

### The Fairytale Keeper

Part One

A Free Preview

### Andrea Cefalo

Copyright © 2012 Andrea Cefalo

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be submitted to scarletprimrosepress@gmail.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cefalo,Andrea

Scarlet Primrose Press/Andrea Cefalo

Smashwords Edition

Summary: Adelaide's mother, Katrina, was the finest storyteller in all of Airsbach, a borough in the great city of Cologne, but she left one story untold, that of her daughter, that of Snow White. Snow White was a pet name Adelaide's mother had given her. It was a name Adelaide hated, until now. Now, she would give anything to hear her mother say it once more.

A rampant fever claimed Adelaide's mother just like a thousand others in Cologne where the people die without last rites and the dead are dumped in a vast pit outside the city walls. In an effort to save Katrina's soul, Adelaide's father obtains a secret funeral for his wife by bribing the parish priest, Father Soren.

Soren commits an unforgivable atrocity, pushing Adelaide toward vengeance. When Adelaide realizes that the corruption in Cologne reaches far beyond Soren, the cost of settling scores quickly escalates. Avenging the mother she lost may cost Adelaide everything she has left: her father, her friends, her first love, and maybe even her life.

LCCN: 2012932754

ISBN: 0985167815

### Praise for The Fairytale Keeper

"A...resonant tale set late in the 13th century... with unexpected plot twists. An engaging story of revenge and redemption... An opener to a future series." - _Publisher's Weekly_

"Really great story. The author's style reminds me of many great historical fiction pieces that I've read. Strong emotion injected into almost every page." - _The Vine Review_

"...a unique twist on the Grimm's Fairy Tales. Part fairy tale retelling, part historical fiction.... The Fairy Tale Keeper is a story of corruption, devotion, and tough decisions." - _Copperfield Review_

### Awards for The Fairytale Keeper

~Quarter-finalist in Amazon's 2013 Breakthrough Novel Contest

~Indie Book of the Day

~Finalist in Writing.com's "Hook Us" Competition

### Reader Reviews

"The story that Cefalo weaves is intriguing and leaves you hanging on, wanting more." - _Hooked to Books Book Review Blog_

"...it doesn't feel like any retelling. Because it's not. The Fairytale Keeper is its own unique story...very entertaining, containing a strong female role, a sweet romance, and much more." - _Lulu The Bookworm Book Review Blog_

DEDICATION

To Ken

# Contents

Prologue: Winter 1245

Chapter 1: 11 March, 1247

Chapter 2: 11 March, 1247, Night

Chapter 3: 12 March, 1247, Early Morning

Chapter 4: 12 March, 1247, Afternoon

Chapter 5: 12 March, 1247, Late Afternoon

Chapter 6: 12 March, 1247, Evening

Chapter 7: 13 March, 1247

Chapter 8: 14 March, 1247

Chapter 9: 15 March, 1247

Chapter 10: 17 March, 1247

### Winter 1245

Fat snowflakes fall lazily to the ground. The streets of Cologne are dusted like sugared gingerbread. The row houses look like the newest gingerbread church confections I had just seen weeks ago at the Christmas market. I open the shutters. An icy wind blows through the window, through the thin wool of my tattered nightshift, through my fair skin, deep to the bone. I shiver violently and dive quickly under the blanket.

"Are you mad Adelaide?" Mother asks with a shiver. "Close the shutters or you'll catch cold."

"But Mama, look. It's snowing."

"Is it, now?" She smiles warmly. "First snow of the year."

I move over quickly. Mother sets down the candle by my bedside and slides in next to me. I press my frigid toes against her warm legs. We smile at each other and reach our palms out the window, side by side. Flakes fall and melt quickly against the heat of our palms. I look at her ruddy skin, wondering how mine is dreadfully fair. I pull my hand back into the room.

"You have such pretty skin, my little Snow White," Mama says, reassuringly, as she closes the shutters for the night. I recoil from the name I used to love. The cruel urchins of the market overheard Mother call me this once. Now they tease me for my pale skin and dark hair by shouting, "Snow White!" as they throw rocks or rotten fruit at me.

I slip deeper into the covers and rest my head on her soft lap. She runs her fingers through the tangles of my black hair though she never pulls. My limbs unhinge as I sink closer to a deep childlike sleep.

"Tell me my story. Tell me Snow White." I say, slipping deeper into the blankets, shifting until I am most comfortable.

"You always hate it when I tell your story, Adelaide." She sighs as her finger is caught on a tangle which she abandons for a neater section of my hair.

"That's because you haven't added to it since I was born. I am thirteen winters now. Surely there is more to tell." I say with a yawn.

"A baby in my eyes still." She coos, and I roll my eyes. "How can I know the story of your life when your life has barely begun?"

I huff in protest.

"I cannot write your story, Snow White. Only you can write your story."

"Then, tell me another story." I resign.

Two years later...

### 11 March, 1247, Afternoon

Once upon a time in the middle of winter, when the flakes of snow were falling like feathers from the sky, a queen sat at a window sewing, and the frame of the window was made of black ebony. And whilst she was sewing and looking out of the window at the snow, she pricked her finger with the needle, and three drops of blood fell upon the snow. And the red looked pretty upon the white snow, and she thought to herself, would that I had a child as white as snow, with lips as red as blood, and hair as black as the wood of the window frame.

... _she had a little daughter, whose skin was as white as snow with lips as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony, and she was therefore called little Snow White. And fifteen winters after the child was born, the queen died._

-Snow White

~

I place my hand on the nose of the brown workhorse as Father and Johan remove her dead body from its carriage. He shakes his head and snorts, the steam of his breath floating into the cold March fog.

I am not supposed to be motherless. That happens to other children. Yet here I am, watching Mama being placed on a pyre. My legs shake as I approach her for the last time. I haven't slept in days.

A loosely-knit ivory shroud is tightly wound around her lifeless skin. Her once pink lips are violet and flattened. Mama is dead, I think. Seeing her again makes it all dreadfully real, and the grief robs me of breath.

I brush my fingers along the waves of her clay-colored hair and trace her high cheek bones, resting them on her cold, hard hands folded gently across the waist of the cream-colored tunic she was wearing when she died.

The bouquet of wild flowers I had plucked for the funeral is now wilting in my iron grip, and the leaves have browned. She is too good for wilted flowers, I think, and toss the bouquet to the ground. I return to Father's side where he stands with Mama's cousin, Galadriel.

The dead flowers begin to roll away with an icy gust of wind, but Father kneels quickly to collect them. He pushes them against my stomach and muffles a cough. Men do not cry in Cologne, at least not outside the walls of their homes, so he stares straight ahead stoically with his jaw tightly clenched.

Father Soren moves hurriedly through the funeral rites. His face twists with disgust and I imagine he fears contracting the great fever that has killed so many in Cologne. His callous eyes stare through us, devoid of compassion.

He speaks faster as the heavy clouds darken and the roar of thunder builds. I despise him and his church. In this, I know I am not alone. These vile men hide in their churches as the people of Cologne succumb to the fever without last rites. They are the ones who order the bodies of our family and friends to be dumped like refuse into an enormous pit far outside the city walls.

Yesterday, Father sent friends to find a priest who could serve Mama her last rites. St. Severin, St. Kunibert, St. Gereon... even the cathedral's priests refused us and stated that, as it was Sunday, they were busy preparing for Mass, but I know better. No priest would come to our home for fear of catching the fever. I pray Saint Peter shall pardon this missing sacrament and grant Mama entry to Heaven.

I hope these men all perish without their last rites. I hope they are placed on that horrid cart destined for the pit outside the city, their crooked bodies hanging from the edge of the cart with the poorest and most decayed victims, mouths agape, surrounded by flies.

Father says we are lucky to have a funeral at all. We are lucky that 1247 has been a fruitful year for us. We are lucky to live in a city where a cobbler can earn enough to bribe a priest into giving a funeral service. We are lucky Father comes from a long line of cobblers, and that the wealthiest families of Cologne purchase his shoes. We are lucky the fever hasn't stopped pilgrims from coming to Cologne and buying from our booth in the market.

But I do not feel lucky today.

Father Soren quickly bows his head in silence. Then, with a snap of his chubby fingers, he summons his dark-haired associate, Johan, to light the pyre. The straw below Mama ignites and flames lap at her like the devil's tongue. An anxious twitch possesses my leg. She cannot be dead, I think. She would never leave me.

I run to the pyre and pet her hair, but she does not wake. I kiss her cold hard face and beg her to rise, but she does not hear. I beg louder, choking on sobs.

Father Soren gasps with disgust.

"Stupid urchin!" He hisses. "She's infected herself now!" He backs farther from the smoking pyre and points a shaking finger toward me. "She'll give us all the fever."

I shake Mother's shoulders and cry for her to wake. My flowers fall and are swallowed by the growing flames as unbridled sobs burst from my throat. I embrace her body tightly, knowing now she shall not rise.

Smoke stings my lungs and fire smarts my skin like hundreds of tiny whips, but the burns are nothing compared to the wicked pains of grief that wring my stomach like a wet rag, that smite the breath from my lungs, and put a hardened lump at the back of my throat.

Father pries my arms loose and pulls me backward. I fall to the ground coughing. A rim of ambers glows along the hems of my chainse and surcote which I smother in the cold, soggy ground.

"Take your coins and go, coward," Father spits as he pitches a small bag to the ground by the growing flames in disgust.

Johan retrieves the bag before it catches fire.

"I should have had your wench placed on the cart and disposed of properly, Schumacher," the priest declares. He stares straight into Father's eyes and spits on Mama's corpse.

Father's eyes narrow, and his face flashes a violent scarlet as he charges Soren. Soren's buggy eyes widen with fright and shock, as he runs to the opposite side of the pyre. He shifts left and then right, trying to anticipate how Father might come for him. Johan stands with crossed arms at the head of the pyre.

"You wouldn't hit a priest, would you, Schumacher? It's a hanging offense." Soren warns, swallowing hard.

Father unsheathes his dagger. "I don't plan on hitting you."

Galadriel gasps. "No, Ansel, don't do this! Katrina wouldn't want you to hang."

Galadriel is right. Mama would not want this, but Father's rages rarely wane with reason. I have no doubt that he could kill the priest. He has a lean strength that increases three-fold when he's angered. I've seen him beat a thief nearly twice his girth in the market. It took nearly a half-dozen men to pull him off, but Johan is a Goliath with a broad sword at his hip.

"Johan!" Soren cries. "Will you not protect me?"

Johan bounces the bag of coins in his hand. "That depends on what your life is worth to you, Priest."

"Traitorous oaf! Our deal was already struck."

Father rounds the pyre, and Soren rushes behind Johan who smiles at his good fortune.

"You can have half the purse!" Soren squeals.

"If I let the shoemaker kill you, he'll let me keep them all." Johan observes.

"Done. The purse is yours."

"The purse is already mine, as I see it. What else can you offer?"

"A guilder."

"Two." Johan counters.

"Fine," Soren hisses. "Two guilders!"

"As I see it, Schumacher, the priest has paid a fine of two guilders for his wrongs and receives no pay for the funeral." Johan reasons.

"Ansel, please," Galadriel pleads once more. She approaches him slowly like he is a wild animal. She reaches for his sleeve, and her eyes widen as she attempts to calm Father with her striking gaze, but he looks past her to Soren.

A long moment passes, and I feel torn between siding with Galadriel and urging Father on. The rogue spat on my mother and deserves to be punished. I should like to see Father give him a thrashing he shan't soon forget. Father sighs and sheaths his dagger.

"Ready the carriage, Johan," Soren orders, turning away.

My hand rests on a cobblestone, and revenge tempts me. I pick it up, rise, and pitch the stone, aiming for the back of Soren's bald head. He yelps as it strikes his shoulder. He turns and narrows his eyes at me.

"You little witch!" He hisses, rubbing the injury.

He approaches the pyre and kicks a log from beneath it. The structure collapses. Mother's burning remains tumble to the ground. Soren races to the carriage and jumps aboard. Johan whips the horses, and they charge toward the city walls. Father races after them in vain.

I drop to my knees, wailing in anguish. I cry as the dark, moaning clouds pour down upon us, rain sizzling in the flames. Mama's charred remains extinguish under the cold deluge.

Father runs to me and falls to his knees. He turns me away from the defiled corpse. "Do not look," his voice cracks, and he embraces me tightly. He cries violently, angrily, as I sob into his shoulder. I had never heard my father cry like that before, and I hope I never have to hear it again.

~

Father stands, and pulls me with him. He urges me forward, forcing my gaze on the long road ahead of us back to the city. "Night approaches."

"We cannot leave her here like this," I cry in protest, but Father does not reply and continues to push me forward. I know now he shall return to bury her.

"I hope you do not intend to do this alone." I say quietly. "There are wolves and thieves outside the gates at night." He does not answer. I fight the urge to beg him to reconsider, for I know my protests shall fall on deaf ears.

My crying ebbs and flows from violent bawling to whimpers. I cannot fathom ever being happy again after this day. The tears still pool and flow down my face which is raw from the water, the wind, and whips from the long black strands of my hair that cannot be tamed in this weather. My throat grows painful and tired and my cries slowly abate. My anguish is locked away, and I feel nothing, not even the sting of the cold March rain.

The sky slowly darkens from grey to black as we approach Severin's gate, which, like all the gates, is closed every night. Father knocks on the heavy wood. The window slides open and a one-eyed, old man appears from behind it. "State yer business," he says matter-of-factly. His long, wet, silver hair blows out from the window.

"Gregor, it's us," Father says.

"Ansel?" The man squints with his one good eye.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry about yer missus," Gregor says gently. He continues with his condolences as he jumps from his stand. I wonder if he knows we can no longer hear him. The chains crank as the massive gate rises, revealing Gregor, a sweet old man barely as tall as my shoulder.

He and my grandfather, whom I never met, were childhood friends. Plagued with rheumatism, Gregor was forced to give up masonry long ago. He now mans the gate for little pay. When Father noticed Gregor's toes poking out from beneath his shoes a fortnight ago, he made him a new pair without charge.

"Do the shoes fit well?" Father asks, looking down at his work. Gregor does not answer, but looks past Father to Galadriel, staring at her with a nearly religious captivation. It is the way men have stared at her since she arrived, as though they would either like to eat her whole or revere her for an eternity.

Even in her soaked, drab, grey tunic and cloak, Galadriel is beautiful. Her blonde hair shimmers even on a stormy day like this. She has skin as fair and clear as fresh cream. Her light blue eyes are wide, and I can imagine jongleurs composing songs in her name.

"Gregor? Are you all right?" I ask to snap him from his awkward stare.

"Oh, yes!" Gregor finally answers. "Oh! My feet are as warm an' dry as the Holy Land itself, Ansel!" Gregor's pointed nose passes his lips, bobbing up and down when he talks. He parades his footwear, and then looks up at Father with concern. "I'm really sorry 'bout Katrina, Ansel. She was a queen among women."

"She shall be missed," Father sighs, casting his gaze downward again. "Is there a carriage that can take them back? I would not want them to walk alone in the rain."

"Oh, yes. Of course, Ansel. Ivan! Get one of the carriages over 'ere and take these girls back to the cobbler's!" Gregor shouts at a tall, young, blonde man whose pale skin makes me look Arabian. "Shouldn't ya accompany the ladies back 'ome, Ansel? 'Tis a cold night ta be out."

"No, Gregor. I have business to attend to."

"Anythin' I can be a 'elp with?" Gregor asks with deep sincerity.

"Have you got any shovels?"

"Course, but what would ya be needing 'em for?"

"Our funeral did not go as planned. I need a pick, as well." Father coughs to cover the crack in his voice.

Ivan ambles over, pulling the horses and carriage behind him. He straightens at the sight of Galadriel and stares for several moments, though she does not seem to notice.

"It's not safe ta be outside 'a the gates after dark, Ansel. Oh, a drunkard was cut through outside the Weier gate on 'is way 'ome last week," Gregor says.

Father opens his mouth to argue, but Gregor continues, shrugging his shoulders. "But if it's a shovel and a pick ya want, we 'ave 'alf a dozen back in the stables. I could send Ivan with ya if ya like."

Ivan appears angered and shakes his head slowly and sternly. It is difficult to believe anyone of his impressive stature would be afraid of anything. He is taller than my father by a head.

