“You off to check the beer?” Erick asked. Stefan eyed the stairs that led off to the right of the sanctuary. Shaking his head, he sat instead on the first bench and removed a boot. His feet were swollen, one toe cracked and bleeding. Stretching his leg out, he groaned.

  Erick came closer to sit next to him. Stefan grabbed his broom and shooed him away.

  “You haven’t earned a rest.”

  Erick sat anyway, one corner of his mouth turning up. “You’ve had everyone working all morning. Is Jesus returning today?”

  Stefan swatted his legs with the broom, and Erick laughed, turning his body away.

  “Women have their children, and men have their work, Erick. That’s what life is.”

  “This isn’t work, Father. This is cleaning. I should have a real job. You know you can trust me with one. I’m much stronger than you by now.”

  “For his sake and mine,” Stefan said to the saints immortalized in the frescoes around him, “grant him humility.”

  “I may not be humble, but I am honest.” Erick grinned, but Stefan sensed no real mischief in it. “Father, listen to me. You need to rest more. Let me do the hard work. I’d like to pay you back.”

  “For what?” Stefan frowned.

  “Giving me a place to live.”

  Stefan turned to look up at him. “Is that all the church is to you? A place to live?”

  “Father Stefan?”

  The woman’s voice made Stefan and Erick stand and turn. Mia stood there, clutching her hands together. Stefan sat back down with a grunt and wrestled his boot on, avoiding another look at Erick.

  “Father Stefan,” Mia said, “I came later than usual today, but I did hear Mass. I would like to confess.”

  Stefan gestured toward the confessional, and she followed in obedience. He glanced back at Erick, jabbing a finger back at the altar. Erick nodded and got back to work.

  Ushering Mia into the confessional, Stefan settled his back against the wood wall of the dark chamber. He slid open the lattice window frame that separated them and stretched out his legs, wiggling his toes.

  “Forgive me, Father,” she began, “I have sinned. I have provoked my husband to anger again. I did not mean to. I promise I will try harder. I know what is required to be a good wife. I always fall short, Father. That is my sin. But I will try harder. I want to please the Lord.”

  Stefan groaned and reached down to take the boot off again.

  “Did you just groan?”

  Stefan winced. “I did not groan because of you. I am sorry.”

  “It’s all right, Father. Your feet hurt. You’re a man, after all, and men work hard. It’s nothing to apologize for.”

  “How is Alma?”

  She had no reply.

  “She is not well, is she? The cough still grabs her? Is that the real reason you came?”

  “I’ve done everything you’ve asked. She is no better. Neither of us sleeps much anymore. She coughs worse at night. Sometimes she turns blue, and I know you will say I am imagining it, but I am not. It’s getting worse.”

  “But you said you provoked Bjorn; you were confessing to that.”

  “Yes.”

  “But not for the sake of your marriage, I suppose. Are you searching for the reason God will not heal your child?”

  Mia did not reply.

  “Mia, my child, do you trust me?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “And you know nothing I say is intended to hurt you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mia, this has gone on too long. I will speak plainly now. You are guilty of the sin of pride. Does God not have the right to do with your child as He will? Many mothers have sick children, and they do not complain to me as often as you do. Every week you speak to me as if God has forgotten Alma. As for Bjorn, stay out from underfoot. Content yourself with what affection he offers. Never has there been a man who could satisfy a woman.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Do not ask more for yourself than women are due to receive. Repent of the sin of pride. Content yourself with what you have, for these are the words of the apostle Paul.”

  “Forgive me, Father,” she replied. “I will try harder to please God.”

  “Try harder to please Bjorn, too. His work is difficult. Just try harder to please him, and he will be pleased with you. A man needs to know his wife will not peck him to death before he will come home to roost.”

  She sat in silence a moment before exiting. Stefan’s heart softened a bit.

  “And pray to our Holy Mother, Mary, for Alma. I have heard from other priests that the women bury statues of Mary headfirst in the ground nearest the child’s room. Try that.”

  Stefan followed her out, opening the church door for her. She blushed and thanked him with tears in her eyes. A twinge of something bothered him. He bit each side of his cheeks inside his mouth. He had a copy of a forbidden book tucked away. The book had answers. But if he opened it for Mia, he would open so much more, too. The whole town could be thrown into chaos.

  He watched Mia adjust her long scarf around her hair and scurry down the steps. Across the square, Dame Alice roosted on her steps as usual. Spying Mia, she called out to her.

  “Come and eat, daughter! You are too thin!”

  Mia shot her a frightened look and moved faster, away from the square, away from the old woman who only offered to share some bread. No one else tried to stop Mia to chat or inquire after her family. She had no friends, not since the day the widow Rose had abruptly turned cold to everyone, especially Mia. Stefan tried to talk to Rose in the square, to invite her back to confess her sin, but she had stared at him in horror. Whatever her sin had been, she told no one, and she wanted no one near. Mia had lost her only friend.

