His tenderness surprised Stefan. He had never taught him that, never done that himself. But he was grateful. Erick had been listening for God all those long years while Stefan slept. Erick had grown into more than a man. He had become a shepherd. The thought brought Stefan another outpouring of peace.

  Mia nuzzled Alma with her cheek, clearly thankful Erick had washed her face. She still couldn’t move her arms. Alma looked up at Stefan, a curious expression on her face. She did not look afraid, though her mother was in pain and had been abused, though angry villagers waited outside the church. Alma just smiled at the image of Jesus in a painting hanging from a wall near the altar. Alma looked at it as if it was a holy relic, a shy awe on her little face.

  “The women are hungry,” Erick told him. “What should we feed them?”

  “Give them what we have with us. Do not go to the dormitory for fresh supplies. Do not leave them again.”

  “We have nothing left, save the bread and wine for the Sacrament.”

  “There must be something else. Check in the cupboards.”

  “Already did.”

  “Ah, Lord,” Stefan muttered. “I had hoped you would make this easier on me.” He could preserve his proper office or give life.

  He motioned to the altar. “Fetch the Host and wine. We will give them the Sacrament.”

  Stefan fetched a clean white linen and laid it across the altar, waiting for Erick to bring the bread. He opened the wine, inhaling the aroma of earth and grapes and sun.

  The women smelled the bread as it went past, reaching for it, groaning in pangs of hunger. Stefan watched Erick pick his way through the women, gently removing the grasping fingers that caught him by his shirt hem.

  “Almighty God,” Stefan began, “the body of Christ, broken for our sins.”

  He motioned for Erick to begin tearing the bread. There was not enough to feed these starving women. Stefan had counted eight when he left the jail, and until their faces had been washed, he had struggled to remember each as she truly was. Now with the others, he saw they were all his women, the women who had sat through many Masses and sermons and lectures, the women who probably knew his words by heart and had profited none.

  “Divide it between them,” he whispered. “The body of our Lord Jesus Christ, given for thee,” he said for the women to hear.

  Erick began circulating the bread among the women, trying to hold his legs steady as they reached for bread. Dame Alice took a larger share but dumped it in her lap and began feeding it to Mia. Mia only took one bite, turning her head to resist more.

  “Feed Alma first,” she whispered.

  Stefan knelt in front of her. “Alma has been well fed by Erick. Do not worry any longer about her. It is time for you to regain your strength.” He took a piece of bread from Dame Alice’s hand and pressed it to Mia’s mouth. She did not raise her eyes to look at him, so he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand as he spoke. She looked exhausted, and he worried she had no more strength to eat.

  “Eat, Mia.”

  He fed her, then stroked Dame Alice’s arm before he stood to attend to the others.

  All the other women ate with ferocity. They kept reaching for more, making the panic rise in Stefan’s belly. He had nothing else to feed them. With nothing else to do, he moved on to the cup.

  “The blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, shed for thee.”

  Erick offered the cup to each woman, running back to Stefan for it to be refilled. Stefan prayed the wine would hold out. The women gulped, wine running down their chins, drinking and gasping for air, not enough wine in the world to satisfy their thirst. Erick ran back one last time to have the cup refilled, and Stefan obliged.

  Stefan heard people gathering outside for the burning. Stefan looked down at his altar, crumbs of bread and drops of wine making it an improper mess. He once would have been ashamed to let the bishop see his altar like this. He looked out at the women, who were rubbing their stomachs in awe, having been filled beyond measure after their great hunger. Stefan looked down at the mess and understood.

  It was enough. God had always been enough to satisfy all their hungers and all their questions. He had been enough, even when prayers seemed unanswered and lies grew in power.

  He nodded, chuckling in reply. Little arms wrapped around his legs. He bent down and hugged Alma back as she kissed his cheek.

  “I must do something for you now,” he told her. “Whatever happens, take good care of your mother for me.”

  Alma stood, walking to the picture of Jesus, her upraised face illuminated in the flickering torchlight. She looked as if she belonged to another world. Love radiated from her face as she took in the image of her Lord.

  Stefan smiled as he watched her, washing his hands and face in the water bowl behind him, straightening his robe. He took off his belt and bag and laid them on the steps beneath the altar. More torchlights floated into view, fuzzy yellow orbs illuminating the windows. The crowd outside grew.

  He went to Erick’s side, whispering in his ear so none of the women would hear. “I am going out there. Lock the door behind me. Let no one in until it is over. Do you understand?”

  “You can’t go out there.”

  “Do not unlock the doors until it is safe. No matter what happens. Do you understand?”

  “Burn the witches!” came a cry. “Let the burnings begin with Mia and her cursed child!”

  The women inside did not move. Stefan watched their terrified faces, like foxes caught in a trap at the sound of a hunter’s footfall. He could not make them understand, not with their fear. He did not even try to speak. He walked to the church doors and threw them open to wild cheers from the people, the crowd of a size he would expect for an Easter Mass. They were hungry, their lean faces menacing in the torchlight.

  “Come on, then,” someone called.

  Stefan walked down two steps, holding his palms out, motioning for patience. He heard the doors slam behind him, the heavy bolts sliding into place. Good boy.