"Thank you for getting them home and for the shovel."

"I wish I could do more. Are ya sure you shan't accept any 'elp?" Gregor asks.

"Yes," Father sighs as he walks toward the stables to get the shovel and pick.

Ivan opens the carriage door, but I am planted where I stand.

"I shall see you both soon." Father says.

My heart pounds and the air thins. If I go home without Father, I might never see him again. I cannot lose him, too. Not now. I imagine him being overcome by a large band of thieves or a pack of ravenous wolves. I must make him stay, even at the risk of scavengers getting to Mother before she can be buried.

"Go on, Adelaide," Father sighs, running his hands through his black hair. I shake my head, and he raises an eyebrow in warning.

I barrel into him and squeeze him hard. "Please, do not go," I cry into his wet cloak. "We can all go in the morning," I plead, looking into his pewter eyes.

"Get in the carriage, Adelaide," he replies somberly and pushes me backward. "I have fought much worse than vagabonds and wolves alone and survived."

Gregor hobbles to the stables and returns with a crossbow. Father straps it to his arm.

Father turns toward the gate, and I dive to the ground, squeezing his legs in an effort to keep him there. "Don't go!" I cry.

"Adelaide! That is enough!" he scolds and shakes me from his leg. "Get in the carriage!"

Father has made his choice, and there is nothing I can do to change it. I rise and stare at his face for a moment, trying to memorize it in case he never returns. I hug him tightly, sobbing again.

"I love you, Papa," I whimper into his cloak.

"And I love you," he whispers so quietly no one could possibly hear.

I look at his face once more, turn, and step into the carriage. He stands and watches as we ride away down Severin's Strasse. I do not even bother to keep my composure in front of Galadriel, giving in to tears and sobs, which, I fear, shall never end. I can feel her piteous stares. I am anguished with memories stirred by the places we pass on our way home and terribly worried for Father's safety.

### 11 March, 1247, Night

A rich man's wife became sick, and when she felt that her end was drawing near, she called her only daughter near to her bedside and said, "Dear child, remain pious and good, and then our dear God will always protect you." With this, she closed her eyes and died....

The girl went out to her mother's grave every day and wept, and she remained pious and good. When winter came, the snow spread a white cloth over the grave, and when the spring sun had removed it again, the man took himself another wife.

This wife brought two daughters into the house with her. They were beautiful, with fair faces, but had evil and dark hearts. Time soon grew very bad for the poor stepchild....

Now it happened that the King proclaimed a festival .... All the beautiful young girls in the land were invited, so that his son could select a bride for himself. When the two stepsisters heard that they too had been invited, they were in high spirits.

They called Cinderella saying, "We are going to the festival at the King's castle."

Cinderella, too, would have liked to go to the dance with them. She begged her stepmother to allow her to go.

" _You, Cinderella?" she said. "You, all covered with dust and dirt, and you want to go to the festival? You have neither clothes nor shoes, and yet you want to dance...! It's no use. You are not coming with us...."_

-Cinderella

~

I stack the kindling and light the long extinguished fire. Little things cruelly remind me Mama is dead. I remember the way she stacked wood. Her eating knife sits alone on the mantle beside the lavender she loved to collect and dry. I pick up a bunch and smell it. It smells like her. Anguish settles like lead in my stomach and I feel I may start crying again, but I am too weary and my head throbs from all the crying I've done already. I put the lavender back and sit at the table across from Galadriel, looking away from the hearth and its painful reminders.

"Will I ever be happy again?" I ask hoarsely, barely breaking Galadriel's deep gaze into the fire.

"Yes," she says distractedly.

"It doesn't feel possible."

"It gets... 'better' is not the word for it," she rolls her eyes as they glimmer with tears. "It gets easier. I felt the same when my mother died, but I can remember her fondly now. I cannot do that yet with Ulrich and Lars." She sighs hopelessly and forces a smile.

"Oh." I feel guilty for bringing up the death of her infant son and husband who had died four months ago from fever. The thought of feeling this way for four months is not comforting. "Allow yourself to be sad, and when you cannot bear it a moment longer, find a way, any way, to occupy your thoughts. That helps," she says with a thick voice, nodding her head and folding her lips in as she avoids my gaze. "You shall forget for a while, almost too well sometimes. Every now and then, something reminds me of them, and I think I shall turn around to see them standing there. Then, I remember they are..." Gone. She swallows hard and tears roll down her cheeks. She takes in a deep breath and sighs.

"We don't have to speak of this."

She nods, her brow knit and eyes glassy with tears. She chokes back a sob, then, composes herself with a deep breath. She straightens and flicks tears from each cheek.

I think of Father. Is he burying her now, I wonder? Are there thieves watching him, waiting to strike him dead for his boots and cloak? Are wolves stalking him from beneath the hill? Is he fighting them off with a pick in one hand and a shovel in the other? I could have helped him. What if he is dying right now, all alone? I should have found a way to go with him. I could have gotten out of the carriage and run for Pantaleon's gate. The man at that gate does not know me. He would have let me out. Thoughts race through my mind, and I grip my temples in a vain attempt to silence my thoughts. But I cannot.

My thoughts only linger on Father for a moment. So many horrible images occupy my mind. I sit across from Galadriel, but I am not there at all. My thoughts travel to the past, to two nights ago. I am in my parents' bedroom, watching my mother fight for life.

Her purple lips gasped for breath. I knelt at her side, praying all night for God to save her. If I had only prayed harder, if only I had sinned less, surely He would have answered my prayers.

Father lost hope before I did. I thought she was too strong to die, too stubborn, but the fever claimed almost everyone it touched. Father knew this. I knew it too, but I thought Mama was different. I refused to believe it would kill her.

My heart broke each time I thought she was gone, but she came back to us dozens of times, fighting for breath. Eventually, I stopped praying for her to live, but prayed instead for God to end her suffering. Yet we continued to relive her death over and over throughout the night as friends tried to find a priest for her last rites. But no one would come.

Finally, Father whispered a few words into her ear. I do not know what he said, but he kissed her hands and cheeks, and she let herself die.

~

I try to distract myself. Keep occupied, Galadriel says. I watch the flames grow and fall, from blinding white to an orange flicker. It sparks memories of the funeral pyre, but I shall not let that hurt me now. I try to relive Mama's funeral in my mind in a hundred different ways, somehow changing its tragic end.

~

I stare down at Mama's shrouded body, my eyes cloudy with tears. I think I see something, but I know it cannot be so. She is dead. I watched her die, but did I see her left hand twitch? I shake my head in denial, yet hope it to be true. I wipe the tears from my eyes. I stare, possessed with hope, fixated on her hand, hoping to see another twitch so I can stop the funeral.

The priest quickly finishes his service and silence lingers. Time slows as Father Soren orders Johan to light the fire, pointing his chubby fingers at the stacks of wood and straw. My eyes widen with desperation and my legs shake.

"Move!" my thoughts beg, yearning for Mama to stir again. "Move!"

Still, she does not stir. Johan drops his torch to ignite the fire and my head throbs with indecision. Perhaps she hadn't moved at all, I think. Perhaps I have gone mad? The flames begin to grow. The tallest peaks lap at the bottom of the funeral pyre.

Her finger pulses again. I run and press my face against hers. I grab her cheeks and shake.

"Please! Wake up!" I shout, but she does not respond. Father runs for me. I turn around, guarding her. "Her finger moved! She is not dead!" I shout.

Father's feet anchor into the ground for a moment. His face displays a range of emotions. He shakes them from his head and runs for me again, ready to pull me from the pyre. As his arms wrap around me, ready to take me away... she moans.

His eyes widen, and he pushes me from the fire. He scoops her up and sets her gently on the ground. Everyone gathers around in awe, and Father Soren crosses himself. Father pulls a large knife from its holster, delicately slicing through the shroud. She moans again.

"Katrina!" Father gasps and hugs her limp, but alive, body to his chest. He rubs his face gently against hers and roughly kisses her cheeks and forehead. He quickly stands with her cradled in his arms.

A loud pop from the hearth fire snaps me out of my daydream.

Galadriel puts her head in her hands and cries. I rise and grab two mugs, filling them with ale.

She sighs as I set the mug before her.

"Thank you," she says between cries. "We usually only have wine at home. I have missed ale."

We drink in an uncomfortable silence.

"Did your mother ever tell you how Ulrich and I met?" Galadriel offers with a sniffle.

I sip the ale slowly to consider my answer. It irritates me that she brings up her dead husband again. It makes me wonder why she has come to my mother's, her cousin's, funeral if all she cares to think about is her own dead family. But perhaps a story will distract me.

"No. Mama never told me that story."

"Oh." She smiles and looks up.

"Ulrich was the third son of the Duke and Duchess of Lorraine. He was supposed to be a bishop or abbot or a cardinal."

I nearly choke on my ale. If Galadriel's husband was the son of a duke, that meant he was a nobleman, which makes Galadriel a noblewoman.

"So what does that make you?" I ask bluntly.

She knits her brow in confusion.

"Your husband...he was a duke or lord." I prompt.

"Ulrich was the Count of Bitsch." She replies.

"So that makes you—"

"Oh, a countess," she interrupts.

"Is this a jest?" I ask.

"No."

"Are you of noble birth?"

"No."

"I thought noblemen only married noblewomen."

She sighs in annoyance. "I assure you the tale is true. Do you want to hear it or not?"

I nod.

"Ulrich's siblings were taught by tutors at the castle until they were old enough to be sent to other courts. But not Ulrich. He had to be sent away." She lifts the mug to her mouth again and gulps heartily.

"Why?"

"Because his mother spoiled him terribly. He grew so wicked that people called him Ulrich the Devil, so the Duke sent him away to a monastery. The Duchess did not like that very well. I heard she had awful fits. The Dower Duchess of Lorraine is quite spoiled herself," Galadriel confesses, the corners of her eyes starting to relax from the drink.

"Will you pour me another mug, Adelaide? Mine is empty already." I fill her cup. "Where was I? I have lost myself," she says with a slight slur.

"You were telling me about—"

"I remember now," she interrupts. "Ulrich grew up at the monastery, but he never wanted to join the Church. When he was grown, he wrote the Duchess and begged to come home, so she sent for him in secret. The Duke was furious with her. They had no title for him, no land, no wife."

Galadriel takes a sip of her ale.

"The Duke was at war with his brother and hadn't a title to give to Ulrich. So they made up a title for him, the Count of Bitsch, hoping it would attract a maid whose father had a lot of coin or a big army. But no one wanted to go to war just so their daughter could marry a third son with a made-up title," she pauses briefly.

"So the Duchess decided to hold a festival in Ulrich's honor so he could choose his bride. She invited every eligible maiden from Lorraine, but the girls could only attend if their fathers paid five guilders apiece to help pay for the war. I still have our family's invitation. It was pouring rain when it was delivered. I was sitting by the mantle, picking peas from the fireplace..."

"Picking peas from the fireplace?" I ask.

Galadriel nods.

"Why would you pick peas from the fireplace?"

Galadriel looks down. "When my mother died, my father remarried. He was a merchant and gone most of the year. My stepmother Gisla hated me and made me a slave in my own home. I do not know why she treated me so badly, for I never gave her reason.

"But my mother had always told me that if I was a good and pious girl, the Lord would provide for me. So I tended to Gisla's daughters and did the same household chores as our servants. Still, Gisla would throw my supper of peas into the soot of the fire. I would have to pick them from the ashes or go hungry."

"That is horrible!" I cry.

Galadriel shrugs, takes another gulp of ale, and continues. "I was sitting by the hearth when I heard the knock on the door. It was a dwarf. I had never seen a dwarf before, you know.

"He had the deepest voice and demanded to speak to the man of the house, but Father was off on his travels, as usual, so I called for Gisla. I watched as the half-man reached into a satchel on his back and pulled out a rolled piece of parchment tied with a little gold ribbon. He read the invitation then handed it to Gisla.

"The girls in the village had two months to ready themselves, and it was all anyone spoke of. The richest families raced to the tailor's, but our father traded in fine fabrics. Gisla had a letter sent so that he would bring Ebba and Dorthe, my stepsisters, beautiful dresses and jewels from his travels. Gisla told him not to get me a dress, saying I was an insolent girl and not ready for marriage even though I was nineteen, practically a spinster.

"I begged Gisla to let me go to the festival, but she just laughed at me. I'll never forget what she said. She told me that there was not enough water in the Rhine to wash the cinder soot from my face, and that it was better I did not go, for everyone would laugh at me. Still, I asked her every day until, one day, she agreed.

"She scraped several days of uneaten peas into the soot of the fireplace and told me that if I could fetch every last pea from the soot by morning, then I could go.

"I stayed up late into the night picking peas from the soot, but each time I thought I had gotten the last pea, I found another and then another. I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have for I remember waking the next morning to a rustling in the room. Three pigeons were foraging in the soot. At first I thought to chase them away, but then I noticed they were eating the peas. When the pigeons finished, I dug through the ashes looking for peas, but there were none left. The pigeons flew away, and I ran to follow them, wondering where they'd come from. I followed them through the city, past Saint Lucie's, all the way to hallowed ground where each pigeon landed on the tree just above my mother's grave."

"Really?" I ask in disbelief and she nods.

"I went back home just as the bells tolled six and waited for Gisla to awaken. When they came to break their fast, I begged them to check the hearth. Gisla searched and searched, but did not find a single pea. She was very angry, and Ebba and Dorthe just laughed at how foolish I would look going to the festival in my sooty chainse and surcote.

"That night, two days before the festival, Gisla came to me again. She told me I could wear one of my nice dresses, which she had taken from me, if I could pick all of the peas out of the ashes again. I was so very tired. I remember lying on the cold, hard ground by the hearth with a candle in hand, picking through the ashes while I fought to keep my eyes open.

"The church bells awoke me in the morning. There was a pigeon sitting on the window sill, but the hearth was filled with peas. I wanted to cry, but as my stepmother and sisters were still sleeping, I raced to pick out the rest. But they woke soon after and caught me digging through the ashes, delighted that I had failed.

"I ran from the house, crying. Mother had told me if I was pious and good that God would answer my prayers, but she was wrong. I was good, they were wicked, and yet they were the ones who got to go to the festival, not I. I kept thinking how unfair it all was.

"But when I arrived at my mother's grave, two doves were sitting in the tree, and a third landed between them. At first, I felt I'd gone mad or maybe I was dreaming, for hanging from the tree by my mother's grave was the most beautiful silk cotehardie I had ever seen. The sleeves were fitted to the wrist, and the fabric of the tippet cascaded to the bottom of the dress. The elbows and shoulders were trimmed in royal purple velvet and silver embroidery with little pearls. A velvet cloak trimmed in furs hung next to it. Inside the cloak were two pockets. One held a riband necklace with a large amethyst pendant and a pair of earrings. The other held ten guilders!"

I look at Galadriel with doubt, thinking she had had too much ale. "I thought you were going to tell me a true story."

"It is true!" she says. "I swear it on my own soul. It is true."

"Very well," I say, suspiciously.

"I grabbed it all, the dress, the cloak, the coins, and ran to the nearest inn. I paid them for the night. I ate, I bathed, and I plaited my hair so it would be perfectly waved in the morning.

"The next day a caravan of beautiful carriages came to the village to pick up all the girls. I paid the driver my five guilders and he let me into the carriage with the others.

"What did it look like? The castle, I mean," I ask, for, although I have heard jongleurs and minstrels tell of them at the market, I have never seen one with my own eyes.

"It was the most beautiful castle I have ever seen. The stone walls seemed to grow right out of the side of the mountain. Its towers rose higher than the clouds. The walls were tall and lined with tapestries," she said, making swift gestures with her hands to illustrate the height. "Chandeliers, bigger than carriage wheels and lit with dozens of candles, dangled from the ceiling. There were flowers everywhere, and the tables were covered with fruits and meats, breads, cheeses, and tarts.

"The great hall was filled with girls, more than a thousand, I would say. But when the trumpet sounded, the hall grew completely silent. The half-man who delivered the invitations now announced our challenge. We had to discover the Count's real name. The Duke, Duchess, and Count were announced as they walked to a long table at the other end of the hall.

