Aleys is at her prie-dieu when she hears the massive cathedral doors creak. Someone has entered the church from the plaza. Light footsteps, an altar boy sent to change the candles. But suddenly it’s her sister at the squint.
“Aleys?” Griete whispers. “I have news! Are you there?”
Like she could be anywhere else. Aleys rises. She can make out pieces of Griete hovering on the other side of the window, the smooth skin, the blue eye, the golden hair. It’s like looking at a cross-shaped puzzle of her sister. Griete’s breath comes through the opening. She’s had onions for dinner. The smell is at odds with the picture.
All is at odds, now.
“Aleys?”
“I’m here, I’m here. What is it?”
“I’m to be married! To Pieter!”
“You are?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. It’s your doing. You prayed for me.”
Indeed she has, half-heartedly. Of all her prayers, this is the one God answers?
“That’s marvelous, Griete,” she manages. “You must be happy. And Papa? He’s approved?”
“Oh, yes, he arranged it.”
And yet you give me the credit.“Well, when will it happen?”
“Soon,” Griete whispers. “Just before Midsummer. Aleys, the wedding will be here, in the cathedral! It will be so grand. You’ll be able to watch through your window.”
Aleys is stunned. Here? They’ll wed before her eyes?
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course.” She feels somehow hollowed out. Griete will get what she turned down. “Really, you must be very happy,” she repeats.
“I am. Only.”
“Only what?”
Griete leans into the window. “Aleys, I’m a little ... afraid. About, well, you know.” She takes a deep breath. “Consummation.”
“Oh!” Aleys is surprised. Her sister, the flirt, is anxious about the marriage bed? Aleys supposes that, with Mama gone, there’s no one to explain. Aleys is rather touched that Griete seeks sisterly advice even though that sister’s a virgin anchoress. What does she possibly know about the topic? Their brother Henryk called it bedsport, which makes the act seem like jousting or archery. Of all the advice Aleys has dispensed from the hold, this might be the most awkward.
“I suppose,” she starts. “I suppose it’s like wrestling.”
“It is?”
“Well, sort of. And also like ball-in-a-cup.” She pictures the frustrating toy with the wooden ball on a string.
“It’s not painful?”
Aleys thinks back to Mama’s laugh when Papa would pull her onto his lap in the kitchen. They wouldn’t have had so many children or been so happy if it hurt much.
“I don’t think so.”
“Hmm.” Griete’s not sure. “You could maybe pray for me.”
She will. She’ll pray for their happiness. She’s glad that God seems inclined to grant Griete’s wishes, even if it feels like he’s abandoned Aleys.
“It must be hard, your life,” Griete says. “I don’t know how you do it, by yourself in there, all alone.”
