“Well, he was just the worst man, stealing and cheating and beating his wife and children. To hide his sinfulness from the priests, the man forbade his son to go to church, but of course the boy does go, and he confesses, and when the father hears about it? Whoa! He’s so angry he grabs the boy and throws him into the village furnace. Just like that, right in there with the bread as it’s baking.”
“His own son?” gasps a nearby girl.
“Yes, Sister. And you know what happened? When they pulled that boy out, he was unharmed. Completely fine. Not even a hot blister. He said the Holy Mother came to him in the fire and placed her blue mantle about him and that protected him from the flames.”
Aleys pictures a swirl of sky, softer than silk, impenetrable as iron, around the child.
“She can do that?” another girl asks.
“She can do anything.”
Several of them nod.
“What happened to the father?” asks Ida, suspicious.
“Course they threw him right inside, where the devil was waiting.” Cecilia leans in and her large eyes grow larger. “They say that fire still burns and if you look in, you can see the man in agony. The town had to build another furnace, on account of the bread always coming out burnt.”
They do love their miracles. Aleys believes in wonders, at least the ones in scripture. Those happened a long time ago. Cecilia’s miracles, she thinks, might be tall tales.
The noon bell rings. Cecilia puts down her winding and looks out the window. The rain has picked up, the hush dampening the sound. The dormitory feels like a small drowsy ark swaying above a green sea. “I’ll go fetch the beer,” Cecilia announces.
“Again?” says one of her companions. “Didn’t you go to the brewery just yesterday? Besides, it’s pouring.”
“It’s a warm rain.”
Hardly, thinks Aleys.
“Cecilia, you can’t go alone,” says Ida. “It causes too much gossip.”
“I’ll take Sister Aleys with me.” Cecilia looks straight at her. “You’ll come, won’t you?”
Aleys has to run to keep up, skirting puddles.
“Cecilia, wait!” Aleys pants. “I have something to ask you.”
“Right now? In the rain?”
“Yes, can you please just slow down a moment?”
Cecilia stops, but her head leans toward the brewery. She shields her eyes. “Maybe you can ask me later?”
Cecilia tugs down her dress and sets back her cap, allowing a few wheat-colored curls to escape. She pushes into the brewhouse, where they are met with a warm gust of yeast and rosemary. Sawdust covers the floor. Housewives and errand boys are bargaining over barrels. Cecilia cranes her neck, searching. At the back of the hall, a door to the side yard opens. A gangly young man strains to push a large barrel over the lip of the doorway, putting his thin shoulder to the staves.
“Rolf!” cries Cecilia. Rolf straightens at her voice, and the barrel rolls back against his foot. He winces as he smiles, reddening to his jug ears. Rolf doffs his cap, pressing it to his chest as the rain plasters ginger hair to his cheeks. “Miss Cecilia?” he calls out, his voice cracking.
“Rolf! More ale!” she commands, and Rolf abandons the barrel in the doorway. “The juniper flavor!” she bellows after him.
Cecilia looks at Aleys, reads her eyes. “He’s the brewer’s apprentice.” Aleys frowns at her. “No, really, it’s not like that. Rolf just knows me from fetching the small beer.” Then she grins. “But he always gets me the best.” Aleys doesn’t doubt it.
Rolf returns with a cask in his arms. Water sluices from his orange eyebrows. “Shall I carry it for you?” It looks as though Cecilia could bear the load more easily than Rolf. Pit the pair of them in an arm wrestling contest, and Aleys would put her coin on Cecilia.
“Yes, Rolf. Follow me.” Cecilia lifts her chin and sails out the door.
“You see?” she says to Aleys over her shoulder. “The city is good. Just,” she says, “maybe don’t mention it to Sister Katrijn.”
Wouldn’t matter if she did. Cecilia won’t last any longer at the begijnhof than Aleys.
“Now what did you want to ask me?”