"The girls charged like men on the battlefield, but not me. A good, pious girl gets her prayers answered, Mother had always said, and so I stayed in the back. I laughed with the jongleurs and tried to solve their riddles. I spoke with the cooks, and tried foods I had never tasted.

"Girls would pass by and say how handsome the Count was with his black hair and green eyes. They were disappointed not to have learned his name, but most decided to make merry anyway. The girls flirted with the minstrels and sang to their songs. They danced, and drank, and laughed. I ate the food with glee, happy to eat something besides peas.

"A dark-haired man stepped out from the kitchen carrying a platter of cheeses. He asked me my favorite dish, and I pointed to the elderberry tarts. He shook his head and took me to a silver platter of little stacked cakes. I'd never seen such beautifully decorated cakes, and each was small enough to fit into the palm of my hand." Galadriel draws a circle in her palm with a finger.

"He handed me a little white one with pink roses made of frosting and plum curd in the middle. I took a bite, and we smiled at each other. He had the most beautiful green eyes.

"I looked to the front of the hall and noticed that the Count's chair was empty. My mouth was full of cake when I realized who this man really was. I swallowed hard, but as I stepped forward to confront him, my foot slipped on spilled wine. I thought I would fall, but he caught me by the arm and pulled me up slowly." Galadriel sips again from her fourth cup of ale, her face speaking greater volumes than her words.

"I was so embarrassed, and he looked at me with such worry, so I did the most brazen thing. I asked his name!" She pauses to take another gulp of ale. I find myself on the edge of the bench, waiting for her to continue.

"And, then, he whispered it in my ear. Ulrich." She sighs. "One of the girls must have noticed and soon a swarm of them headed for us, so he ran off through the kitchen.

"Ulrich returned to his seat, but the festival was nearly over. The trumpet sounded, signaling the end, and all the maidens headed toward the hundred or so carriages that waited to take them back to their villages. I stayed behind until the trumpeter noticed I was the only maiden left in the great hall.

"He called after me harshly and ordered me to leave. Ulrich was walking toward us, and as I was about to say his name, I heard Ebba shout from the stairwell. I turned to see her pushing her way through the crowd, charging toward me.

"I felt the cold stare of a hundred girls upon me as I ran for the staircase on the opposite side of the castle. One of my shoes slipped from my foot, but I left it behind. I quickly found a carriage and returned to Metz, knowing I would have to go back to Gisla."

"Why did you run?" I ask.

"I thought Ebba would embarrass me in front of everyone. I thought she would tell them all that I was just a servant girl who picked her supper from the ashes."

Galadriel is now loose in speech and posture. Her expressions are dramatic, like a child's, as she tells her story. She stumbles as she rises from the table and meanders to the barrel to fill her mug. I wonder if Father shall be angry when he finds she's drunk us dry, but I say nothing. She sits and sips from her mug, the corners of her eyes softening further.

"How did Ulrich find you?" I ask.

"He found me at Gisla's. I had to go back. I hid my cloak and gown beneath the floorboards so Gisla would not take them from me. Ebba and Dorthe swore I was at the festival wearing a beautiful silk gown. Gisla thought the girls had gone mad, but she still punished me for running away.

"Three days later, the half-man came to our door with the shoe that had slipped from my foot, ordering us each to try it on. Gisla demanded a moment to give her daughters a chance to wash their feet.

Ebba, being the eldest, was to be the first to try on the shoe. Gisla knew the shoe would not fit. Even though Ebba had slight feet, her largest toe was long and fat, so Gisla grabbed a knife and ordered her to cut off her toe."

"No!" I gasp.

"She did! Ebba didn't want to do it. I suppose I could have cried out that the shoe was mine and asked the little man to place it on my foot, but I bit my tongue instead so I could watch them suffer like they'd made me suffer.

"Gisla tried to convince her that a toe was worthless, that she'd be rich and noble and have land if she could fit into that shoe, but Ebba cried. And while Ebba's head was in her hands, Gisla raised the knife and chopped off her toe.

"Ebba bit into her knuckle to keep from screaming. Blood squirted straight from the end of her foot, and her face went white. She fell back in a faint, and Dorthe caught her. Gisla wrapped the foot while Dorthe fetched the shoe.

"Dorthe jammed the shoe on Ebba's foot, which must have hurt terribly. She awoke screaming, and Dorthe put a hand over her mouth to silence her.

"Gisla's eyes were as wild as a madwoman's when she saw that the shoe fit. She forced Ebba to stand and told her to walk. Ebba limped, and Gisla slapped her and told her that if she couldn't walk like a lady then she had lost a toe for nothing.

"Ebba walked as best she could, and the half-man was fooled at first. But when he approached her to take back the shoe, she quickly pulled her foot away. Gisla argued that the shoe belonged to Ebba and it was hers to keep, but the half-man said it would be returned to her in time.

"He reached for the shoe again and discovered the trickery, for blood had begun to soak through the shoe. The half-man pulled it from Ebba's foot to reveal a bleeding wound where her toe should have been.

"He was very angry, but Gisla swore it was an old wound that had reopened, and so the half-man said if she was truly the owner of the shoe then she would know the Count's real name. Ebba guessed his name was Roger or Edward, and the half-man ordered Ebba and Gisla to be arrested.

"Gisla, as slippery as a snake, asked the man if it wasn't enough that Ebba had lost a toe due to her undying love for the handsome Count. He conceded and even granted Dorthe her chance to try on the shoe. Gisla took Dorthe to the back to try on the shoe, but her heel was too wide, so Gisla ordered her to slice off the edges of her foot.

"Dorthe refused, but Ebba held Dorthe down and placed a hand over her mouth to muffle the screams. Gisla grabbed the knife and shaved the skin off each side of her foot. Dorthe's eyes widened from the shock of the pain and screamed into Ebba's hand. Tears welled in her eyes. Blood flowed from the wounds, so Gisla wrapped the injury in linen. Gisla placed the shoe on Dorthe's foot and forced her to enter the hall.

"The half-man's eyebrow rose suspiciously. Dorthe stood so he could not take the shoe from her foot, but he asked why her ankle was wrapped in linen. But before Gisla could reply, Dorthe fainted. The shoe fell from her foot, and the wound was revealed.

"I ran toward the shoe and grabbed it. I placed it on my foot and, though I was in rags, I could see recognition wash over the half-man's face. 'The Count of Bitsch's name is Ulrich, and I am the maiden for whom he seeks. My father is a merchant, and I am his true daughter. These women make me a slave in my father's home as he travels and have deceived you with trickery,' I said.

"The half-man snapped his fingers, and two large guards entered the house again. He ordered the arrest of all three women, and asked me to gather my belongings and join him in the carriage. I packed my gown, shoe, cloak, and jewels. This left no doubt in the half-man's mind that he had found Ulrich's true bride.

"Gisla, Ebba, and Dorthe were forced to walk the entire route from Metz to the castle at Nancy. When the Duke heard of their treachery and cruelty, he stripped them of their freedom and made them serfs at another of his castles. He also ordered that Gisla be stripped of a toe and the skin of her heel.

"Ulrich and I were officially betrothed, and the half-man, whose name was Derk, was sent on one last mission: to find my father. Derk was successful and happy to be finished with his travels. Father arrived and when told of my harsh treatment, apologized and begged my forgiveness, which I gave immediately. He did not know of Gisla's callous nature.

"Ulrich and I were married the Tuesday next with my father in attendance. We set off for Bitsch the next day. By winter, I was with child, and, by fall, Lars had arrived. He was a happy child with my fair hair and his father's green eyes. By the next winter, this one past, it was all taken from me. My greatest loves perished." A tear streams down Galadriel's cheek.

"I'm sorry." I say, for I don't know of any words that could console such pain.

She nods and swallows hard.

"Did you ever find out who placed the dress at your mother's grave?"

"I used to think it was my mother's angel watching over me," Galadriel replies. "But where was she when I lost my husband and my baby? Where was God then? What was the reason in giving me that dress so that I could go to the festival; so Ulrich would marry me and give me a son, just to have them die months later?" Galadriel puts her head in her hands and sobs.

### 12 March, 1247, Early Morning

Galadriel's cries have stopped and she has fallen asleep, but not for long. She jerks her head from the table and glances frightfully around the room. She looks lost until our gazes meet.

"You should go to bed. It's late," she yawns.

"I'm not tired," I lie. "You can have my bed." She waits for my reassurance. "I shall sleep in Father's bed if I tire."

She groggily climbs the ladder to my room, and I am relieved to be alone. My back feels blistered from sitting by the fire for so long, and I move to the other side of the table where Galadriel had sat.

I watch the fire and wonder where Father is and when he shall return. The worry should consume me, but I feel nothing but weariness.

I rest my head on the table, and, just as my eyes close, I hear the tapping of footsteps. I wake with a start and scan the room for Father until I realize the footsteps are coming from above, their soft, slow beat quickly giving them away. It is Galadriel.

She yawns loudly and clumsily descends the ladder.

"Do you always keep insects by your bedside?" An eyebrow arches in disgust at the two fireflies dancing in the glass jar she holds at a distance.

I shrug.

"I shall get you a candle this week," she replies.

"Father has a candle in his room. Shall I fetch it for you?"

"No." She looks down at the jar, wrinkling her forehead. "I sleep best in the dark. I don't suppose you shall need these with a fire like that, but I prefer not to spend the night with them." She sets the jar on the table, turns, and stumbles back to bed.

"Ivo," I sigh, shaking my head and feeling a grin spread across my face. I lift the jar of lazy flies, each one sitting on opposite walls of the jar. I slowly lift the cap and watch as each firefly escapes and flits around the room until they find an exit through the hearth.

I am so sleepy, but tell myself I shall not go to bed, even though my head feels too heavy for my neck to support. My hands make a comfortable resting place. It is not long before my hands shake, weary from the weight of my head. The waves of the fire hypnotize me, and I surrender to the weight of exhaustion. I surrender to dreams.

~

_Tink. Tink. Tink_. Three fireflies smack forcefully against the sides of the jar. I will be late, I think. With jar in hand, I sneak down the ladder, down the steps, and out the door, taking Filzengraben. Tall shadows of row houses lean over me, making the night even darker. The road feels eerily empty until the glow of a night watchman's swaying lantern in the distance catches my eye. He takes Severin's Strasse heading toward the Priest's gate and his light is gone just as quickly as it had come.

I turn left onto Foller Strasse, at the first manor that makes up the vast DeBelle's estate. I climb the vines on a low wall and jump into the DeBelle fields where Ivo's family farms.

The glow from the jar lights my way through the deserted fields. The crunch of my feet through the stalks stresses the silence of the night. I fly through the small wheat field to the apple trees on the other side, searching for the tallest and most gnarly tree at the end of the meadow where we always meet.

The spark of a hundred fireflies radiates through the mist, and yet I am alone. I pace, frightened, hoping he will appear. The wind blows and macabre shadows dance. A chill crawls up my back, and I close my eyes tightly from fear.

I hide behind the tree and listen for footsteps, only to hear howls and whistles. It is only the wind and the roar of thunder in the distance. It is only the wind, I tell myself. It is only the wind.

SNAP. I stumble and grip the tree.

A breeze rushes violently down my body as something falls from the tree and lands inches from my feet. A frightened cry slips from my lips.

"What took you so long?" he asks, his grin wide, for he knows he has startled me. His voice is an echo.

I turn and shove him, "That's not funny, Ivo" I say angrily, my voice echoing after his.

"What? Did I scare you?" he teases and tosses his white blonde hair from his eyes. "Here, I brought you a jar," he says, but I push the jar away.

"I brought my own," I reply, waving the jar an inch from his face.

"My eyes must betray me. You actually remembered to bring your own jar." He feigns surprise.

The mist rises from the soggy ground as we make our way farther from the manor, deeper into the fields. We banter, jest, and boast as we normally do, but we both know Ivo shall be the victor of our hunt for fireflies. He's always the victor now that his legs and arms have grown so long. He's faster than me. He jumps higher than me.

"Did your parents hear you?" I whisper.

"No. Yours?"

"No," I say with a smirk.

I am normally an obedient daughter, but the thrill of sneaking out is too delicious to ignore. My parents shall sleep through the night and never know, I tell myself. Besides, I am safe here and doing nothing wrong.

"I'm glad you brought your own jar. Now I can fill up two of them," Ivo boasts, his wide lips curve, pinching his cheeks so tiny lines fan from the corners of his eyes.

"Ivo Bauer, you're such a braggart." I hiss and go to shove him. He recoils with a smile. "I think I know why the flies circle about you so," I tease.

"Is it because they are attracted to the smelly girl who's always following me about?" he replies. I roll my eyes and punch him in the arm. He grins and I notice a split in his lower lip. He turns on his heel and bolts toward a swarm of fireflies, laughing.

I follow as quickly as I can, but my feet turn to lead, sinking ankle deep into the sludge. I pull them out one at a time with a thick slurp. My arms flow sluggishly through the mist as though I am fighting my way through swamp water. I leap forward, determined to catch more fireflies than Ivo, yet catching nothing but air. The swarm moves as one, avoiding my clumsy attempts. The hum of their wings grows louder and seems to whisper to me.

You are weak, they say.

Weak...weak...weak, they hum, faster and louder, flying within reach and then circling me.

"I am not weak!" I growl.

They flit in a spiral and spell it out. WEAK. I put my hands to my ears and close my eyes until the buzz fades. I peel one eye open and then the other. Far across the muddy field, Ivo leaps into the air, capturing flies with his jar in large gulps. The bright glow from his vessel shines from across the mud-caked meadow.

A single fly escapes his grasp and flits toward me. I jump with all my strength and trap it. I peer into the jar and smirk ruthlessly, but it sneers fearlessly back at me, its teeth long and pointed like daggers.

You'll never save them, it giggles in a high-pitched voice, its large eyes glowing as brightly and eerily as its tail. You can't even save yourself. Its jaws open wide and snap down twice. I toss the jar to the ground and leap back. The jar glimmers as the little beast flies innocently.

Suddenly Ivo is at my side. "You've only caught one fly?" he laughs. "Are you giving up already?"

"I just don't feel like it anymore." I peer fearfully into the jar.

He collects the jars and twists the lids open. The flies scatter, flashing through the mist as the thunder grows louder.

I walk toward a tree and rest against it, staring at my empty jar, haunted by the fly's message.

Ivo follows, leaning next to me and I sigh.

"Ah, don't be cross," he laughs and nudges me with his elbow.

"No, that's not it," I say. He stands silently, waiting for me to continue. "Do you think I am weak?"

"When it comes to catching fireflies? Yes, you are terribly weak." He smiles widely. I shake my head and cannot help but smile back.

I nudge him in the ribs. "Be serious! Do you think I am weak?"

He smirks, looks down at the ground, and shuffles his feet a little as he thinks. He sighs and shakes the hair from his face.

"We all have weaknesses..." he says, staring straight forward. His fingertips brush the inside of my hand. "But it's the people, the things that we have weaknesses for that bring us the strength and courage to do what we must." His fingers wrap around my hand and my pulse quickens.

A crack of thunder causes me to jump and the sky dissolves in a heavy downpour, drenching us immediately. I cup my free hand and the rain pools inside it. Rain pours down Ivo's face and drips off his nose. I feel the same happening to my face. We look into each other's eyes and smile.

He drops his jar in the mud and slides his hand beneath the soaked tangles of my hair, gripping the nape of my neck. My heart races as his other hand slides to the small of my back and he pulls me in close. His warmth is a welcome contrast to the damp cold of our clothing. I gasp, and feel the heat of my breath reflect off his face. A warmth rushes to my cheeks, my belly...

We both are weak. I relax in his arms and reach for the sides of his face. For the briefest moment our eyes catch and then close.

A flash of light blinds me through my closed eyes, and a deafening crash shakes the earth. Lightning. I cower beneath him and feel myself scream.

~

I awaken with a start, knocking over the empty jar. I grab my hot cheeks, still blushing from the dream. But it isn't just a dream. It all happened nine months ago. When there was no fever and Mama was alive.

My stomach tightens as I think upon the kiss that almost happened. I look around. Father is not yet back. It is still dark. The thought of bed crosses my mind, but my heavy head and eyelids convince me to stay where I am. It is the kind of dream I hope to continue. But not just to see Ivo. I want to see Mama again. I rest my head on my arms and sigh as I surrender to slumber.

