do not trust the world around you.”

  “’Tis not fair.” Mia’s eyes filled with tears.

  Tyndale’s tone changed into a soft, soothing comfort. “Mia, I will never have a daughter. Did you know that? I will never marry, never hold a child of my own. You are the only daughter I will ever have. I am afraid you will get hurt.”

  “But why?”

  “Because these are dangerous times. If harm came to you, in my name, I would die in my heart, Mia. Promise me that you will tell no one you have helped print it. Keep that secret. Memorize it if you want, but tell no one what you know. Store it up in here,” he said, pointing to her heart. “But trust no one.”

  Mia had begun to hear whispers in the streets as she fetched eggs or bought bread for her father. Those caught with Tyndale’s book were burned to death like criminals, they said. But for Mia’s father this book meant life, not death; bread for the table and eggs for his daughter. She forced herself to eat them, smiling, as if she did not understand the risks her father took to feed her.

  “I will store it up in my heart,” she said, taking Tyndale’s hand. He drew her into a hug, kissing the top of her head.

  “And keep me in there as well,” he whispered. “Always.”

  “I’d like a taste of beer before I sleep.”

  Mia was startled back to attention, refocusing her thoughts on her husband. She fetched a wooden mug and poured some of Stefan’s brew into it from a ceramic pitcher. She cocked her head to the side with a new thought. “How does Bastion interrogate the women? Surely no woman would confess to a crime if the punishment is burning.”

  “Bastion knows what women hide in their hearts. And he knows every trick of the Devil. It is written that the Devil forbids some women to confess, even under the most severe torture, so that they will not admit the truth. Bastion must bring some to the very moment of death before they confess.”

  “Could they not be innocent?”

  “What do you know? You know nothing about witches or their foul sins. You’ve never read the Malleus Maleficarum.”

  Her chin trembled.

  Bjorn’s face softened. “Mia, we are near the very root of our troubles. Trust me. Bastion and I will clean this village. I will have peace, no matter what it takes.”

  Mia kept her voice gentle. “I want you to have peace. But I would say, although I am but a woman and know very little, that peace is a gift of God. I thought gifts were freely given.”

  “You do amuse me with your logic. If peace were freely given, as you say, I would be out of work tomorrow.”

  Mia made no reply.

  “I will sleep now, at last. Try not to wake me.”

  Mia watched him stretch and prepare for bed.

  Bjorn saw nothing in her except a dutiful, dull wife. Once that had seemed enough. It had seemed more than enough. But she had let another man kiss her. Was her heart infected with witchcraft, or was this her true nature? How could she harbor this sin in her heart, the same place she kept the sacred Word, the same place she kept the memories of her father and Tyndale? How could a good woman have such hunger?

  Mia looked down, shielding her eyes with her hand. Bjorn had changed since their wedding day too. The once-friendly women of this village had changed, as had Rose. Everything had changed.

  Please God, she prayed. Give me something to hold onto, one unchangeable thing.

  “Answer me.” Stefan shook the bars of the cage, but the witch would not look at him. “How do you know her to be a witch? Just answer that.”

  “Your midwife, Nelsa, she kills newborns and offers them to the Devil,” the caged woman said.

  “What? Why do you say that?”

  “Bastion says it.”

  “How does he know? Where is his certainty?”

  “You never asked me my name.” She turned her back to him, sitting there on her rear, wrapping her arms around her knees.

  Stefan groaned. “What is your name?”

  She shook her head.

  He changed his tone. “What is your name?”

  “Ava.”

  “Ava? It’s a good name.”

  “It’s not my name.”

  He was so tired.

  “Are you so easily discouraged? I am asking you a riddle. Now, think: How do you know Ava is my name?”

  “Because you told me. I believed you.”

  She turned her head and grinned. “Yes! That is the answer. You believed me.”

  Stefan understood. “Bastion tells you these things, and you believe him. Does he have proof?” His heart beat faster.

  She wagged a finger at him. “I am not the only believer. And believers do not need proof.”

  “But he killed a woman. She might have been innocent. He might kill more. We cannot do that on his word alone.”

  She shrugged and went back to picking at lice in her bedding.

  Stefan was alone in his doubts. Earlier everyone had filed out of Mass, eager to rush the day along, rush along with the business of living so they could return and see another witch burned. None of them would have let him confess his doubt to them. He had no refuge, save for his faith, and his words—words that had proved worthless to Catarina and Cronwall, words that had condemned Rose. Words in Latin, a language he did not even understand.

