“You don’t know if they’re miracles.”
“No.”
Sophia considers this. Her gaze returns to the window.
“Maybe that’s the wrong question,” she says, nodding toward something across the courtyard. Aleys leans forward. Marte has stepped outside the kitchen and is crouching to feed an orange cat. She wipes her fingers on her apron and waits while the cat finishes the fish head. Then she reaches out rough knuckles to rub behind his ear. The cat leans into her hand.
“You see,” says Sophia. “We’re all miracles to someone.”
They try to let her rest. The magistra orders Katrijn to give Aleys her spare room, the one Katrijn intended for Cecilia. Katrijn follows Aleys with narrowed eyes that say she’s not buying any miracles. Aleys wants to tell her, I didn’t will this upon myself. Not this. Katrijn only shakes her head and retreats when Aleys opens her mouth.
Below the two small bedchambers is a bare sitting room. They bring a second chair so Aleys can receive visitors. She turns them away. Except one. On a rainy afternoon, Cecilia bangs on the door to announce that Aleys’s sister has arrived.
Griete stands in the open doorway. Behind her, a sheet of rain blurs the courtyard, the leaves of the trees pointing to the ground. Griete lowers her hood. Her hair is in a simple plait that she must have braided herself. She looks older. Aleys rises from the table. She can feel the invisible maze between them, full of false starts and dead ends, no sure path to each other.
“Sister,” says Griete.
“You’re here.” To slap me, kiss me, break my heart? Aleys thinks of the clapping games they used to play. Of cat’s cradle, their hands bound together so tight that they cried for Mama to cut them free.
“I had to come.”
“Why? Is someone ill?”
“No, Aleys. It’s just—” She looks at her hands. “I’ve missed you.”
Something in Aleys breaks open and suddenly they are in each other’s arms. Aleys silently thanks God. Her sister, her real sister. The heavens outside have washed the world clean. The smell of wet wool, of home, fills her nostrils. She mumbles into the cloth, “I thought you hated me.”
Griete pulls back. “I did, at first. You abandoned us.”
“You know I—” She stops herself. It doesn’t matter if she had to.
“We lost the Lakenhalle because of you. It was bad.”
“But you’ve forgiven me?”
Griete shrugs. Maybe.
“Why?”
“Papa. After he left you at the church with that friar, he went up to your prie-dieu and stood there, staring at it for hours. When he came down, he said it was the biggest mistake of his life, forcing his child into marriage. He said losing the Lakenhalle was his fault, not yours.”
“Oh.” It feels like a gift. Like more miracle than she deserves. “But why hasn’t he come?”
Griete looks at her likes it’s obvious. “You live in a community of women.”
“I could still see him.”
“I don’t know, Aleys. I think he’s ashamed. It’s been a hard season. We sold the buttons from your wedding sleeves. Henryk traded his green cloak.” Griete rubs her forehead. “But it wasn’t enough. Claus started dicing. Remember those pardons he bought?Miserere mei? He used every one of them.”
“But that’s terrible.”
“Less terrible than starving.” Griete lifts a shoulder. “Turns out Claus has excellent luck. Especially now that you’re so famous.”
“What do you mean?”
“Claus sells your prayers.”
“My what?”