~

I hear the gong of church bells and realize it is the ringing of my ears. Ivo's lips move as I scream, but I do not hear him. His hands grip the sides of my face like a vice.

"I can't hear you!" I shout, unable to hear my own voice. I try to pry his hands from my head.

Staring at his lips, I realize he is asking me if I am all right. "I'm fine! Are you all right?" I shout.

His eyes dart across my face and he nods, mouthing the words: I'm all right. He releases my face and hugs me so tight I cry out in pain, but neither of us hears it. Our eyes meet again, and a wave of disappointment shadows his face. Our kiss shall not happen, at least not tonight. The ringing in my ears gives good reason not to have an uncomfortable conversation about it.

Lightning, I mouth.

He nods his head in response. His eyebrows rise as a wide grin spreads across his face. He shrugs, shakes his head, and laughs.

The ringing fades, but I still cannot hear. He points to the direction of Foller Strasse, and I nod in reply. In less than a moment, we are standing in the torrential rains a block from my home, the streets still empty.

I hope the lightning strike did not wake my parents. I hope they did not check on me. Perhaps Mama shall, but she is lenient. However, if she fears for my safety, then she shall certainly wake Father. He is not lenient. My stomach churns with fear of his punishment.

A figure stands outside our house, gazing into the distance. She floats in a diaphanous cream-colored chainse and surcote, untouched by the rain. The wind has died down, though her hair and the fabric of her clothes blow around her. By the grace of God, it is Mother who looks for me. I know I must hurry before she wakes Father.

A man runs across Filzengraben from Hay Market. It is Father, drenched and panic-stricken.

I utter a curse. Ivo looks confused so I point in Father's direction. A pang of guilt and fear strike me, for I have worried my parents and caused Father to hunt me down in the middle of the night through a storm. Such is the burden and blessing of being my parents' only surviving child.

Ivo shan't be punished or worried for. His father cares only that he is back by morning, ready to work.

I swallow my guilt like a lump of dry flour. My father has only struck me once in my life, and I deserved it then. I deserve a much harsher punishment for this, and, although half-resigned to it, I am afraid of it as well. At the least, a harsh punishment shall alleviate my guilt and the dry lump that accompanies it. My parents shall believe my lesson learned, which shall allow them a good night's slumber without worry for their insolent daughter.

Ivo slows to a jog and follows me through the rain-soaked street. He walks with me.

"No," I pant between breaths. My words echo again.

"No?" he shrugs.

"You are not walking me home. If Father sees you with me, he may say something to your father. There is no sense in us both being punished." Father will be more severe with me if he knows I was out at night with a boy, even if that boy is Ivo.

"Adelaide!" My mother's cry echoes through the storm. As our eyes meet, I can see her relief. She looks at Ivo and smiles knowingly at him. I run with a throbbing side and legs into her arms. She hugs me tightly, but she is cold, and her arms are as light as the linen of her dress.

"You are covered in mud!" she cries as she frantically looks me over for mortal wounds. "Are you all right?"

"She fell when the lightning struck," Ivo responds before I can. "I asked her to come catch fireflies with me, Frau. It's my fault."

Worry washes over Mother's face as she realizes how close the lightning had struck. She's always been so good at hiding her worry, so seeing it now makes me feel terribly guilty. Tears well in my eyes as I wrap my arms around her neck.

"Please, don't worry and don't be angry with Ivo, Mother. I chose to go. It is my fault, but I shall never do it again! I swear it."

Father rounds the corner of the house.

"You've found her?" His forehead wrinkles in confusion, and he stops in his tracks when he notices Ivo standing behind me. "Did Ivo find her?"

"No—" Ivo starts.

"Don't be so modest, Ivo," Mother quickly interrupts. "Addie told him she planned to catch fireflies tonight. He heard the lightning strike and got worried so he went to look for her."

I am shocked by her ability to lie so quickly. Even so, Father is too wise to fall for it, but loves her enough to allow her such little white lies.

"Thank you for bringing her home, Ivo," he states dryly. Ivo nods, his eyes shamefully turned to the ground. "We should get sleep and so should you. Send your father my regards. If you should be so kind to return my daughter twice, I shall send my regards to him myself," he threatens.

"Yes, Herr," Ivo replies. Father waves his hand to dismiss Ivo who turns and jogs along the street back to his home.

Mother throws a weightless arm around me, looking me over with a grin. "Let's get you inside and scrub that mud away until that pretty skin of yours is looking snow white again. I shall tell you how I prayed for a daughter with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as the sill of our windows."

Snow White is a name I do not enjoy. It is a term of endearment from my mother, but a phrase of torment used by the artisan and merchant children who mock me for my fair skin and black hair. I would never tell Mama, for it would hurt her to know, and while I have no love for the name, Snow White, I do have love for the way she speaks it.

~

"Addie?" a soft whisper calls, but I do not recognize the voice.

"Addie? You should go to bed."

Galadriel shakes my shoulder, softly coaxing me out of my dream. I open my eyes reluctantly, but hesitate at my parents' bed, not wanting to sleep in it. But exhaustion and hopes of good dreams lure me, and I slip beneath the blankets on Father's side. I roll over and inhale deeply. The pillow still smells of her. Lavender, wheat, and a crisp breeze. I am careful not to disturb her side. I hope it shall smell like her forever.

I miss her. A tear rolls down my cheek as the numbness fades away and an odd array of emotions radiate through my empty chest; longing, joy, sadness... too many for one night. My face sinks into Father's pillow, which smells of ale and leather. I no longer resign to sleep. I welcome it.

### 12 March, 1247, Afternoon

I open a squinted eye. I am alone in a dark room in a large bed, cold from sweat. A biting chill blows in through the open window, and I pull the blankets over my head. I want to close the shutters, but I cannot convince myself to leave the warmth of the covers.

My head is pounding. I squeeze my temples, shifting tangles of hair from my face. I am exhausted, but too cold, too in pain, too restless to sleep.

For a moment, I resign to waking. For a moment, my memories of the past few days escape me. I am the girl I was before this horrible fever struck Cologne: a girl whose worst problem was just a bad headache and having to close the shutters though she's shivering. Then I wonder why I am in my parents' bed.

Memories come back in a flash and I sit up. Any peace or confusion I had moments before is gone, and grief twists itself like a drill through my chest.

I fall back onto the bed and roll over to Mama's side. The smell of lavender swims through the air, and agony spreads from the pit of my belly to form a lump in the back of my throat. I cover my head with my arms to escape the smell and the pain it brings. I cry for a few moments and fall asleep.

Worry plagues me, but not enough to wake me fully. I toss and turn, and then I sleep deeply and dream.

~

Mama stands in front of the hearth cooking porridge and berries for breakfast. It was all a horrid dream, I think, as I reach out to touch her, but my hand passes through her arm to the smoke billowing around the pot.

"Where is your father?" she asks, handing me Father's bowl of porridge. I gasp. She is nothing but steely ashes. Flakes of her skin glide like snowflakes to the floor, revealing bones beneath.

"I...I do not know where he is." I stammer and step away.

"Take this to him." she says coolly and coughs a cloud of black smoke.

I open my mouth to tell her that I do not know where he is. How can I take him his porridge if I do not know where he is? But fear robs me of voice. Mama's cloudy, lifeless eyes look back at me, and she cocks her head as if she wonders why I am looking at her strangely, why I do not follow her orders, why I am frozen and speechless.

I take another step back and she steps toward me. Mama opens her mouth to speak, but stops, distracted by the ashes flaking from her half-skeletal hand. Her eyes widen with fear, with shock, and she coughs roughly. The black smoke billows from her mouth and she chokes. She gasps, and a coughing spell consumes her, flames shoot from her mouth. She falls at my feet and crawls toward me. I am frozen. She grabs my dress and pulls.

Finally I am able to leap back, but the floor vanishes. I am falling from a great height, but just as I am about to hit the ground, I awaken.

~

I sit up in bed and cry out. I look to Mama's empty groove in the bed next to me and my stomach twists. I'll never run to her when I have a bad dream ever again.

"Adelaide..." moans Galadriel. "Are you all right?" She walks in, gripping the walls. Her usually porcelain skin is sallow.

"I am fine. Has Father returned? Have you seen him?" I ask.

"No." She says, inching closer. Sweat beads across her forehead. "Perhaps he is at the market."

"You are unwell."

"It's nothing to worry about. It's not the fever. I am well enough," she says.

"No, Galadriel, you look...unwell. You should rest."

She sits on the end of the bed and a crisp wind blows across her skin. I can smell the ale in her sweat. I don't want her sitting on Mama's side of the bed, even if she is only on the end.

She pulls a small loaf of bread from a pocket in her dress and sets it on the bed, her nose shriveling up as though the smell of it shall make her retch.

"I thought we had no bread," I say as I fumble with the loaf. If it weren't for my rumbling stomach, I would leave the whole loaf to Father. Food has had no taste since Mama had taken sick. I chew a bite and my mouth fills with the taste of moist, mealy sawdust. We haven't any bread in a week with all that has happened. I should salivate over it, savor it, but it is tasteless.

"Your neighbor, Igor, brought it this morning."

"Igor?"

"A tall, blonde boy," she says, shakily. "He asked after you."

"Oh." She means Ivo, but I do not bother with correcting her.

Galadriel turns forward and stares out the window once more. There is a long silence. I worry Father is not in his shop below, for I hear nothing, so I excuse myself to check for him, finding him absent. I return to my parents' bedroom, disappointed and worried.

"Is he there?" Galadriel asks.

"No."

"Surely he is at the market purchasing leather or selling his wares then," she says with clear doubt.

I chew on my lip as I try to think of a way to leave without her knowledge. I know she'll not let me go to Hay Market, even with the excuse of purchasing food or leather for Father. She would insist on accompanying me, even in her condition, and slow me down.

"Did you sleep well?" I ask half-heartedly.

"Yes... well enough." She struggles to get the words past her lips.

"You don't look like you did," I say, knowing I have been rude. "Perhaps, you should rest some more." If she would just go back to sleep, I could leave and look for Father without her interfering.

She says nothing, sitting silently for a long time. I lean toward the edge of the bed to peak at her face. Her pasty skin has turned a gruesome shade of green. Her eyes squint and lips fold with discomfort. A wiry strand of blonde hair falls into her line of vision and many others poke out of yesterday's perfect plait. But even like this, she is remarkably beautiful.

She starts to rock back and forth and the sweat beads across her pallid forehead. I can see she needs to retch. I feel guilty for what I am about to do. I really do. Mama used to do this to Father all the time, for he had the liquor sweats every Sunday before Mass. It seems mean, but is a cruel kindness in the end, and it shall get rid of her so I can go find Father.

"I wish we had some eggs to cook. Father used to purchase them on Fridays and Mama cooked them Saturday mornings, boiling them in hot water. It's been weeks since I've had them," I say.

"Uh..." A sickly sigh squeezes through her lips. I lean across the bed again. The green in her face deepens, so I continue.

"Mother cooked them too long. I like them soft so you must soak up the yolks with your bread or lick it out of the bowl." Just speaking of egg yolks made Father retch every time.

The ferocious roar of Galadriel's stomach startles me, and I am afraid she might retch all over the bed, but she does not. She doesn't retch at all, so I must think of something more disgusting.

"Father would always grow sick of the eggs though and sometimes he'd want a chicken. There was a man who'd butcher them at the market fresh for us in trade for a pair of turn shoes. Have you ever watched a chicken run around without its head?"

Galadriel's stomach howls. She turns to look at me, but I stare at the ceiling and avoid her gaze.

"It turned my stomach to watch, but it was worse to clean it out. The smell was horrid, like old chamber pots. I couldn't even eat the poor thing after that. But Father never minded, he'd have wrestled me to the ground for the heart, not that I wanted it. He would slurp it right up and squish it between his teeth."

Galadriel gags monstrously. I shield my face with the blankets in case she turns my way to vomit. Thankfully, she jumps to her feet and runs to the window. She retches once out the window and then runs down the stairs and out the door.

I cover my ears so I don't have to hear the splashes and coughs, which make my own stomach turn. Every few moments, I ease my grip to see if she is finished, but it seems she'll vomit for eternity. I feel a little guilty for making her sick, but, from what I know about Galadriel, she would have suffered all day to avoid the embarrassment of what she just did.

The sounds of her vomiting stop, so I rise from the bed. I grab a mug and dip it into the water basin. I walk down the stairs and through Father's shop, carefully checking the floor for anything I might not want to step in. I slowly open the door, but am too afraid to look. I stick my arm out the door, shoving the mug in her direction. I gag over the smell and have to run back inside, placing a piece of leather over my nose.

"I'm sorry you're unwell," I call out the door.

"I should be sorry," she calls back, then swishes the water in her mouth and spits it onto the ground. "I'm supposed to be caring for you."

"You should rest," I say as she enters the room, no longer green, but wickedly pale and dripping with sweat. Several strands of hair dangle from her head now, and I feel for her. Had our roles been switched, I would be mortified, but I need for her to go to sleep so I can leave without her sending someone after me.

"I feel a little better now," she sighs and I give her a doubtful look.

"Do not stay up for my sake. I plan on sleeping until Father returns," I lie.

"Oh."

"Take my bed again," I urge.

"Are you sure?"

I nod.

I watch Galadriel ascend the ladder to my room before I crawl back under the covers of my parents' bed. Hopefully, she falls asleep quickly so I can leave without her noticing. I trace the patterns of the wood ceiling with my eyes, count the slats, and look for hidden images within the grain. But with Galadriel gone, and no other significant distractions available, my mind wanders back to worry.

I wonder how long Father has been gone, and I start to think. The bells had struck eight as our carriage stopped at the house last night. The trip to the hill takes an hour by foot.

I have never dug a grave before and haven't the slightest idea how long it takes. Two hours, I suppose. So that is an hour to walk there, two hours to dig, two hours to bury and pray, then an hour to walk back. Six hours.

So he should have returned by... two this morning! That cannot be right. I count again and arrive at the same time. Oh God, what time is it now? I know it is past seven, for the sun is up. What does it matter what the time is now, I think. I know he is late by six hours at least!

Fear quickens my heart. He could be at the market, I try to convince myself. I envision packs of wolves and bands of thieves again stalking Father through the mist. I see him shivering with blue lips in his drenched clothing, freezing and alone in the cold of night. I curse myself for letting him go. I should have followed him. Why didn't I follow him?

Surely half of an hour has passed since we returned to our beds, and Galadriel is either asleep or close to it.

I dip the ends of a rag into the water basin and quickly scrub my face. I sloppily braid my tangled hair, toss my surcote on over my chainse, grab my cloak and... DONG! I jump. The bells toll. I hang my head out of the window and count each ring. Twelve chimes pass, and my heart sinks as I realize Father has been gone for sixteen hours.

I run on my tiptoes into the living quarters and over to the ladder to the loft. I assume Galadriel is asleep for not a sound comes from above. I sneak quietly back to the hearth and scrawl a quick note on the table using the end of a charred stick. I hope Galadriel is able to read.

I am at Hay Market looking for Father. Do not worry. I shall return soon. ~Adelaide

Perhaps, Erik, Ivo's Father, knows where my Father is. If not, two sets of eyes are better than one, so I decide to ask Ivo and perhaps his younger brother Levi to aid me in my search. But would they be home or outside the gates in the fields?

I pull the cloak high over my head and look down as I move quickly through Filzengraben, hoping not to be recognized. It is less crowded than I expect. I suppose most of the villagers are working in the fields, selling their wares at the market, or making purchases there. I turn onto Foller Strasse, which is empty as usual for this time of day, passing a number of row houses as I head toward Ivo's home. Biting my lip, I knock on his door and wait. No one answers so I race past the houses to the stone wall surrounding the DeBelle Manor and climb the thick vines that encompass it like a raven's claw on its prey. With the exception of a few serfs, the DeBelle Manor field is empty. I drop from the wall and sigh. I had hoped to find Ivo quickly, though I knew that was not likely.

The farmers spread manure and plough the fields this time each year, so it is most likely they are far outside the city wall. I take a small alley onto Severin's Strasse. Its narrowness makes the row house seem so much taller than they are, and I hate the feeling of being so closed in, but I'm onto the wide road of Severin's Strasse soon enough. I pass St. Catherine's church and then St. Severin's. I pout as I make my way to Severin's gate, for I know Erik is less likely to let me borrow Ivo for the day if heavy work must be done.