  On the winding path leading away from the square to her home, winds still blew straight and cold, even as the sun grew stronger day by day. The night rains had made a mess of the mud again, but Mia knew good things grew in this early chaos of spring. The birds sang in a thrash of competing notes over the market cries and church bells, with the children shouting in the distance to be heard above them all. Glad to be out of the confusion of the crowded square and the embarrassment of being singled out by that wrinkled old crow, Dame Alice, Mia relaxed. If she had sorrows, they were her own. Why should Dame Alice care about them or about her? Mia remembered the first law of a fugitive: Never trust an unearned kindness.

  In the distance she saw a girl throwing clumps of bread out of a sack draped over her shoulder. Trotting behind her, the fat milk cows gobbled them up, eager tails switching like those of hungry puppies.

  Mia closed her eyes in the sunlight and pressed her hands into her empty stomach as she breathed. The wind snapped at her ankles, making her open her eyes and get back to her business after confession. Mia sniffed the air. Someone had baked bread. She inhaled again, holding her breath in this time. Her thin arms stretched out into the sun. Her cloak barely covered her elbows. She had worn it for more than a decade, almost half her life.

  Mia heard steps behind her, slow and dragging.

  She turned to see Dame Alice, who had followed her out of the square. Heat raced to Mia’s face. She did not want to be made a sport. She pulled her arms back in her cloak, wrapping them into her body, hiding their inadequacy.

  “Come here, child.” Dame Alice opened her arms and gestured for Mia to come to her.

  Mia shook her head. “Stop following me.”

  “Come and eat with me. I only want to talk with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you need to eat.”

  “You don’t know what I need. Go back to your business.”

  Dame Alice’s shoulders slumped forward, her face pained. “Mia,” she breathed, “you need a friend.”

  Mia turned for home.

  Mia had a dream that the wolf was circling her house, burning Alma with yellow eyes, waiting to devour her with moon white teeth. Each paw had sharp claws that sank into the wet earth. Mia saw deep indentations between each rib and dry, withered teats that hung with no milk. The wolf has found us, she thought in her dream. The wolf smells the weak.

  Pushing herself up from the floor in front of the fireplace, she rubbed her eyes. She needed a few moments to blink and clear away the dream as she caught her breath. Alma slept on her straw pallet against the wall and seemed well. Bjorn’s mother slept in the chair by the fire. Mia reached out and touched her feet. They were warm, but to be safe, Mia covered them with the edge of Margarite’s long cloak. It hung too big for her now that she had shrunk with age and disease, but Mia did not want to alter the cloak. Margarite loved it. Any change would remind her of how much time had taken from her. The truth would be one more screaming wound in this world, a world without remedies.

  Bjorn had not returned while she’d slept, Mia decided, judging from the iron pot left undisturbed over the fire. There were hot coals glowing white beneath it but no flames. Looking around in the moonlit shadows, Mia could not guess the hour. She would listen for church bells now that she sat awake. She began contemplating whether to keep dinner warm or begin to think of breakfast for Bjorn. Her mouth watered.

  Bjorn had spent many nights gone since Alma’s birth three years ago. Better to police the town at night, he said, when the drunks kept business hours. Mia agreed, saying she knew nothing of men’s work. She would not doubt him. She did know that since the recent drama with that man Cronwall, Bjorn had to tamp down the wicked gossip that had infected the town. Some thought Cronwall was dead, even murdered. Some said he had abandoned Catarina for reasons best whispered in the ear. Not that anyone whispered in Mia’s. What news she heard in the market fell to her by accident, when women gossiped with their backs to her, unaware. Mia had good ears.

  The white coals were fading to black. With a grunt, Mia pushed herself to stand. She would fetch another piece of wood from outside and then freshen herself for Bjorn’s return. Some heated water would be good too. She probably looked a horror.

  “I’ll give you one last chance.” The man’s voice came from outside her door. The voice was clotted with rage. She did not recognize it.

  Mia froze. She heard weeping, then a woman’s muffled cry, as if someone held a hand over her mouth. Her heart fluttering, Mia ducked down to the floor. Whoever they were might see her through the window. Had she let the fire burn too low? Would they think no one home and come inside? She wanted none of their trouble.

  She heard the voices arguing and then a dragging sound. Something crawled toward the front door.

  The woman spoke. “If you cannot stop yourself, then I will stop you.”

  A low popping sound came next. The crawling, scraping noise stopped. Mia held her breath. She had one candle box by the door. The flame in it burned low, not even a thumb’s width high—probably too low to be seen from outside. But Mia crawled to it, picking up each knee with silent effort, and managed to snuff it out without making a sound. She breathed in shallow bursts, listening for the voices.

  She heard the man speaking in ragged whispers. Silently, Mia crawled as fast as she could toward Alma, grabbing her blanket and covering her face completely. If they came in, the pallet might look tumbled but empty. She could do nothing about Margarite. Mia saw her kitchen blade and crawled to it next. She had to shuffle under the window to get to it, praying God would not let her make a mistake that alerted the couple to her movements. The shutters hung open, but she could not shut them from the inside. Whoever stood out there could simply stick his head right into her home and see her. Mia forced herself to breathe and think.

