He felt her forehead. “You’re warm. Do you feel well?”

  “Bjorn—”

  “I do not know what you saw, Mia, but there’s no evidence here. No one in town is even stirring. I just returned from there.” He looked thoughtful. “Are you sick? Do you want me to call Father Stefan?”

  “I know what I saw,” she said, pushing against him.

  He took her in again. “Shhh. I will ask the innkeeper if she has hosted anyone who would cause trouble. If it happened as you said, I will arrest him and have him hanged by dusk. Does that please you?”

  She nodded, knowing he would feel her nod against his chest. She did not want to speak.

  He pulled her hand up to his face, looking closely at the reddened teeth marks visible across her hand, frowning.

  “What did you do to yourself?”

  Mia tucked her hand in the folds of her shift.

  Bjorn hesitated before speaking, as if judging whether she was able to discuss his work in her condition. “The town has been buzzing with gossip since Cronwall abandoned his wife. I have been called on to settle fistfights between men who think Catarina caused it and men who think Cronwall found another woman in a faraway city. There have been wives scolding their husbands for not stopping Cronwall from leaving, and a few bawds even blame me.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Please do not add to my burdens. I will find the man, if there is one. If he was real, he’s probably a trader. Already gone by now.”

  “But what about the woman?”

  He sighed, closing his eyes. Mia tried to soften her demand.

  “There would be a body. If it happened.” Mia added the last bit out of obedience. She did not need to be right. Not if it added to his burdens. Not if her sex was prone to imaginations. “Do you want me to go back out and look?” he murmured, sounding so tired. “I will do it, if it will give you peace.”

  Alma stirred inside the house. She would want to eat soon. Bjorn was surely hungry too. Mia straightened herself at once, standing back from Bjorn. She needed to do better for everyone’s sake. She had slept, and she could not prove the events had been real. It might have been imagination, the most universal of women’s sins. Father Stefan would be angry with her.

  The sun would be on the horizon within the hour. It would be a beautiful spring morning.

  Stefan’s fist hit the door again and again. He would go on hitting it, splintering it if he had to, until Bjorn answered. He could apologize later.

  Mia appeared.

  “Mia, get Bjorn. Immediately,” Stefan said. She looked terrible, as if she’d had no sleep. Stefan wished she would take better care of herself. Bjorn said other women flirted with him daily, but Bjorn always remained faithful. How long would he stay strong under such temptation? Still, Stefan could not warn Mia. The sacrament of confession could not be broken, even to aid a struggling soul.

  Mia shook her head no. “Let him sleep for a few more hours, and then I will send him to you.”

  “Wake him up, Mia. Now.”

  “Father, please. He is exhausted. Let him sleep.”

  Father Stefan stuck his foot in the door, pushing it open wider. “Forgive me, Mia, but I must get Bjorn.”

  “What is it, Stefan?”

  Bjorn appeared from the bedroom. His face sagged with exhaustion. Stefan pushed the door open all the way, going to Bjorn to whisper, keeping his back to Mia. Bjorn nodded then pointed at her.

  “She heard an argument last night in the woods beyond our home. A trader, she thinks. No one she recognized. I thought it had been a dream.”

  Mia couldn’t help it; she smiled at her husband. She had not imagined it. She had not been a poor wife to tell him.

  “The merchants are going mad with speculations,” Stefan said. “The rumors will ruin them all. People will go to another village to buy.” Stefan had one hand on Bjorn’s arm, pulling him toward the door.

  “Let me get my cloak,” Bjorn said, stepping back into the bedroom.

  “Have you had breakfast?” Mia asked Father Stefan. He looked at her as if she spoke another language. She waved to the little table by the fire. “Breakfast?”

  “No,” Stefan said. “Thank you,” he added. “Do you want to tell me what you saw?”

  Bjorn stepped out, ready to go. “Keep the food warm, Mia. And don’t go into town today. Not until I know who is among us.”

  “But I do not want to be alone.”

  “I’ll send Erick to check on you,” Stefan said, holding the door open for Bjorn before following behind. “He will even stay with you if you feel uneasy.”