The gate is open, as is usually the case for midmorning, and the daytime guard does not give me a second look for he's flirting with a pretty young woman who looks quite bored with him. Once beyond the gate, I lift my cloak and skirts and run between the fields in search of Ivo or anyone who might know where he is. In my haste, I miss the sight of a cobblestone which catches my toe, and sends me tumbling to the dirt. My left arm breaks my fall and catches on a sharp rock which slices a large gash in my forearm. A child's laughter echoes from nearby. His mother slaps the back of his head and the boy is back to work, but not before a dozen serfs turn their attention to me. My cheeks flush hotly in embarrassment, but their pause gives me time to ask of Ivo's whereabouts. They point south.

I watch the blood drip down my hand with indifference for the wound does not hurt. I wonder if I am overcome with worry or numbness, but it does not matter so I keep running. I see Erik's red hair blazing like a beacon in the sun. Thank God I only had to cross three furlongs to find them. Greta steers a plough as Levi whips the oxen, while Erik steers the other and Ivo whips. I am afraid to request Ivo for the afternoon. Plowing is grueling, and his absence shall make the day even more difficult.

I fold my cloak over my dripping wound and bloodstained hand, and hike through the lumps of dirt and manure. My legs tremble as they adjust to the slower pace. Levi turns, distracted by a butterfly and sees me. He drops the whip and runs toward me, crashing into me so hard I nearly land in the mire. He squeezes me around the waist and squints up into my face for the sun is directly above us. I wrap my uninjured hand around him and try to smile.

"I'm sorry about your Mama, Addie" he says with a pout.

I brush the hair from his dark brown eyes. "Thank you," I say and he hugs me tighter.

"You'll squeeze the life out of me, Levi," I gasp, chiding. He smiles brightly.

"Well I don't want to do that!" he yells. "Look, Father is letting me whip the oxen this year!"

"Really? I can hardly believe how grown you are," I say and he smiles again before racing back to his whip.

Erik drops his plow and heads toward me. Sweat beads across his pink forehead and the large muscles in his arms bulge under his sodden ivory tunic. Empathy has softened the normal severity of his face which, on any other day, would make me too nervous to speak.

Greta follows, her face also sweaty and softened. Dark blonde hairs stick to her forehead. The muck comes halfway up to her knees. Some might bless her for being so short or mistakenly judge her sweet by the looks of her, but they would be wrong. Greta is every bit as tough as Erik.

Ivo walks between his parents, jaw clenched and eyes down. He is sad like me because we are great friends and when one friend suffers so does the other. My numbness flees, tears form, my arm throbs, and I swallow the desire to run to him and cry. Levi runs between them all, whip in hand.

Their faces are down, with the exception of Levi, and no one speaks. The silence makes me uncomfortable and I wonder if I should say something.

"Your mother was a good woman," Greta says. They nod collectively, staring at the ground, hands folded before them. "I shall continue to pray for her soul, but I do not doubt the Lord has called her home and that she sings with the angels."

"Thank you," I reply. They look up.

"How fares your Father?" asks Erik.

"I do not know," I choke and swallow. Two fat tears slip down my cheeks. "I haven't seen him since the funeral. I thought, perhaps...that, perhaps... Have you seen him?" I stammer as I try to hold back sobs.

Erik looks at me, his eyebrow raises in disbelief. He gives Greta a stern look. She and Levi return to her plough without another word. Erik pulls Ivo aside and they whisper for a few moments. Ivo steps back angrily as his father speaks. He shakes his head in disbelief and his hands ball up into fists. His father grabs him by the shoulders and Ivo softens, casting his eyes downward again and nodding his head reluctantly. They turn to look at me, neither of them smiling.

Erik returns to his plough, and Levi stands between his parents, whipping his father's oxen and then his mother's. Ivo walks toward me, and we embrace strongly. He sweeps the hair from my face as I cry into his shoulder, soaking his mustard-colored cyclas. He rubs my back as it rolls with sobs but he does not tell me all will be well or that my mother is in a better place. He says nothing at all.

"Something... horrible... has happened," I utter between sobs.

Ivo growls. His hands ball into fists. "Father Soren... son-of-a-hog-shivver. He certainly looks half-pig. That rogue."

"Ivo!" His vulgarity is so fluent it shocks me despite my own feelings of resentment.

"He defiled your Mother and made you walk a mile in the cold rain. He left you outside the gates at night! A girl was slit from ear-to-ear outside of the Brook gate only weeks ago." The thought of a woman murdered so close to where Father went last night wrings my stomach.

"How do you know all this?"

"One of the dyers. She found her floating in the stream."

"No! How do you know what happened at the funeral?"

"Father just told me."

"How does he know?" I yank him by his cyclas, and he faces me. He gives me a sideways glance and tries to pull away, but I pull him harder.

"Your Father told him last night."

"When? Do you know where he is?"

"I don't know where he is now, but I know he was at the Gilded Gopher last night."

"When? What time?"

"I don't know."

I am so angry I could spit! Father let me worry all night and day for him while he was drinking himself into a stupor at the Gilded Gopher.

The Gilded Gopher, I think angrily, its name is a jest. From what I overheard Mama say of it, it is far from being gilded. It is a filthy pit that serves cheap ale and the company of fallen women. And, though it is a vile place, its members are all carefully selected. All members must agree before inviting a new man in, and only the most trustworthy are allowed. Membership is seen as a privilege.

"We have to ask Erik where the Gilded Gopher is. Father might still be there or maybe someone there knows where he is now." I stress.

Ivo stares at the ground and scrunches his lips to the side, a nervous habit.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I know where the Gilded Gopher is—"

"You do? Let's go." I say and yank him by the sleeve, but he pulls back.

"I can't take you there."

"Ivo, I know the rules, but this is different. I am not an angry wife going to drag her drunkard husband out by his ear. My father is missing! We must find him." I plead.

Ivo huffs. "My Father'll have my hide for this."

"Then take me as far as you can, and you can go fetch him or find out where he is," I say coolly. "Wait...since when do you know where the Gilded Gopher is?" It angers me to think of my Ivo inside the walls of the Gilded Gopher.

"They voted me in a month ago." He says, and we turn to walk toward the city wall.

Severin's gate approaches. I lift the hood of my cloak in an effort to hide my face for I do not want anyone to recognize me and offer their pity. The cloth from my cloak has stuck to the gash, and as I lift my arms it pulls at the wound.

"Are you cold?" Ivo asks, wrapping his arm around my shoulder trying to warm me.

"I am fine." I say, but he rubs up and down against my wounded arm anyway. I want to pull away from him and tell him he cannot just wrap his arm around me like I am some fallen woman at the Gopher, but it feels nice to have him close, so I say nothing. I pray he does not notice the blood that has soaked through the cloak and try to make me go home.

His hand strokes my wound and we flinch simultaneously. Holding his hand up in front of his face, he sees his bloodstained fingers. He grabs my hand, spinning me around to face him and pushes the sleeve of my cloak up to my shoulder roughly to reveal the gash.

"What is this? What happened?" he yells. I rip my hand from his and shove the sleeve back down.

"It looks worse than it is. I fell on my way through the fields."

"It needs to be bandaged."

"After we go to the Gilded Gopher. We can stop at my house, and I shall bandage it there."

He reaches for my arm again, and I pull away. He huffs and shakes his head in annoyance at my stubbornness. We walk the rest of the way in silence. The road is quiet. I had assumed the Gilded Gopher would be closer to Hay Market or on Harlot's Alley, but we near Pantaleon's Parish. The walk gives me pause to think of what I shall say to Father when I finally find him.

I should like to scream at him for letting me worry. Then, I think, what if Father is not there? I feel guilty for wanting to yell at him. I say a quick prayer, and tell the Lord I shall be forever grateful if He returns Father to me.

My legs start to quiver beneath me, and I grab Ivo's shoulder to keep from falling.

"I stumbled," I lie. I am weary from hunger, I convince myself, and we keep walking.

My head swims, and I stumble toward the city wall in case I need to grasp it for support. A small red stream winds its way down my middle finger, trickling slowly to the ground. My wound has reopened. Heat drains from my face as everything spirals. My legs shake violently, and I reach for the wall, sliding down it to the ground.

I hear my name, and I see a face. Ivo. My cheek stings as he slaps me.

"Addie! Wake up, Addie! Oh, thank God," he shouts and then huffs. "You are worse than the oxen. You know that?" he scolds.

"What are you doing? Stop hitting me," I mumble in a trance. My eyelids bounce heavily, and I desperately fight the urge to sleep. Ivo rips the strings that tie my cloak and throws it aside. He stands and rips off his cyclas, standing before me in only his tunic which is slightly translucent with the sun behind him and riddled with holes. I notice a large golden bruise through a hole in his sleeve and another on his stomach which I can see through the tunic. He kneels and pulls a knife from his boot. He cuts away at the bottom of his tunic.

"I must tie this around your wound, Addie. It has to be tight to stop the bleeding." He shoves my blood-soaked sleeve past my shoulder and ties the fabric painfully tight around my gash. I cry out as the knot pinches my skin. He sighs and checks the wound which still bleeds. "Not tight enough."

He rebinds it. I feel him yank it tightly with all his strength. The world goes black.

~

People are yelling, one belligerently.

"What is wrong with you boy? Erik'll hear of this! His no-good son bringing a respectable girl here..." gripes an unfamiliar voice.

"Ay! I'ma respectable woman, you stupid 'oreson!" a rough-voiced woman roars as she slaps the complainant with a loud thwap.

"What are you doing? Oh, no. Get her off the bar!"

"She's Ansel's daughter," Ivo protests. "She collapsed near Pantaleon's gate. Would you have me leave her in the street?"

"Let 'er stay, Paul," the woman orders, gruffly.

"Egh!" the man sighs, forfeiting the argument.

"God's teeth, Ivo? What happened?" a deep voice shouts in a slur. I recognize Father's voice immediately. The relief of knowing he is here and safe makes it easy to breathe again.

"She fell, looking for you," Ivo barks. "Take a look at her arm."

"Mind your tone boy," Father warns.

"Ivo, shut it or get the hell out," Paul grunts. "Ansel had a rough night."

"I can tell by the smell of him," Ivo snaps.

_SWOOSH!_ A cold rush hits my face. I gasp and awake, soaked from head to toe with icy water. I look around in a considerable daze and nearly fall off the bar.

"See, she's a'ight. Now ya can stop yer fightin' and get the 'ell out. If ya don' ,I got plenty a' more cold water fer ya's. Ansel, ya look like ya could use some," the raspy voice calls. I look to my left, and Paul's wife, Sal, limps back to the kitchen with the empty bucket in hand.

"Alright, alright, Sal," retorts my father with his hands up as he stumbles backward from Paul who stands between him and Ivo as though the two are going to fight. Though I doubt my Father can stand, much less land a punch.

"It's a small gash. She's probly jus' 'ungry. 'Ere, eat some meat on yer way 'ome." Sal returns with a chicken leg and slice of bread, slamming it onto the bar in front of me. I flinch. She grins, her crooked teeth hanging out of her face like thatch from a rooftop. I thank her. I eat ferociously and feel my strength return. Ivo reaches for my good arm, but I pass him and jump into Father's arms, kissing him on the cheek.

"'Ay, Ansel! Can yer girl keep a secret or do I need t' knock 'er out? I don' wan' the 'ole city knowin' 'bout this place." Sal peaks around the corner of the backroom, waving a rolling pin. Father looks down, wraps his arm around me, and I nod my head. "Good," Sal says.

"You scared me," I say.

"It is late, I suppose," Father says light-heartedly.

"It's well past noon!" I cry, but Father says nothing. He's not the type of man to give apologies lightly, so he changes the topic.

"I think the pup wants a piece of the wolf!" Father laughs, wrapping his other arm around Ivo and slapping his chest. Ivo grimaces. "See, she's all right. She worries too much, like her...." he coughs, unable to bring himself to speak of Mama. His wife.

"You could have told her where you'd be," Ivo reprimands.

"Is it a surprise to either of you that you found me here?" he retorts and kisses the top of my head. Father is always his most affectionate and jovial self after a few drinks.

Before we leave, I look around and realize I am probably the only virtuous woman besides Sal to see the Gilded Gopher. There truly is nothing gilded about it. The stench of sweaty men and stale ale fills the windowless pub. Stained wooden tables and benches are packed into tight rows. Candles provide the only light.

We climb the stairs, and a woman passes us holding her tattered dress as if to hide her bosom. Dark circles encompass her dead eyes. She limps, though she appears to be healthy. My eyes avert to the wood of the stairs.

I knew such business took place here. She has sold herself, and I wonder what happened to make her so desperate. Daylight blinds me for a moment at the top of the stairs. A child lies on a pile of hay by the fire in the corner of the room. Perhaps this woman's husband died of fever, and she has a child to feed. Perhaps she was the concubine of a burgher who promised he'd marry her, but never intended to do so. I promise myself I shall never turn to such an abase business, but surely this woman had promised herself the same at some point in her life.

I bet this girl's parents had hopes for her once, however meager. I wonder if her parents deny her now, shamed by her profession. Better that they died before she made the bed she now lies in. I shall never put myself in such a position. I shall never give myself to a man before wedlock.

We walk silently. Ivo's narrowed eyes stare into the distance pensively. He has become hard to read. He used to be so much like little Levi, so jovial and always wearing his heart on his sleeve. But the fever has worn on those of us old enough to understand it, and especially those of us who have lost a family member or friend. Perhaps he is angry with me for being stubborn or with Father for letting me worry so. We make it to my house and Father heads straight for his workshop.

Ivo turns to head back to the fields. I reach for his arm.

"Wait," I plead.

"I need to get back to the fields," he replies shortly.

"I hate it when you're angry." I reach clumsily for his hand.

"He should have come back to tell you where he was." He reaches out for my other hand. I wrap my fingers around it and smile, looking into his eyes in the hopes he shall let his anger go.

"Did you get the firefly?" he asks.

"I did, and the bread."

He nods. "I saw it outside my window and in the middle of March!"

I shake my head and smile.

"Do you think we shall catch more of them this summer?" he asks with a grin.

"Are you sure you'd not rather spend your nights at the Gopher?" I ask with a hint of sarcasm.

He laughs as though the idea is preposterous. "I'm sure."

"Then we can catch fireflies all night long. I owe Father a good scare."

I'm glad to know that he's not fond of the Gilded Gopher and the base entertainment it holds. He turns and heads back to the fields. I want to ask him about his bruises, but there seems no good way to ask. I return home to an angry Galadriel and a Father who is passed out at his workbench.

### 12 March, 1247, Late Afternoon

Galadriel scowls at me, but thankfully keeps her anger silent. We try to coax Father to bed, but he refuses to rise from the table. Perhaps he knows what I had learned earlier, that lying in his bed next to the empty groove where Mama once slept is a cruel reminder she shall never return to us. Even with eyes shut tightly, her lavender scent still wafts through the room.

Galadriel climbs the ladder back to the loft and into my bed. Her skin is still grey, and I am sure she has been sick a few more times, for she stinks of vomit. I am alone and think for a moment about helping Ivo's family with their tilling, but know that I, inexperienced in such tasks, shall only hinder their progress.

My stomach howls, and I push at my belly with both hands in an effort to silence it. We have no food, and I know I must go to the market so we'll have something to eat, though I doubt anyone shall rise for supper.

My cloak is still wrapped around my shoulders, and I pull the hood up around my face, though it is far too warm on this spring afternoon to do so. I descend the stairs to Father's shop. He's slumped over the table, snoring in that odd way he does, folding his lips on the inhale and blowing out with long, slow "foo".

I bend and whisper in his ear to ask permission to get food, but he is too deeply asleep to hear. I nudge his shoulder gently and then roughly, but he does not wake. I reach gently for the purse attached to his hip, untie it, and attach it to my belt. I ensure the purse is near my good arm and remove all silver from it just in case there are thieves about.

I walk down Filzengraben, which has more people on it than earlier in the day. Hay Market is crowded and bustling, although I do not know why I expect it to be any different. I have always had to push my way through crowds here.