  “Do you want a death?” he called, and they answered with screams of encouragement. “Do you want curses broken? Debts settled? Justice paid in blood?”

  “Yes!” the people yelled, their torches dripping, their eyes dark pools.

  “Sin demands blood; in this you are right. But you are wrong to demand it of those poor women. God has already given you the blood that washes away all sins.”

  “Come down here, Father.” Bastion lurched through the crowd, still drunk from the sleeping tincture Stefan had given him, his eyelids swollen and half lowered, pushing aside the people in his way. “Come and join your people, you frightened little worm.” Stefan marveled at the man’s strength to overcome the tincture Stefan had given him. Bastion was here for blood, and Stefan had nothing else to stop him.

  “No.”

  “Bring us Mia!” Bastion called. “We want her first!”

  “No.”

  Bastion staggered up the steps, his strength punching through the stupor. He grabbed Stefan by the collar, throwing him against the doors. The handles gouged Stefan’s back, expelling his breath. He pushed to the side, away from them.

  “Open your church. Bring out Mia.”

  “Never.” Stefan saw flecks of black swimming in the sides of his vision.

  Bastion turned to the crowd. “Father Stefan called for me, begging my help, and now he will not let me have a witch to burn. Why is that?”

  No one had answers. Stefan did not recognize many of the faces. Most were not his people. But they were anxious for blood or the amusement of another’s suffering.

  “What if?” Bastion called. Stefan thought he had not heard correctly, so he shook his head, careful to keep his back to the church doors.

  The crowd leaned in.

  “What if … the Devil has made a disciple of this priest?”

  Gasps raised up from the crowd. Some nodded, eager to believe, eager to know what punishment would be inflicted.

  “Prove yourself to us, Father Stefan. Who is your god? Who do you worship? Bring me the witches, and we will know you are a good Christian.”

  “No.” Stefan would not debate him. Bastion’s fury did not disturb him as much as the fear of Bastion’s slippery words. Stefan dug his feet in, bracing his back against the wood, his legs straddling both doors.

  “Is he one of them?” a woman called out from the crowd. “Is he tainted?”

  Bastion held up his hands for silence. “This is a serious accusation. We must let Stefan reveal the truth by himself. By his own actions, he will decide if he lives or dies. As you are all my witnesses, I will do nothing until Stefan tells us who he really is.”

  Everyone’s faces turned to stare at Stefan, eagerly devouring every little twitch and bead of sweat on his forehead. They were all he ever could have wanted in a congregation. The irony of the moment made the corner of his mouth twitch.

  “I could tell you who I am,” Stefan said. “But of late, I have discovered someone more interesting. He is the Good Shepherd, and He chooses to protect His sheep with His life. He offers forgiveness for sins and grace, which is a far greater wonder than any magic you could imagine.”

  Bastion pointed at Stefan and cried out, “Either open those doors and bring out those women, or you will stand convicted of witchcraft. You will be the first to die.”

  “Do you know the difference between you and me?” Stefan whispered. “At first, I thought it was education, or study. Or wisdom. But now I know. You are compelled to do things you should not do. I am invited to do what I must.”

  Bastion whipped around, grabbing a torch from a man standing below. Pointing it at Stefan’s face, he waved it side to side.

  Stefan turned away from its searing heat, his eyes watering. He heard the silence sweep over the crowd. He heard only the sound of the torch snapping and popping and the hiss of flame. Bastion’s leering face, distorted by the flame, shimmered in its waves. Stefan stretched himself further across the doors, the wood digging into his back as he wrapped his arm through the handles. He prayed Erick would stay strong and resist coming after Stefan. Stefan had to do this. He had to keep those doors closed until Bastion was gone and the women were safe.

  Bastion moved the torch closer, burning Stefan’s cheek. “If you are a good shepherd, save yourself. Your people will need you.”

  “You don’t want Mia to burn. You want her for yourself. She will never have you. She has seen through your lies and your promises. It seems that you are the only one left who is deceived.”

  Stefan saw a light breaking through the clouds above. Never had the moon and stars burned through a dark sky with such force. The heavens opened in hundreds of glimmering points, the glorious white moon holding back the night. Stefan turned his gaze from the promise of the moon and looked through the flames to face his enemy.

  “Have you not read?” Stefan asked. “The good shepherd gives his life for just one sheep.”

  The crowd was motionless. Father Stefan looked at them, their horror plain, piercing through their deception. Bastion had all control now, over life and death, and they realized they did not know this man.

  “You are condemned!” Bastion screamed, plunging the torch into Stefan’s abdomen, oil and flame spilling across his robes, incinerating the dry linen. Flames shot from all directions as they caught his robes on fire. Stefan saw a flame leap across his arm and lick against the wood door of the church.

  Bastion turned on the crowd. “You are my witnesses! He condemned himself by his actions!” He came down the steps, still carrying the torch. “And I will kill any one of you who does not tell the story this way. If you want to live, if you want your children to live, then when you are asked, you will say he was an admitted witch who would not let me burn his consorts.”