  “But what should—”

  They closed the door and were gone.

  Mia wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and it came away with bits of straw from the floor and mud. She pinched herself as punishment. She should have washed herself. She must have looked like a fool.

  Margarite stirred. She probably needed to relieve herself before the pain returned.

  Mia went back to her life.

  Chapter Five

  The two bodies splayed across the church steps had none of the peaceful repose Stefan was accustomed to. There was no embroidered pillow or handsome cloak. Their limbs were spread apart, splattered with mud. Stefan crossed himself, wondering again if this was a dream. Shiny fat flies buzzed around Cronwall. His face was bloated. The woman lay facedown, thrown over him as if in an embrace, her skirts exposing her slender white calves. Stefan had never seen a woman’s calves, but he cleared his throat and tugged at the edge of the skirt to cover her, looking away from her body. He saw Bjorn taking in the scene with an expression of sadness and anger. A dark resolve passed across his face.

  Bjorn had no other hesitation, no signs of shock. He set to work with a pursed mouth, pulling out the pockets lining the man’s belt. They were filled with money. Using his foot, Bjorn rolled the woman’s body off the man’s, her dead eyes open to the morning sun.

  Stefan shielded his eyes from the glare, craned his neck, and leaned closer in. He wanted to be mistaken. He asked God to take it back, to make it go away.

  It was Catarina.

  Stefan inhaled with a high-pitched, keening gasp, like a child about to burst into a wail. Bjorn gave him a withering glare. Stefan knew he shouldn’t react to death this way. He saw it every month. But he wanted to point out to Bjorn that death and murder were not equal. Death was natural, to be expected even. Murder was a stunning perversion.

  “What do we do?” Stefan asked.

  Bjorn held the fistful of money out to the crowd. “This was not a robbery. Did anyone see anything? Does anyone want to speak?”

  No one in the growing crowd moved.

  “Why would both bodies be left on my steps?” Stefan asked.

  Bjorn watched the crowd. “This is a message.” He watched the crowd, his eyes moving back and forth, searching for something Stefan did not understand.

  Bjorn turned back, shaking his head, and handed the money to Stefan. “Keep this.”

  Erick came out of the church with a blanket, offering it to Bjorn.

  “Set it there. I’ll cover them when I’m done,” Bjorn said.

  Erick did what he was told. He looked as if he, too, was wandering about in a dream, lost and confused.

  “Erick? Check on Mia and her home. She will worry if she hears news of this and is alone,” Stefan said. The young man nodded and disappeared into the crowd.

  Bjorn turned and knelt by Catarina’s body, ran his fingers along her neck, then pushed against her cheek. Her head twisted as far as he pushed it. “Broken,” Bjorn said. The words carried to the back of the crowd with great urgency by the onlookers.

  “Those are new bruises, Bjorn,” Stefan whispered. “They’re not the same bruises I saw on her last week after Cronwall disappeared.”

  “Do not add to her shame,” Bjorn whispered. “Say nothing of those injuries.”

  Bjorn spoke rightly, Stefan thought. Catarina had been so modest. She should not have her marriage picked over in plain view of the village. Stefan’s heart pinched a little. Why did Bjorn always know what to do and he did not?

  “Bring a horse and cart here,” Bjorn said to him before turning to the crowd. “Who among you loved Catarina?”

  The astronomer’s wife, Ducinda, stepped forward. She kept a palm flat on her face, her eyes red with grief.

  Bjorn put his arm around her, leading her between Stefan and himself. He spoke down to her, keeping one arm around her shoulders, his hand rubbing her other shoulder. She calmed somewhat, swallowing down great sobs.

  “Ducinda, you say Catarina was your friend?”

  She nodded yes.

  “Then you must know who would have done this.”

  Ducinda looked up at him with wide eyes. “I surely do not know, sir. She was a lamb. No one would want to hurt her.”

  “She said nothing to you? Nothing at all? No hints of trouble?”

  Ducinda shook her head no.

  Bjorn closed his eyes and exhaled. “A shame. Now, Ducinda, will you do something for your friend?”