I hope no one recognizes me and offers their condolences. But with crowds like this, the vendors shall be keeping their eyes peeled for beggars whose hungry bellies sometimes cause them to have sticky fingers. Today is Tuesday, and Mama and I usually went to market on Monday mornings so I doubt anyone would expect me anyway.

I make my way toward Salz Alley, weaving through the crowd toward the bakers' stands, carefully avoiding our usual baker, Matthew, for I know he shall ask where my mother is if he does not already know of her death. The idea of crying in the midst of Hay Market's crowds terrifies me, and I tug on the brim of my hood to hide my face even more.

Keeping my head down to shield my face from view, I set my pfennig on the table, and the anonymous baker hands me three crusty loaves of bread. I find the dairy stalls and buy a pound of Danish cheese. We still have oats at home, but we are low on spices and out of dried fruits. It matters not to me as food seems tasteless now, but perhaps Father or Galadriel would like them in their porridge.

I buy a pound of raisins and almonds in the spice market, but decide we have enough spices for one day. Spices are expensive, and I probably shouldn't purchase any more until we sell a week's worth of shoes. Besides, my sack is getting too heavy for my injured arm. We need something to drink, though, so I pick up some inexpensive wine and hurry home.

The house is silent. I carry the sack up the stairs and put the food in its place. I cut a slice of bread and cheese for Father and me. I eat and then water down the wine, pouring two mugs. I set Father's food and wine before him. He no longer snores, though his eyes dart back and forth beneath the lids. I untie the purse from my belt and attach it back onto his. He doesn't even stir, and I doubt he shall eat what I have set before him.

Next to him lies a wax tablet Mama had used to keep track of his accounts. I gently slide my finger across the words and numbers. We did not know many women who could read and write, but Mama was the only surviving daughter of a steward, and she learned to read and write by standing over the shoulder of her father, and later even aided him in his work. Her mother had died during breech childbirth, and the baby soon followed her to Heaven. Mama was only a toddler then.

I pick up the first tablet and read the list of orders. There are at least a dozen. I sigh. Not only should this order be done, we should also have a surplus of turn shoes to be sold at the market to the pilgrims who have already started to fill the streets and churches of Cologne. This is where we make the most coin.

There is only one finished pair of shoes on the table, minus the straps, and several others in different stages of completion: a red pair with only the sole, several tan pairs, and one pair in the new royal purple with only the heels completed. I pick through the scraps in the baskets. We need leather. I look at the list again.

Wilthelm Aducht had placed an order over a week ago for nearly twenty summer pairs. He wants five pairs of ankle boots for himself in tan, dark brown, blue, red, and purple, and a dozen pairs for his wife Elizabeth, and his daughter Matthild. Instead of straps, he has requested decorative clasps with his family's crest to be attached to buckles on each shoe. These were to be delivered by the gold and silversmiths yesterday. I look for the clasps, but do not see them. I hope the smiths are behind and that we won't be blamed if the shoes are a few days late.

There are other orders here and there; one for a baker, one for each member of a carpenter's family... What worries me most is that as soon as the Aduchts are seen in their extravagant new shoes, the other patricians and burghers shall place orders in an effort to appear even wealthier. Truthfully, it is a wonderful problem to have.

Father snores again. I unwind the purse from his belt loop, return the silver coins, and head back to Hay Market.

### 12 March, 1247, Evening

There was once a shoemaker who worked very hard and was very honest, but still he could not earn enough to live upon. At last all he had in the world was gone, save for just leather enough to make one pair of shoes.

Then he cut his leather out, all ready to make up the next day, meaning to rise early in the morning to his work. His conscience was clear and his heart light amidst all his troubles, so he went peaceably to bed, left all his cares to Heaven, and soon fell asleep. In the morning after he had said his prayers, he sat himself down to his work; when, to his great wonder, there stood the shoes already made, upon the table. The good man knew not what to say or think at such an odd thing happening. He looked at the workmanship; there was not one false stitch in the whole job. All was so neat and true that it was quite a masterpiece.

-The Elves and the Shoemaker

~

"I need a yard each of red, royal purple, blue—"

"Adelaide? Is that you, Adelaide?" Michael, our tanner, turns around.

I look up from beneath my cloak and nod.

"I didn't expect to see you. My sympathies for your mother."

"Thank you," I say quickly through a tight throat, blinking back a stray tear. I look down so no one notices and dig through the purse pretending to count the coins.

"And a yard each of gold and violet. Then I need five yards of tan and five yards of dark brown. How much is that?"

"Six silver groschens." I know I owe a few pfennigs more, but I accept his generosity, for arguing would only bring attention to his discount and anger the guild members. He cuts and folds the leather into a pile and ties it off with twine so I can carry it easily. I hand him the coins and he places the leather on the table.

"A good day to you, Herr," I say and turn to leave.

"Give your Father my regards," he calls after me.

"Thank you, I shall." I turn and nod my head, then pull the hood tighter and walk back to Filzengraben and into Father's shop. I fear I shall wake him if I work at his table, so I take the materials to the table by the hearth. I am grateful for its emptiness and for Galadriel's extended slumber. It is five o'clock, and the sun will set in two hours. I hope two candles and a roaring fire shall be enough light for my eyes.

I spread the tools out along the table to my right. Needles, knives, awls, the overstitch wheel, and boar bristles. At first, I think to place the variety of lasts, foot castings, on the bench across the table, but, upon careful consideration, I realize the heat of the fire could damage them. I untie the twine and grab the five yards of tan. I roll it out across the table and drape a section slightly larger than a foot over the edge and cut it with the knife. I do this four more times and stack the sections on top of one another. I lay the scraps on the bench next to me, for I shall need these to build around the last in order to have well-measured sides of the shoe.

I check the awl's sharpness by digging into the wax. Although fairly sharp, I sharpen more for ease of use.

I fetch a last the size of Wilthelm Aducht's foot and trace the bottom using the awl. I do the same with a last that matches Elizabeth's foot and one that matches Matthild's. I press the scraps onto each side of the lasts to create the shape for each side and the top of the boot, lay them next to the sole patterns, add length for the sides of the boot, and scratch the perimeter with my awl, creating a finished pattern for each Aducht foot. I cut these patterns out with my knife, careful to keep the blade straight. But the blade has dulled and I have to sharpen it. Luckily, the Aducht's have symmetrical feet, so I can flip the patterns over to make shoes for their left feet. I use the Aducht patterns again, for they have requested two pairs of tan shoes each.

I use a variety of last sizes to cut twenty pairs of shoes that Father shall sell at the market. My injured arm is quite sore from this work and night has fallen well before I finish.

I light the candles, and, thankfully, the room is lit well enough for me to continue to work. I cut the dark brown leather using the patterns I've already made, then soak the tan patterns and use the dark brown patterns of the Aducht's feet to finish cutting the colored leather for the rest of their shoes. I remove the tan leather from the soak and wrap it around the lasts, then bind the leather with the flax thread so it forms nicely.

I run the overstitch across the edges to ensure an even stitching pattern. I warm the beeswax and draw the flax thread across the top, coating it well. I use the awl to poke holes where I intend to stitch. Using split stitches, I close the uppers, attaching the heel stiffener and joining the top of the boot to the sole using boar bristle and wax-coated boar's thread. Using split stitches, I close the rest of the boot and turn it inside out. My work is careful, but quick, as I hope to finish Father's orders.

When the sun rises, I take the supplies and the fifteen tan turn shoes I have made down to Father's workshop. I set them gently on the table around him and place all the supplies where they were. I climb the stairs and have no choice but to retire to my parents' bed. I fall face down into the mattress, neglecting the blankets. I am asleep before I even have time to notice Mama's lavender scent or her empty divot in the mattress beside me. For the first time in five days, I enjoy a deep, dreamless sleep.

~

I awaken to the fragrance of cinnamon. Voices in quiet conversation come from the main room. My stomach rumbles and I whine, not wanting to rise from the bed. Exhaustion wins, and I fall asleep again.

The church bells wake me, and I wonder about the time. I don't know how many bells chime before I fully awaken. My stomach roars, and I can no longer ignore it. I rise, rub the sleep from my eyes, and stretch my tired arms, neck, and back. I look to where Mama once slept, and it makes me sad, but it is no new revelation today. I knew when I awoke Mama would not be here. It saddens me in an exhausted way, making my limbs heavy and my stomach ache, even though I am dreadfully hungry for the cinnamon-spiced porridge I can still smell coming from the hearth.

I turn away from her pillow and feel something hard and cold roll away and off the edge of the bed. CRASH! A hundred shimmering shards of glass sprawl across the floor. Ivo's jar. My lips curl into a smile as I think of him climbing into my bedroom to leave me a single firefly only a night ago.

Galadriel rushes into the room with worry on her face.

"Oh!" She gasps, placing her fingers to her lips at the sight of the broken glass. She looks shocked. I think she believes I had purposely thrown the glass in a fit.

"I must have kicked that over. I was so tired last night. I don't remember putting it there," I say.

"Oh," she sighs with relief. Turning on her heels, she slides out of the room and returns moments later with the broom and pan to gather up the broken glass. As soon as I notice it in her hands, I run over to take it and clean the mess myself. She pushes the broom and pan away from me.

"I made the mess. I'll clean it." But she does not listen and continues to clean the mess. "Thank you," I say.

I walk to the shutters and open them. The sun is high in the sky toward the west. It is past noon. Galadriel is gone by the time I turn around. I meander to the bench in the living quarters across from the hearth and sit across from her. She smiles.

"You seem well today," I say with a yawn.

"I feel much better."

"Did you go to the market yesterday?" Galadriel asks. "I found bread, cheese, raisins, and almonds, and your father found yards and yards of leather."

"I had to. We hadn't enough food."

"I wish you had awoken me so I could have accompanied you. The market is no place for a girl to make purchases alone. I hear it is riddled with thieves," she chides gently. It irritates me that Galadriel, barely a woman herself, would give me motherly advice, and I find myself fighting the urge to roll my eyes. She rises and heads to the hearth, scoops a heaped spoonful of porridge into a bowl, sets it before me, and hands me a spoon. "Besides, I'd rather like to see this famous market of Cologne."

"I know the market well enough to go there alone. Besides, you wouldn't have enjoyed it in your condition," I say. "I'm glad you rested. You look better today."

She gives me a sideways glance and nods. I dig into the porridge and lift the spoon into the air. Steam rises off the thick oats and a nutty cinnamon fragrance drifts through the air. My mouth waters and my stomach rumbles. I blow on the spoon to cool the porridge until the steam subsides, and I place it to my lips. The porridge is perfectly cooked, but lacks something of Mama's. The thought must be drawn on my face as I try to figure out what is missing.

"Not as good as your Mother's I suppose," Galadriel says. "No one can ever cook quite like one's Mother."

"It's fine." I am actually surprised that someone who has probably not cooked for herself in two years has made porridge so well and so similarly to Mama's. It must have been a recipe passed down.

The porridge cools, and I quickly finish the bowl and the mug of spiced wine before me. My stomach calms and I feel tired again.

"What time is it?" I ask Galadriel.

She looks up for a moment to think. "I believe it is half past two."

"I would take you to the market, but I am so tired."

"Then it would please me for you to rest and keep your health. We have enough bread and cheese to sup on tonight when your father returns," Galadriel says in that formal way she speaks at times.

"Where is he?"

"He is at the market selling the shoes he found this morning and fetching brooches for the patrician's shoes."

I nod and retire to my bed, falling asleep quickly once again.

~

I wake to the chatter of voices in the main room and rise. Father and Galadriel sit at the table across from one another, dining on bread, cheese, wine, nuts, and an assortment of dried fruits.

"She awakens," Father bellows. I can tell he has had many glasses of undiluted wine for his cheeks are rosy, and he is merry.

"A miracle has befallen us, daughter."

I tilt my head to the side in wonder of what he speaks and sit beside him. I nibble on bread and cheese and pour myself a glass of good, strong wine.

He places his arm around me. "I awoke to a room filled with shoes and supplies for all of my orders. And before me lay a plate of cheese and bread and a glass of spiced wine."

"A miracle for sure," I say, reluctant to admit my role in the miracle, for I know I am not to go to the market alone. Nevertheless, I am certain he is aware that I did.

"I must admit, Father..." I pause for dramatic effect. He stares at me, waiting for a confession. "And please do not think me mad..."

He nods.

"... But I heard the most peculiar thing last night."

"What, pray, did you hear last night, daughter?" He goads.

"It was a strange high-pitched singing of many voices, coming from your workshop."

"Why, that is very peculiar!" he says jokingly, and I continue.

"So I climbed down the stairs and spied something miraculous indeed. A dozen tiny men, elves I think, were making shoes."

"Elves! By God, it is a miracle. "

I cross myself in jest and Father does the same.

"They did however charge for their services," Father continues, feigning disappointment. "Very inexpensive, though. It only cost me the price of the leather for fifteen pairs of shoes, but they cut out dozens more. Even the Aducht shoes were cut."

"They worked quickly and reasonably," I conclude.

"I checked the quality of the shoes and they were masterfully done. These mysterious elves cut and stitch just like you, dear daughter."

"Then they are master artisans for sure," I reply, and he laughs. It feels good to hear laughter again.

13 March, 1247

My fingers shuffle around the crust of my bread as we sup. I have wanted to ask Father if we could have another funeral for Mother, but I'm afraid to say anything. He hasn't mentioned the burial at all. What if something had gone wrong when Father returned to bury her? Perhaps wolves had taken her, or the ground was too hard, and he couldn't bury her at all. If such things had happened, I wouldn't want to remind him of them, and I wouldn't want to know of them. I split the crust and dip it in the stew to sop up the remaining broth. My mouth opens a dozen times throughout supper as I try to find a good way to ask.

"Out with it," Father orders.

I give him a confused look.

"You keep opening your mouth to speak, so speak."

Galadriel dips small ends of her bread into her stew and nibbles delicately while Father lifts the bowl to his lips to drink up the rest of his broth.

"I thought we could have our own funeral for Mother," I finally say.

"I think we should," Galadriel says. "What do you think, Ansel?"

Galadriel's agreement pleases me at first, but the way she coaxes Father is too much like the way a wife would coax a husband, and suddenly my suspicion of her tastes like poison. She turns her back to look for Father's expression as he rises to fill his bowl with more stew. My eyes narrow, and I shake the assumption from my head.

Father returns to the table and hunches over his bowl. He digs the spoon into his stew and begins to eat. I am unable to see his eyes, to read his thoughts. My question hangs in the air, and I almost want to take it back. I have upset him for sure. Perhaps, the burial had gone very wrong. My stomach twists, and I have to swallow the broth hard, for the lump in my throat has swollen again.

"Friday morning," Father says. It is all he says.

Galadriel offers to give me my bed that night, but I refuse out of fear she shall sleep in my parents' bed and ruin Mama's side. I fear that somehow she and Father might share the bed. I should know my father better than that. It is a wicked thought, but the more I try to ban it from my mind, the more present it is.

So she offers to share my bed with me and I agree. Perhaps Father shall return to his own bed tonight if he knows I shall not be in it.

### 14 March, 1247

The poor girl thought, "I can no longer stay here. I will go and look for my brothers."

And when night came she ran away and went straight into the woods. She walked the whole night long without stopping, and the next day as well, until she was too tired to walk anymore.

The sun was about to go down when she heard a rushing sound and saw six swans fly in.... The swans blew on one another, and blew all their feathers off. Then their swan-skins came off just like shirts. The girl looked at them and recognized her brothers. She was happy ....The brothers were no less happy to see their little sister, but their happiness did not last long.

"You cannot stay here," they said to her.

"Can't you protect me?" asked the little sister.

"No," they answered. "We can take off our swan-skins for only a quarter hour each evening. Only during that time do we have our human forms. After that we are again transformed into swans."

Crying, the little sister said, "Can you not be redeemed?"

"Alas, no," they answered. "The conditions are too difficult. You would not be allowed to speak or to laugh for six years, and in that time you would have to sew together six little shirts from asters for us. And if a single word were to come from your mouth, all your work would be lost."

After the brothers had said this, the quarter hour was over, and they flew out the window again as swans.

Nevertheless, the girl firmly resolved to redeem her brothers, even if it should cost her her life.

