“You’ll want a safe place to store them,” said Ross. “And several copies made, as they’re quite likely to be stolen.”
“As many as need be.” Dovey picked up the paten and scraped the last of the clay from the inlaid gems. “I won’t quarrel with the blessings St. Gwladys chooses to give me.”
Gwen cradled Pen’s arms around her and wondered how soon she should tell him what she suspected, that she might have conceived a child. He’d insisted he didn’t need heirs; how would he feel about having them anyway? She leaned against his shoulder, listening to the firm steady beat of his heart, and watched the colored light fall through the window of the saint who had watched over her for so many years.
St. Gwladys had whispered to her to stay here, stay alive. She had given her shelter and then she had given her help, and then she had given her, one at a time, people to heal her heart and teach her again how to love. And when she was ready, the river had carried her this man, her future, her joy, and the whole of her heart.
“All right?” Pen whispered in her ear. He must have felt the shiver pass through her.
She hugged his arms around her. “Better than all right,” she whispered back. “Very, very happy.”
From her window, St. Gwladys smiled.