  Bastion threw the torch at their feet, making the crowd scream and scatter as he walked into the night. Stefan cried out against his will. The flames moved to his legs and arms. His mind began to seize and tumble. He saw Bastion leaving. He did not want the last thing he saw on earth to be that man. He turned to look at Ava instead.

  Her cage door hung open. She was gone.

  Stefan’s legs gave out. He stumbled toward the church steps and fell down them, landing on his back. He lifted his eyes to the stars as he died.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Stefan was dead, Mary had said. His body was at the bottom of the steps.

  Bastion was gone—he had ridden away on his horse, no one knew in which direction—and the streets were empty. Smoke settled in the church, stinging their eyes. Alma closed hers for relief and slept.

  Mia couldn’t help the tears that flowed, and when Dame Alice wrapped her arms around Mia and spoke soft words, Mia embraced them. Eventually, she fell asleep.

  When she woke, strong daylight illuminated the windows of the church. Alma sat with Erick. Mia watched as Erick tore a linen shirt in his lap into strips, braiding them, then tying them off, making a little rag-doll figure. Alma held her hand out, looking down. Erick lifted her face up, gently, with his fingers, and tapped her on the nose. He stared at the doors, still bolted, as if looking beyond them. He rose, surveying the women. Seeing Mia awake, he nudged Alma and pointed to her. Mia nodded, still too weak to move first.

  Erick turned to the doors. He pushed back the bolt and swung the doors open to the day. Brilliant sunlight flooded the church. The women looked away, squinting, murmuring, some just awakening. Mia saw the empty town square, the abandoned church steps, and the stakes. She looked away from the spot where Father Stefan’s remains rested.

  Erick walked out, returning after a few minutes with a shovel. Mia and the women watched him choose a spot at the front of the church steps and begin to dig. He was digging a grave, she realized. No one would be able to enter this church again without thinking of Father Stefan. He would be its constant gate, its conscience.

  Erick finished digging the grave, then laid the body inside. He moved to remove the largest stake first, and Mia shuddered.

  Erick wrapped his arms around the larger stake, grunting and heaving, doing the work of three men. Mia saw it move, rising from the cold ground, teetering, before Erick let it fall. He went to the smaller stake next, lifting it, letting it fall, then dragging it to the first. Laying the smaller stake across the taller one, he fetched rope from the sheep pen and returned, fastening the stake together. He dug again, another grave perhaps, Mia thought. But it was deeper, and round.

  Villagers had begun to come out of their houses, watching from the lanes, some getting the courage to walk out into the square. None seemed angry. Mia knew the expression they wore. It was shame and confusion. Her heart opened to them, forgiveness surprising her in its sudden birth, and, like a newborn, its lack of logic or principle.

  Erick lifted the stakes, dragging them to the smaller hole, and dropped them in. Mia heard her own gasp at what Erick had built, echoing among the others who watched.

  Erick had built a cross. When his work was finished, he looked up into the church and caught Mia’s eye. A feeling passed between them, clean and pure, like a sacrament.

  Alma left Mia, walking to the painting of Jesus above the altar, straining on the tip of her toes to point to His face. The women watched as she ran her little hands over the altar below, then held her hands up to the light. Her fingertips were dirty with soot. She looked at Mia, a question on her face.

  “Yes, we will clean this church, Alma.”

  Alma turned back to stare at the painting, a single tear rolling down her face.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  A year later

  Mia felt satisfied as she walked. Dame Alice cooked such heavy meals, even in this warm weather. Spring had come early this year, but Dame Alice still insisted on feeding Mia thick roasts and dark breads. She still thought Mia was too thin, though Mia had put on weight. Everything about Mia was different this spring. Her face had softened, she slept without worries, and she was not afraid to talk of the Bible. She was not afraid to read it either, although the new priest the bishop had sent needed convincing that this was a proper thing for a woman to do. Erick had helped convince him, she recalled with a grin. She hoped he had been kind.

  Alma ran ahead of Mia as they made their way toward home with surprising energy after hours of playing with little Marie from the village. Alma skipped and hopped as she tried to flush out the spring rabbits for a good chase.

  When they arrived at home, Erick stood in the doorway. “What did you bring me?” Alma squealed, running at him with full speed.

  Erick wiped his hands on the side of his trousers, grinning at them both. “Brought you some fresh milk. From Mary.”

  Alma ran to him, and he caught her under the arms, swinging her in an arc around himself, spinning in a circle. Mia watched as Alma threw back her head in laughter.

  “Not from her cow, surely?” Mia said with a smile.

  “She finally traded it for three goats. The goats are at least giving her milk.” Erick set Alma down, and she immediately opened the bag at his side, plunging her hand in.

  “Alma! Stop that!” Mia laughed and smoothed out her skirt to busy herself. Her exhortation was futile. Alma pretended not to hear. And Erick himself had created this ritual.

  Alma held her prize up to the light. A plain, round stone, but when she turned it, Mia saw it held inside jagged purple fingers, sparkling like gems. She smiled at Alma, whose sweet face glowed with wonder.

  Erick took a step forward to leave, and Mia stepped to the side to make room, to avoid coming too close or touching him by accident.