-The Six Swans

~

Galadriel rises, but is still half asleep. My neck is strained from sharing the bed, and I can sleep no more. I convince her to sleep longer and promise we'll go to the market when she rises.

I make the porridge and take a bowl to Father, who is still awake in his workshop. The Aducht shoes are all finished. The shoes are finely crafted, and he had even added gold and silver embroidery to each of the ladies' shoes and lined the seams of Wilthelm's shoes with the same threading. I'm sure the only man with nicer shoes in Cologne would be the Archbishop himself.

Father leaves for the Aducht's to deliver their shoes and collect the rest of his payment. I quickly lace the last few unfinished shoes that he shall sell at the market.

The market is busiest in the morning. Waiting for Father to return would cost us a few coins and being gone from the market for nearly a week has surely cost us many. Praise God the Aduchts had placed such a large order to see us through without relying on Father's now meager savings.

I suppose I could just take his cart and set up the stand myself, but it is nine o'clock now. The streets shall be busy. Vagabonds could easily overwhelm me and steal our wares, disappearing into the crowds before any one of the thieves could be caught. Such things have happened before, even though the people of Cologne do not take kindly to thieves. Still, it is better to miss a few sales than to have all of our shoes stolen.

Galadriel wakes shortly after me, dresses, and breaks her fast as we wait for Father to return.

After helping Father set up his booth at the market, I take Galadriel for her tour. It is busy, but I have seen mornings with crowds packed shoulder-to-shoulder like herded sheep. We reach the potters first and an elderly woman with rheumatism begs by their stands. Galadriel drops a pfennig in the old woman's palm before I can warn her, and not a moment passes before we are surround by beggars. Galadriel gives them each a pfennig, and they are quickly on their way. An embarrassed blush rises to my cheeks. Giving a pfennig away at the market was a foreigner's error. It is a good thing we don't care to make purchases from the potters, for they would take us for fools and charge us triple the fair price.

"Well, I don't think I shall do that again!" she cries.

"The beggars shall tell their friends of your generosity, and thieves will think it easy to take your purse. You may want to pull up your hood so you're not recognized and clench your purse so it's not taken," I say. She blushes from embarrassment and takes my advice.

The blacksmiths and carpenters sell a myriad of tools, many of which I have no clue how to use. We pass the armorers quickly, for neither of us has a chance at knighthood, though I do wave to Michael, the armorer who Ivo apprentices with late at night. A flute player dances around the fabric sellers' and tailors' stands, following one burgher wife after another in hopes of pocketing a groschen or a guilder.

Galadriel stops to look at the gowns, but the tailor pays her no attention, for he is unaware of her wealth and status. After a few moments, we receive dirty glances and continue through the market. The fruit and vegetable stands are filled with jams, jellies, and all manner of pickled items. The vendors' shouts ring over the hum of the crowd. Some boast that their kraut has cured many sufferers of the great fever. A few desperate people toss coins to these merchants and rush back through the crowd with their pickles, probably returning to dying loved ones. I am sad for them and angry at the vendors who make a dirty pfennig off the desperate.

"May he catch the fever himself," I mumble.

"Hmm?" Galadriel replies, examining some currant preserves.

"That man over there selling each jar of pickles for three pfennigs, claiming it to be the cure to the great fever!"

"Appalling," Galadriel says. "Are you sure it does not work?"

"He has been selling his pickles for years. I am sure if they were a cure, every man in Cologne would sing the praises of his precious pickles! The man sells false hope and tasteless pickles," I spit.

A crowd has formed between the spice stands and the meat market. The typical chatter is broken by "oohs" and applause. Galadriel pushes her way through, pulling me along behind her. One brightly-colored jongleur is doing a handstand on the shoulders of a burly black-skinned man. I have never seen a man with such dark skin before, and I am sure the audience is just as much there to see the man as they are to see the show. His muscles bulge beneath his skin like meat from a sausage casing.

The black-skinned man tosses balls up to his slender friend who juggles them up and down using only his feet. The man below holds out his hands, encouraging applause. For a moment, the man on top falters and it appears he shall fall. Cries ring out, but as soon as the panic rises it is tempered with the jongleur's recovery. He flips his way down, bowing to the crowd on one knee. Applause roars through the market. The sky seems to be raining pfennigs, which both men race to collect. A few burgher children run toward the dark-skinned man now that the show is over to stare at him in awe. The man bends down and entertains them with a few coin tricks. The mothers move in to scoop up their curious young and put on their own show by giving the jongleurs a groschen each.

"It has been so long since I have seen such curiosities," Galadriel smiles. "I like this market of yours."

We pass the meat stands without a look, but Galadriel stops at one of the cheese stands, buying a slice for each of us and a pound for later. I smell the sweet fresh bread, cakes, and other confections from the bakers' stands. I love confections, and I am still hungry, so I purchase a yeast cake for each of us. Next, we pass the grain stands holding flour, oats, barley, and rye. The fish market approaches, and though many consider fish to be smelly and slimy creatures, I like the taste and prefer it to meat. Galadriel covers her nose as we pass, so I doubt she has a similar hankering for sea fare.

We walk past St. Martin's Church, and the cathedral, all the way to the flower market. A crowd of children surround a poorly-crafted stick cage.

"Shoo! If ya haven' paid yer pfennig, ya don' getta look! Go on with ya!" A man shouts, shaking his large stick at the filthy little urchins who scatter and disappear into the crowd. Their giggles ring through the hum. I raise my head to see what the fuss is about. A bear, perhaps? I had seen one once before at the market, but such a shoddy cage could never hold a bear. We approach, and a young man no older than nineteen paces back and forth in the cage speaking nonsense.

"A pfennig! A pfennig! See a demon in the flesh! Only a pfennig! A man possessed by the devil himself!"

Galadriel grabs my sleeve and drags me toward the cage. I look to her face wondering why on God's earth she would pay for such a thing. Her eyes narrow in hatred and her cheeks are red.

"This man is no more possessed by the devil than you or I!" she spits. The man looks her up and down for a moment, ogling her, which only seems to upset her more.

"Aye, Fraulein, he is! See f' yaself. Only a pfennig." A younger man approaches with a large stick, standing between us and the man in the cage.

"How would you like to be locked in a cage? Even a pig has a larger pen. This man belongs in an asylum," she says.

"Aye, Frau, perhaps with yer help, we could pay his, my son's, way in'a bedlam." The man feigns sadness.

"You take me for a fool! Did he spring forth from your loins at ten? You are thirty winters at the oldest, and your 'son's' only ten years your junior! You should be ashamed of yourself, exploiting a sick man for coins."

A crowd begins to form around us, and the young man with the stick grabs Galadriel by the arm. "He's our man an' we'll do what we wan' with him! Pay the pfennig or piss off!"

Galadriel's mouth drops. A countess would not be accustomed to his roughness.

"How much for him?" Galadriel whispers. The young man laughs.

"I said piss off." He shoves her and she stumbles backward.

"I'll give you a guilder for him," Galadriel offers in whisper.

"Three," he counters.

"Two and you shall take him to..." she looks to me for the name of the nearest asylum.

"St. Pantaleon's."

"Make what you shall off him today, but by three this afternoon, you shall deliver him safely to me at St. Pantaleon's. I shall be there with another guilder to ensure his arrival."

The man nods and Galadriel hands him a guilder.

I want to ask why she does this. It is one thing to give a pfennig to a beggar or two, but to part with two guilders for a single man? That is unheard of. I hadn't even thought of what St. Pantaleon's would expect for a donation from her. Curiosity gets the better of me.

"Why did you do that?"

"It is a long story that I do not wish to tell here."

I nod, and though I wish to pry, I hold my tongue.

Galadriel's cheeks redden with emotion.

"I have one purchase left to make and we shall return home," I say.

We walk through the carts and stands of the many flower vendors. I see an old woman with rheumatism of the hands with a few buckets surrounding her as she sits on the ground. I purchase a blend of her buttery daffodils and crisp white tulips. Galadriel and I meander back through the performers, beggars, burgher's wives, servants, and vendors, but not before a short stop at the meat market where Galadriel purchases sweetmeats for supper. At the lumber market, I purchase two leftover cuts of wood, before we turn back toward Filzengraben and home. It is a silent walk.

~

I should be working on shoes, but I find myself working on something else. I fashion a cross using the pieces of wood from the lumber market and tie it tight with the wax-covered flax thread, but the mismatched planks are knotted and chipped. I wonder how to improve upon this unsightly memorial as I unwind the thread and bite my lip. I dig through the scraps of leather and settle on dark green, her favorite color. I quickly stitch her name using the gilded thread and upholster each section of the wood with the dark leather, fashioning the cross again using the flax thread. Her Christian name is on the left side and her surname on the right in gold. I place the tulips and daffodils in a mug and set them by the window. Tomorrow we shall have a beautiful funeral for her. Such a beautiful funeral that, perhaps, I shall someday forget about the former.

I walk upstairs to fill the mug with water so that the daffodils and tulips keep until the morning next. Galadriel sits at the table, staring distantly.

"Are you alright?" I ask.

She looks at me and a tear runs down her cheek. I do not know what I should do, so I sit across from her in case she wants someone to listen.

"I... I had a sister once, but I barely remember her now," she says through a thick voice. "My mother had a husband before my father, but he died and so she remarried. My sister, Elizabeth, was twelve winters my elder."

I don't know what to say, so I say nothing. She sniffles and continues.

"She was... different to most people, but she wasn't bad. She wasn't a witch!" she cries.

"Even when I was little, I knew she was different. In the winter, there was no raising her from bed. When she wasn't crying or angry, her face was a dark void like there was no soul to her at all. But spring would come and her spirits would rise. She would become too busy to be still and she was happy at first, but as I grew older it was the summers that became dangerous to her. She stopped sleeping and she would ask us if we heard or saw things that were not there. When fall arrived she would calm down and return to her bed for the winter for her time of woe. Each summer was worse than the last. She not only heard voices, she started to speak to them. By the end of the summer, she was crying, screaming, begging for them to leave her alone. We had to hide her in the house and tell our neighbors she suffered a fever in order to keep her secret. She stopped eating and sleeping. Her already slight frame withered. I don't know how she survived."

"Is that why you saved that man today?" I ask, and she nods.

"She could not help it. She was a good girl, you know. She really was," Galadriel says, and I nod in agreement.

"Fall came, and we knew her sadness would come with it. She calmed down and stopped talking to the voices that plagued her so. We let her help the tailor as she had done for many springs and summers, but we did not know that the voices had returned. She spent less and less time with the tailor and roamed around town telling the most ridiculous stories. It was the end of October before Mother found out--when she heard rumors of witchcraft being spread throughout the town.

"I went in search of Elizabeth and found her by the pond, feeding six swans and sewing together six small shirts.

"'That witch has turned them into swans,' she'd say. She thought my mother was a witch and that we had six brothers who Mother had turned into swans so Father wouldn't be able to see them anymore. She said Mother had sewn those cursed shirts and that she planned to kill us next.

"She was mad. I know it. She thought if she could make them shirts of aster, she could break the spell and turn the swans back into her brothers. But we'd never had any brothers. I know it hurt my mother that Elizabeth thought her a witch, but she took it so gracefully. She had nothing but pity for her stepdaughter, God bless her.

"'I tried to get Elizabeth to come home. I even pretended to believe her stories and told her to tell our Father of the spell, but she refused, believing Mother would kill her.

"The story got wilder and wilder. She said that the swans told her she couldn't laugh or smile for six years, so Elizabeth stopped talking altogether. It broke my heart to watch. Mother tried to come to her, to convince Elizabeth to come home, but she looked at her with such fear. I begged Mother and Father to find an asylum where she could be cared for, but they refused.

"They said Elizabeth was harmless and that she wasn't a bother to anyone. Elizabeth never spoke to us again. She whispered only to her swans. She sat at the pond all day, sewing the little shirts for the six swans. Every day, Mother had me take her lunch and ensure she wore her cloak on cold days, but it didn't take long before people whispered about Elizabeth and her strange behavior.

"She really was harmless. Sometimes little children would come to the pond and help her feed the swans. As the children grew, Elizabeth lost her whimsical appeal to them, and the same children who had helped her, began to laugh and call her names. I doubt Elizabeth ever noticed it, for she never looked hurt. It hurt me though, and I reprimanded the malicious little imps, but I couldn't watch Elizabeth all day, and they teased her more and more.

"Around his tenth spring, one of these wicked beasts thought to humor himself by throwing rocks at the swans. The little bastard nearly killed one of them. Elizabeth thought these swans were her brothers. Imagine if someone tried to kill your brother. What would you do?

"The children ran to get help, but they were too late. When I got to her, Elizabeth still had her hands around the boy's throat though he was lifeless, his face frozen in terror.

"I tried to pull her from the boy. I tried to pry her hands from his throat, but she was so strong. I begged her to let go. I told her the boy was dead. I told her he couldn't hurt our brothers anymore, but she wouldn't let go.

"The shouts of a small mob were close, so I quickly closed the boy's eyes. A group of men arrived first and, thank God, they pulled Elizabeth off the boy so his mother didn't have to see Elizabeth strangling her dead son. Then the boy's mother arrived and fell at his side, wailing in grief.

"The men dragged Elizabeth away. For a moment, I feared they'd hang her on the spot, and, now, I wish they had.

"Elizabeth was arrested and accused of witchcraft. Mother, Father, and I begged to have her committed to an asylum where she could be cared for and could never hurt anyone else, but it was useless.

"She was sentenced to be... to be..." Galadriel gasps and puts her hands to her quivering lips. "They ordered that she be burned at the stake." She places her head in her hand and cries. I rise and grab the wine, pouring two full-strength glasses for us. She drinks and composes herself.

"On the day she was set to die, we prayed over her and hugged her tightly. We found a priest from another town to perform her last rites. He had a brother of his own who had been committed to the asylum. God bless him for his understanding. I still pray every day for Elizabeth that she is with God and at peace.

"I brought Elizabeth the shirts that she had worked on so hard, but she pushed them back at me, and I knew what she wanted me to do.

"She was set on the pyre, and thank God the wood was dry and stacked high. I placed my hands on her feet until the fire was lit. Just before Mother pulled me away, she spoke.

"'Have our brothers returned to us?' she asked me.

"I lied and told her they had. It made her so happy.

"Long after she'd expired and the town retired to bed, I went back to collect a small amount of her ashes. The town refused to bury her in hallowed ground, so we did that ourselves. As we rose, up the hill to the spot, I noticed a white cloud below the pyre. The six swans lay below Elizabeth, even the injured one, sleeping beneath her ashes. They stayed through the night."

"That is the saddest thing I think I have ever heard," I say.

Galadriel nods. "I still wonder how it all might have ended so differently for Elizabeth had we placed her in an asylum. It is what we should have done."

"You didn't know what was going to happen," I reassure her. "You've honored her today by saving that man in the cage."

We dine on cheese and bread at the noon bells. After the third mug of wine, I am warmed and mellow. I feel great pity for Galadriel who has lost a husband, a son, a sister, and a mother. She has little kin but us. And even we are but distant relations, barely more than strangers.

I excuse myself from the table to work and make more men's shoes for the Saturday market. As I get back into practice, I work more quickly, but get little done by the two o'clock bell. Galadriel descends the stairs in a red velvet gown with bands of gold embroidery around the wrists, upper arms, and trim. At her hips rests a matching belt. A deep brown cloak cascades past her shoulders and down her back, clipped at her collar with a morse. The cloak is so light; its only purpose must be a simple accompaniment to the gown that is extravagant enough on its own. Having an elaborate cloak seems frivolous to me, as does the gown. A red velvet ribbon with gold embroidery circles the front of her crown and is then intertwined with a plait that finishes the back. One large braid flows down her back, specks of the opulent ribbon's ruby and gold peeking through.

"We are going to an asylum, and yet I feel underdressed," I exclaim.

"Having a title may help my cause. Tell me I look better than a simple burgher's wife headed to market."

I nod, though her words sting. A simple burgher's wife. Almost every girl in Cologne could only hope to elevate herself to such status. Not me, though. I am happy to be an artisan. But at one time, it was what Galadriel could have hoped for herself, and yet she spits the words out as though they are flies on her tongue. I cannot help but wonder what I am. Am I less than a fly? The dung of a fly perhaps?