  “I have not kept your secrets,” the woman said, weeping.

  “Who? Who did you tell?”

  Mia’s hand closed around the blade as she stretched for it. She blessed the weight of the blade in her hand, the glistening edge of the knife. Slowly pressing her back against the door, bone by bone, she sat and listened, willing her heart to slow down, breathing through pursed lips. The woman’s voice drifted softer now, as if she had moved farther away. The man’s voice changed to a plea, but Mia could no longer make out the details of their conversation. Mia heard a sharp crack, and she started.

  She scooted along the wall a little closer to the window, twisting at the waist as she pulled up just enough to see out of the corner. A man stood silhouetted against the moon, his heavy boot on the back of someone on the ground. Mia stared at the shape lying motionless, wide, and flat. It’s the woman, she realized, with her skirts spread out around her.

  Mia ducked back down.

  The woman had tried to get to her front door. Why? She must have known the sheriff lived here. Clearly she needed his help. Mia bit her lip. What had she done, hiding like this? But no, she couldn’t have helped the woman. Not with that man upon her and Bjorn away on duty. She wished this woman hadn’t come here, hadn’t involved Mia in her trouble.

  Mia heard a rasping sound and pushed her face back up to steal another look. The man dragged the woman by her feet, and the woman did not resist. The two passed under a strong shaft of moonlight as the man heaved the woman by the feet over a fallen log. In the moonlight, Mia saw the woman’s head flop to the side as she went over the log, dead.

  Mia gasped as the whites of the dead woman’s eyes reflected the moonlight. The man dragging her stopped, his shadowed face directed at the window. Mia ducked down, forcing her fingers into her mouth for something to bite down on. Had he seen her? He might come for her next. He might kill her—Alma and Margarite, too.

  She lurched across the floor to the door, pressing her back into it with all her strength, the wood making tiny scratches all over her back. She bit down onto her fingers until she could no longer taste the salt on her skin, until she tasted blood from the little thin red indentations along her fingers. She licked them clean and made a fist instead, pressing it onto her lips. Any minute Bjorn could return. Any minute they would be safe. Any minute.

  Alma turned, still asleep, as was Margarite. Please, blessed mother of Jesus, Mia prayed silently. Do not let them wake. She sat, pressing with her back and then her legs, pressing until her muscles cramped. She would bar the door. Nothing she could do about the window. She was probably a fool for barring the door when he could come in through the window, but she had to try. If he came in through the window, she had her blade.

  She did not know how long she sat, pushing against the door. Darkness deceived, changing the shadows all around her so that she could not fix with certainty upon a time. At last she heard church bells, twelve in all, as rain pummeled the roof and ran in through the window. Mia watched it run down her wall and across her clean floor in unpredictable rivers, stirring up mud and ruining all her work. Her clothes stuck to her body, sweat drying in patches but leaving her sticky and sour.

  She heard the torrent grow harder. Rain would wash everything away before the new morning. Everyone in town would be waking in a few hours, stirring the pots, tearing off hunks of bread and cheese to set out for breakfast. Children would be fetching new wood or eggs. Only Mia would remember what had happened in the night. There would be no footsteps, no trace of the murder. What would she say to Bjorn? Bjorn would think Mia had nightmares. He would tell her to work more, that he could protect her from everything except her own imagination. But tired bodies were not prone to bad dreams, and so he would urge her to work more.

  Mia saw Alma kick off the blanket, flopping over onto her stomach, her thumb in her mouth, her hair flayed in wild directions all around her head. Mia did not like it. The girl should be hidden until Bjorn came home, until they were safe.

  Please, Mia thought, please let Bjorn come home soon. Please let me hear his footsteps. Please. Bjorn will make us safe.

  Mia jerked awake. How long had she slept? She heard Bjorn’s footfall stirring the dead, wet leaves along the path. She checked from the window’s corner to be sure. Bjorn had returned.

  Mia threw open the front door, racing for him, calling his name. He caught her by the waist.

  “What is it, Mia? What is it?”

  “A man came. He killed a woman, right on our very own path, right in front of the door.”

  “What?”

  “I wanted you to come home so badly. I thought he might kill us, too.”

  Bjorn pulled her in closer, one hand still around her waist, the other going to her cheek. He looked all around at the ground, wet with puddles and washed clean of any footsteps. He frowned.

  “I know, Bjorn, there is no evidence. But you have to believe me.”

  He softly brushed her hair out of her face. “It has been a hard winter for you. Could you have been dreaming?”

  “No. No, it was no dream. The rain washed the footprints away. But they were here.”

  “Why would they come here? If you think clearly, you will see that it must have been a dream. Who would come to the sheriff’s home to commit murder?”

  “I don’t know. And I couldn’t understand what they said. But I did see it happen. Someone died.”