  “Anything for her, sir. And for you, of course.”

  “I’ll remove the bodies to the church. Father Stefan will give you access to them. See to it they are prepared for a burial by tomorrow morning. Stefan will make sure you are reimbursed for all your expenses. But Ducinda, please,” he added, “no gossip. Gossip dishonors your friend and muddies the waters I am to fish in. Do you understand?”

  Ducinda looked back at the crowd doubtfully. She pressed her arms closer into her body. “But who did this?”

  “I will find out.” Bjorn rested his hand on her shoulder. “Ducinda, your job is to see that your friend is well cared for now.”

  Stefan approached Bjorn. “Surely you must have an idea.”

  “Look at the bodies. Cronwall has been dead for a while. Catarina is still fresh. What do you think this means?”

  Stefan’s cheeks flushed, and he cleared his throat, looking at the crowd. They were of no help, looking away as soon as he met their eyes. Stefan saw all the directions they looked instead—at their feet, at the clouds, or at their hands, which were picking at dead lice clinging to their wool cloaks.

  Bjorn nudged him for an answer. “All right, then,” Bjorn said, shaking his head. “Tell me this: Where was God? If God is good, why didn’t He stop this?”

  “We can’t always understand His will.”

  Bjorn laced his fingers together, resting them against his chin. “Let me tell you what I understand: Prayer changed nothing here.” He sighed, dropping his hands, preparing to lift Catarina’s body. He turned around, avoiding Stefan’s face and addressing the crowd. “This is what I suspect: Catarina was unfaithful. That is why Cronwall left in the middle of the storm: to confront her lover. We all knew him to be a proud man. As for her, she paid for her sin—at the hands of her lover, I am sure.”

  His last words could barely be heard over the crowd.

  “Why dump them here?” Stefan asked. “Why would he not conceal his crime?”

  Bjorn looked at Stefan, his eyes narrowing, as if willing him to understand. “Who committed the greatest crime? Catarina cuckolded two men.”

  “But why would he murder Cronwall?” Stefan said. He wished he knew more of why lovers came together and what drove them apart. He wouldn’t feel so stupid in the face of their senseless crimes.

  “Cronwall must have attacked the man. The man struck back in self-defense,” Bjorn suggested. Stefan noticed that many in the crowd were still listening to Bjorn. “My wife saw the whole thing last night,” he said, looking at the crowd. “You don’t see her here, do you? She knows justice has been done.”

  The crowd erupted into whispers. One of the younger girls, Iris, noticed Bjorn staring at her and tucked her chin down with a blush. Stefan understood very little of women. Older women had cold hatred in their eyes, even as their mouths worked furiously, chattering to each other. He shook his head in wonder. A scandal worthy of Avignon had come to his quiet town, and Mia had seen the whole thing, though she had smiled at him this morning and offered him breakfast.

  Bjorn trotted down the church steps, parting the crowd to get through. Stefan ran to catch up to him.

  “Are you angry with me?” Bjorn asked. Stefan waved him off, embarrassed. Bjorn knew him well. “I am just curious. What should be done next?”

  “You could try praying.”

  “Don’t mock me.” Stefan looked at Bjorn to see if his friend teased.

  “I’m not. I’m mocking prayer.”

  Bjorn ducked into a doorway with room only for Stefan to follow, giving them privacy.

  “I know you do not understand what goes on between a man and a woman,” Bjorn said. “But the murders are God’s failure, not mine. I am out here every night. I answer every cry for help that I hear.”

  “That’s not fair. We can’t know the mind of God. That does not mean He does not hear our cries.”

  “Are you sure? That makes Him a devil, doesn’t it? That He hears and does not act?”

  “You do not mean that.”

  Bjorn opened his mouth to say something else, then sighed. “I’m sorry. I can’t escape these questions.”

  Stefan patted him on the back. “Your profession is to blame, not you.” He gestured back toward the square. “The merchants are afraid of losing the best weeks of the market. What are you going to do?”

  “A tart stirred up two men and paid for it. It doesn’t involve the merchants.”