  “Wait,” he said. “Did Bastion give any proof that you are a witch?”

  She scooted around to look at him. “Yes. I had lost a babe not long after it was born. He died in his sleep. I told everyone that I didn’t know how it happened, but I knew it was my fault. A good mother would have known something was wrong. She would have saved him.”

  “And then Bastion accused you of being a witch?”

  “No. He showed me the evidence. One day I worked in the fields, and I said, ‘I believe it is going to rain today,’ and it did. We were in a drought, Father Stefan.”

  “’Tis not witchcraft to feel a rain coming.”

  “Only witches know the future, Bastion said. He showed me who I truly am. I must be punished. If I am punished, my son will see the face of God. If I am punished, enough of my sin will be burned away that one day I can see my son again. I want to burn, Father Stefan. It is all I want. Bastion will deliver me from this body of death, but I must serve him well first.”

  “No, no. ’Tis not right. ’Tis not right at all.”

  “I don’t want you to speak to me anymore. I want to burn. Why can you not understand? I want to see my son.”

  “What if Bastion’s words are wrong? What if you’re not a witch? What would your son think of your punishment then?”

  “He’d know I deserved it. Please, let me die. You have words. Bastion has words. I have already chosen whom I believe.”

  “Stop! Stop right there!” Dame Alice’s scream interrupted Stefan’s reply. Turning, he saw a line of women tied together by a rough rope, being led to the church by Bastion. Dame Alice screamed at Bastion, trying to grab the rope away from him. He pushed her back and kept walking. Dame Alice saw Stefan and screamed at him next.

  “This is not right!” she shouted.

  Stefan backed away from Ava’s cage, saying nothing, then turned and ran back into the church, locking himself in, tears stinging in his throat.

  Erick ran down the aisle to him. “Father? What’s happened?”

  “Don’t go outside.”

  “Why? What’s happening?”

  “Bastion has authorized Bjorn to arrest more women. He’s bringing them into the jail for interrogation.”

  “Women from our village?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “Are you going to stop him?”

  “I don’t know how. Everything he says sounds right to my ears. But not to my spirit.”

  Erick lowered himself to sit next to Stefan on the floor. “You think he’s wrong?”

  “Yes.”

  “Praise God. I thought I was the only one.” Erick rubbed his palm across his forehead, then through his hair. “What are you going to do?”

  Stefan’s chest hurt as if crushed from all sides by a heavy weight, a malicious embrace he could not escape. He was confused beyond all hope of reason. For every action he thought seemed right, his mind shouted five reasons it was wrong.

  The door behind their backs thundered and shook as Dame Alice first tried to swing the doors open, then began beating against them with her fists.

  “Father Stefan! I know you’re in there! Come out and help those women!”

  “I don’t know what to do!” he shouted through the door, then looked at Erick and spoke quietly. “I was never taught about witches, or women, or how to tell lies from truths. I don’t know any prayers for this. What should I pray? Deliver these people from my stupidity?”

  “It’s a start.” Erick’s face offered no compassion.

  “Erick!”

  A shadow at the window caught Stefan’s eye. Dame Alice was trying to peer in through the cheap, muddy glass, looking for him.

  Erick grabbed him by the shoulder to get his attention. “I know two things about God, two things you have taught me. He is a Father. And He is a Savior. I have never had a real father, but I imagine that a real father, a real savior, doesn’t wait for his children to say the right words when they are hurting. He would throw his arms around them, wanting to save them. Why is it not enough for you just to cry out to Him? Why do you depend so much on what you say, place all your trust in words instead of His heart?”

  “Words are all I have as a priest. Those words are who I am.”

  Dame Alice knocked on the glass. “You can’t hide! You must act!”

  Stefan stood. “Please get rid of her. I need time to think.”

  With Bjorn asleep for hours, his heavy breathing unbroken, Mia set out. Margarite and Alma had dozed off in the early afternoon, just after the noon meal, and Mia could wait no longer.

  Though the sun burned bright, she took care on the winding uneven path through the forest. Low-lying birds’ nest pines were always a cause for stumbling, and the moss could hold the night rain and be slippery at any hour. Still, she moved with good speed, feeling her spirits lift again when she walked through a portion of the path lit by the sun. Mia had had enough of darkness. She did not relish those portions of the path that made the journey difficult.