  “Two bodies left on the steps of the church? You have to arrest the man. It’s a scandal.”

  Bjorn laughed, stepping out of the doorway. Stefan caught him by the arm. “You do not understand my meaning.”

  “What would you have me do? Ask politely at every door, ‘Are you the man who was seduced by Cronwall’s wife and murdered them? Would you mind coming with me so I can hang you?’”

  “The women are superstitious and fearful. If you do not make an arrest, they’ll travel in another direction to go to market. The first weeks of market are critical while we wait for the crops to ripen. We need the money. The church needs the money.”

  “What is the reason you are so frightened? Is it the money or the scandal?”

  Stefan held a finger up to stop Bjorn from saying anything more. Bjorn was failing him. But there might be a solution that saved them all. “There is an Inquisitor in nearby Eichschan,” Stefan said as the idea surfaced. “The bishop has said the Inquisitor is highly regarded by the pope, even commissioned in Nuremberg.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Hear me out.”

  “But this is not witchcraft. Just wickedness.”

  Stefan swallowed, rubbing his hands together before weaving them through the air, as if to stir Bjorn’s imagination. “Wickedness is the Devil’s work. These circumstances are unusual for Dinfoil, and I think they merit a visit from such a man. A man of higher learning will have answers for you and the merchants. If it goes well, other villages will be talking about it too. We’ll have more visitors. More money. The prince would be pleased. Perhaps he would even mention us to the emperor.” Stefan had never argued with Bjorn. He did not know what to do after speaking, so he dropped his hands and waited.

  “No. Do not bring a stranger into this. We do not want every other village hearing of our troubles.”

  “Try to imagine it. I will bring in the Inquisitor and let him find the guilty man. Then he will declare the town free of all evil influences, and the markets will thrive. It will be over in a fortnight. You won’t have to do anything. No one will care if you don’t make an arrest. But we will all gain recognition. God could very well be in this tragedy for our good.”

  “No,” Bjorn said in a tone meant to end the conversation. “No outsiders. Don’t speak of it again.”

  “Bjorn,” Stefan said, his face turning red. “Have you seen the way they look at me? Everyone in town looks at me as if I allowed this. Even you accuse me, in your way. I’m not stupid.”

  “Then don’t act it. An Inquisitor will come here looking for the Devil, and he may very well find one. How will you look then?”

  “You’re wrong,” Stefan said.

  “Look at your feet, my friend.”

  Stefan looked down. The edges of his robe were a bit dirty, but his feet were clean, despite the mud and chaos of spring.

  “Do you see the ground you’re standing on?”

  Stefan looked up. “Yes.”

  Bjorn pointed a finger at him. “That’s the only thing you know for certain. You hear what people want to tell you, only the sins they feel guilt for. The difference between you and me? I see what they do when they leave your church. I see the sins they commit without guilt or shame.”

  Stefan watched him walk away, standing there in the dirt with chaos not far away. A red fleck caught his eye, a cardinal in a barren tree. The branches were just beginning to build up at the ends, preparing for spring, and the bird glistened, a trembling ruby startling in its perfection, in its dazzling, unrepentant red. Stefan stared at it until the sun caught its feathers just right, and for a moment he saw his whole village blinded with red. Beyond the barren tree, behind the houses with dark smoke curling from their chimneys, a wolf howled.

  Cold wind stung his cheeks, and he shook free of the moment, pulling his arms in with a shiver. Winter had not finished with them yet.

  Chapter Six

  Mia was startled awake when she heard a spoon bang against the wall. Margarite was anxious for supper.

  “Coming, Margarite,” Mia yelled. Yelling made her sound angry, but Margarite could not help being deaf.

  Margarite groaned and hit the spoon against the wall once more. The busyness of meals, of interacting with Mia, made Margarite forget the pain, Mia suspected. Food became something they could still do together, one last link. Mia did not know if the woman even tasted the food or just wanted Mia to touch her and look at her. When old ones stopped eating, they died. Everyone knew that, including Margarite. She wasn’t ready to die.