"I think we shall pretend you are one of my ladies, but we shall have to clean you up a bit and quickly at that. You can wear a gown of mine."

I do her a favor by escorting her to St. Pantaleon's, and she has the gall to not only insult my station, but she also expects me to wait on her! I am insulted, but I accept out of pity for her and for the man in the cage. This is but a game we shall play to help an unfortunate man.

Galadriel leaves me with the water, and I scrub myself quickly. She enters with the dress. It is the color of emeralds and made of fine linen with a finely fashioned leather belt. I put it on, and Galadriel brushes my hair roughly before braiding it.

"We shall have to find a mirror on the way back, but we haven't time for that now," she says.

~

We hear the Hay Market still buzzing loudly with activity though we are a block away. We head east on Filzengraben, walking past manors and fields, but mostly row houses like my own. The streets are as congested as one might expect. Carts come and go. Beggars, monks, and nuns mix in the throng as people rush from one place to another. We pass through the gate at Rotgerberbach and veer onto St. Pantaleon's Strasse.

Upon entering the grounds of the church, neither of us knows where to go, so a monk takes us to the monastery connected to the asylum. Galadriel asks him the name of the abbot and if she can speak with the him about donations she would like to make. He leaves us in the large hall and hurries away, but returns shortly after to escort us to the abbot.

"Abbot Thaddeus, I presume," Galadriel says sweetly.

"I am," the abbot replies coolly. "I hear that you wish to speak with me about a donation." He is composing a letter of some form and does not even stop to look at us. I laugh to myself about all the time Galadriel took to ready herself, for it seems to matter little.

"I do. However, I wish to ask a favor in return," she confesses.

"As donors usually do," the abbot returns. He drops his pen and looks up, his eyes narrow as he measures Galadriel up for a moment, but his face softens like most men's seem to do when their eyes fall upon Galadriel's face. "What is it you want?"

"There is a sick man being tormented in a cage at Hay Market. I purchased him from his captors in hopes that you would take him into your care with the appropriate donation."

"That is very charitable of you. What is this man to you?" he asks. His voice is laced with fatherly suspicion.

"He is a child of God to me. Is that not enough?" Galadriel replies smoothly.

"So are all the beggars, and lepers, and thieves. Shall you give them all a plot of land to sow?"

"I wish I could. I can only hope that my charity inspires charity in others," she says, and I admire her quick wit.

The abbot purses his lips in defeat. "How much did you pay for this man?"

"Upon his delivery, I shall pay his captors three guilders."

"Donate what God inspires you to, and we shall take him into our care."

"Your charity is greatly appreciated, Abbot." Galadriel hands him a velvet bag of coins. "I asked the men to meet me at the church. May we wait for them there?"

"Yes, and I shall send a few brothers to accompany you for your own safety."

Four monks escort us to the church which, though I have lived in Cologne all my life, I have never set foot inside.

Galadriel stands patiently at the entrance, but I predict the men won't be prompt -- if they come at all. They may simply take Galadriel's guilder and their captive and leave Cologne today. I decide to explore as she waits.

The nave is long, and the ceilings are tall and flat. Banded arches surround the nave, and there are aisles on either side. Through the arches to my left, there is an elaborately adorned shrine to Saint Maurinus, the martyred abbot. To my right, lies a shrine to Saint Albinus, an abbot and bishop who performed miracles and ransomed slaves. Perhaps it is St. Albinus who was working through Galadriel earlier, inspiring her to free the man in the cage. I had forgotten that his shrine is here.

I walk down the aisle between the pews, bow before the crucifix, and cross myself. To the right is Saint Pantaleon's Altar. Saint Pantaleon was a Greek doctor and saint. His peers grew jealous of him when he came into wealth and exposed his faith. The emperor Maximian favored him, though, and tried to convert Pantaleon. He refused, so Maximian ordered his execution, but Christ appeared many times, and Pantaleon could not be burned, boiled, racked, ravaged by wild animals, nor beheaded. It was not until Pantaleon wanted to die that the executioner could behead him.

Oddly, though, it is Saint Pantaleon's Altar that is adorned with brightly painted murals of the life of the Virgin Mary. I suddenly think of Mama, who told me the stories of so many saints, and kneel to pray for her.

I am nearly finished with my prayers when I hear the echo of voices through the nave. I cross myself quickly, rise, and hurry down the aisle toward Galadriel. The men have honored their word and brought the sick man after all. Galadriel hands the men their coins, and the monks take the man to the asylum. Galadriel follows to ensure his safety and insists on seeing the asylum. The monks oblige and we enter. There are many beds and many sick men. Monks patrol the aisles and care for the sick with kindness. Some of the sick are ghosts of men with empty eyes while others appear to be normal, and I wonder why they are here. We learn the sick man's name is Peter. He is shown to his bed and sits for a moment before getting up to pace the aisles. Understandably, he is still agitated. The cage and the captors were his home for God knows how long. It shall take him time to get used to this place. Galadriel waits for him to settle, but I tell her we can check on him the following afternoon, which satisfies her enough to leave. The church bells strike five before we are halfway home, and I suspect Father is worried about us. I should have stopped to tell him where we were going, not that he would extend us the same courtesy had our roles been switched.

~

Returning home, I hear Father pounding at something before we even open the door. We enter the workshop; he looks up, and stares at me in Galadriel's fine clothing. He stands and bows before me as if I were the countess. His cheeks are rosy, and I can smell the ale on his breath, although I would not have needed to as he is a kind, silly man when he drinks. I curtsy clumsily and tell him about Galadriel's dress. He jumps from his stool, wraps one arm around my waist and grabs my hand with the other. We dance clumsily around the room as he slurs a tavern song. I laugh, and Galadriel watches us. Father stops and bows to her before starting our dance again.

He is the only man I know who doesn't measure her with his stare, and this pleases me, for I know he only has eyes for Mama. Galadriel climbs the stairs, changes her clothes, and prepares the sweetmeats for dinner. I pull a stool next to Father so I can help with the shoes and notice he has propped up the cross I made for Mama in the corner, displaying it like an altar piece. While constructing it, I had been worried he might be angry with me for working on it instead of shoes, using the expensive colored leather, but he isn't. I can see he is proud of it and has set it aside so as not to ruin it while he works. We work together with smiles on our faces until Galadriel calls us for dinner. We eat well and drink until our bellies are warm. Galadriel and I share a bed again, and for the first time since Mama's passing, Father sleeps in his bed.

### 15 March, 1247

Father wakes us before sunrise. I scrub the grime from my face and shiver as I throw off my night shift. I hurry into my hose, chainse, and surcote and slip on my boots. Rather than break my fast, I race down to the workshop. The daffodils and tulips are still fresh, and I gather them together, drying the stems with my surcote. I wrap the stems with green leather and bind the bouquet to the cross.

Mama has been buried like a Christian and had a funeral. Now she'll have my cross to adorn her grave and our kind words to send her into the next life. I pray this is enough for God. Saint Pantaleon was not buried in hallowed ground, given last rites, or funeral rites, yet there is no doubt he is in Heaven. I know Mama wasn't a saint or a martyr, but she was a good woman. That should be enough for God. If I were God, it would be enough for me, but if I were God, this world would be a very different place.

Father calls, and I take the stairs two at a time with Mama's cross in one hand and bunches of my skirt in the other. I grab a crust and gulp some watered-down wine while Father waits with as much patience as he can muster.

"Let's go," he says.

"My cloak!" I exclaim and head for the ladder to my room.

"It is around your shoulders," Father huffs.

"Oh."

A carriage awaits, and we descend the stairs to it. Thankfully, Galadriel has paid the fee so we won't have to walk the hour in the cold. The rooftops are covered with frost and the breath of the horses steams in the morning chill. The sun rises before us and soon the fields shall be busy with the bustle of tilling and sowing.

We set off toward the rising sun before turning onto Severin's Strasse and out the gate. There are farmers in the fields already at work. We ride past the hill where Mama's first funeral took place, and I am glad we don't pass it directly. Eight chimes of the many church bells ring in the distance, and I realize we have ridden for a little more than an hour.

"This is it," Father calls to the driver, and we stop. Galadriel speaks with the driver who moves off, halting his carriage a little further down the road. His horse tears up hunks of grass with its strong jaw.

The rounded mound of earth is fresh and undisturbed. My stomach knots.

She's dead. She's really dead.

Sometimes it still feels like a dream that I shall awaken from, but not now, not when I am standing before her grave. Now, it is all very real. How could God do this to us? How could he send a fever and kill all these people? How could he let Mama die? Were we not good enough Christians? She especially, who dragged Father drunk to Mass every Sunday.

I cry as much out of anger as out of sadness and hug Father. He wraps his arm around my back and squeezes me tightly. I cannot speak without sobbing. I doubt any of us can, and so we are silent.

I look up at Father whose eyes are red and glassy. He must be haunted by having to bury her the way he did only a few nights ago. I cannot imagine having such a memory, and I am reminded of the world's cruelty. I thought God was supposed to smite wicked men like Soren, but it seems to me only the good people of Cologne suffer. I look at the cross I've made, and it is nothing more than a marker to me now. I squeeze Father one more time, and place the cross at the head of Mother's grave.

I kneel in the frosted grass beside her grave and brush the dirt back and forth lightly with my fingers the same way I did when I ran my fingers through her soft hair as a child. I arrange the stones so they are neat, and I move to the end of the grave to kneel before the cross and pray for her in the hope someone in Heaven is listening.

Galadriel gasps. "Who is that?"

"It looks like a Benedictine," Father replies.

I turn and look. A monk is cresting the hill toward us, Bible in hand.

"Brother and sisters in Christ, my name is Brother John, and I am sent by a friend to give Katrina Schumacher a Christian funeral. Am I too late?" he asks.

"Galadriel, did you do this?" Father asks.

"No, I only purchased the carriage."

"Greta, Frau Bauer, spoke to me of the misfortune at your first funeral and asked me to come and give your wife a proper funeral."

I am overwhelmed with their kindness. I doubt I shall ever think an ill thought against Greta again.

Father nods, and I know he is grateful, but he'll not speak for he'll not cry in front of another man. "We'd like that very much," Galadriel says for him.

A silence follows, broken by the crunching of grass. Through the mist of dispersing frost appear Greta, Erik, Ivo, and Levi. Paul and Sal follow with the members of the cobbler's guild and the men, who, I assume, patron the Gilded Gopher. Michael, our tanner, and Matthew, our baker, arrive, followed by the other artisans whom we make purchases from. Several members of our church arrive and those who live around us on Filzengraben come to pay their respects as well. Last to crest the hill is Michael, the armorer who Ivo apprentices with. We surround Mama's grave, and Brother John gives her the funeral she deserves.

Ivo comes to offer his own condolences again and hugs me.

"I can't believe your mother did this for us," I say as he stands back and shrugs. "Well, if we can't rely on God, at least we can rely on friends."

"What do you mean?" he says.

"I'm just angry," I huff and pause for a moment. "It's not fair. How is it that Soren lives and Mama does not?"

Ivo is silent for a moment. "Well, if I were God, I'd much rather have your mother in Heaven with me than that pig-shivving whoreson, Soren," he says. Levi runs up between us and chides Ivo for saying bad words.

"Then God's being quite selfish," I retort, even though his comment makes me feel a bit better. "Soren could at least be punished for what he did to us."

"Who's getting punished?" Levi asks.

"No one," Ivo and I say, our voices overlapping.

"Is it that priest everyone keeps cursing? Perhaps God is thinking of a really good punishment for him, Addie. I know I'm in big trouble when Mama says she has to think about it," Levi says before he runs off again.

Ivo and I cannot help but smile at Levi's innocent wisdom. Perhaps God is thinking up a good punishment for Soren right now. I pray it is so.

~

By noon, more than a hundred people have come. They share their woes of losing loved ones and friends, and we soon discover that only a few of the victims of the fever had been served last rites. Barely any were given a proper burial. The villagers speak of their anger toward our heartless church and also of vengeance.

My memories of the first funeral shall never go away, but I now I have a new memory -- a better memory that brings me peace. This is the kind of funeral every good person should get. If the church will not make it so, then at least we know the people of Airsbach shall.

### 17 March, 1247

It is cold enough to see my breath again. I squirm cautiously from the bed, careful not to wake Galadriel. The chill slithers down my spine, and I shiver. I snatch my cloak from the floor and swiftly wrap it around my shoulders. I rush to the window that looks upon Filzengraben to see if the people of our borough, Airsbach, would keep their promise.

" _SCRAWH!_ " Father's snoring startles me. I hang my head over the edge of the loft and pain shoots through my neck. It is strained again from sharing my little bed with Galadriel who takes up too much space and most of the blankets.

What a pitiful sight, I think. Father's spent the night hunched over the table again. He hasn't gone back to his bed since the second funeral.

I wonder if I should wake him and try to get him to his bed. I tiptoe down the ladder and toward him. Shadows ring his eyes, and I wonder what time he came home last night. He smells of ale, but it is a Sunday morning. He always partakes in too much drink on Saturday nights.

It is probably best to let him sleep. I pull the hood of his cloak gently over his head to keep the sun from his eyes and wrap my own cloak around his shoulders. Surely last night's liquor still warms his blood, but I don't want him to catch cold. I want to hug him and breathe in the ale-smell that reminds me of our normal Sundays. My shivering hands pause above his shoulders as I worry that I'll wake him, but he sleeps like the dead when he's drunk so I wrap my arms around his waist, rest on his back, and take in a deep breath.

I start the hearth fire, and then tiptoe up the ladder. The cold pricks at my skin, and I rush to Galadriel's trunk, wrapping myself in one of her riding cloaks. "I share my bed, so the least she can do is share a cloak," I think as I toss it over my shoulders.

I open the shutters to my window again, and sit on the edge of the bed looking down on Filzengraben. I could not wipe the grin from my face if I tried. Sunday mornings are typically a somber parade, but no one walks to church yet.

I stay perched at the window and stare until the church bells chime eight, but no one is out except for a few drunkards and beggars. One might think every last person in Airsbach had disappeared overnight, but I know better. The men at Mama's funeral agreed not to attend St. Laurentius today, and, perhaps, never again. The message spread Saturday to those who did not come to the funeral, and it appears that no one, at least no one who lives on Filzengraben, has gone. Now Soren shall know how much we hate him. My cheeks burn from grinning for so long.

I imagine Father Soren sitting in a room behind the chapel waiting, angry because his altar boys are late. He sits slouched in a fine chair with a hand squishing his fat face, the other hand tapping his desk, waiting impatiently for someone, anyone, to show up and tell him what is happening, to explain where everyone is. But as the hours pass, it is not just the altar boys who do not show. The church is almost empty. When realization finally arrives that no one is showing up, his fist slams down on the table. Gripping the table for support, he stands and shakes his fist in childish rage. His hideous roar echoes throughout the building. He grips his chest and gasps for air, then falls to the floor and dies.

A satisfied sigh escapes from my lips.

I feel a little less angry with God today for He punishes Soren with humiliation. Soren deserves much, much worse than this, of course, but perhaps more punishment is to come for him. I should be at Mass today singing God's praises, for He has answered my prayers, so I thank him in my prayers this morning. I imagine we shall attend the cathedral from now on, and I will pray especially hard next week.

The blankets rustle as Galadriel stirs. I find I am secretly growing more displeased with her presence each day. I want to be alone to mourn. I want to work without interruption or the need to entertain her. I want to sleep alone in my bed. I cannot help but fear that Galadriel is trying to weasel her way into our lives in a desperate attempt to replace my mother.

She runs errands, cooks, and cleans just like a mother, just like a wife. It is kind of her, and I try to convince myself it is completely innocent, but I cannot purge my suspicions. I hope I am wrong about her, but something tells me I am not, and I just wish she would go home.

"Good morning," Galadriel whispers in her bell-like voice.

"Morning." My whisper is not as gracious. "Sleep well?"

"Very well," she yawns and stretches. "It is kind of you to share your bed, you know. I hope I do not disturb your sleep." Her polite response is irksome. If she were rude, I'd feel less guilty for wanting her to leave.

"Not at all," I lie.

Galadriel sheds her night shift and dresses in a drab chainse and surcote. She descends the ladder, and I listen as she starts the porridge.

"URH!" Father's groan roars through the house. I hurry to look over the edge of the loft. His head shoots up from the table, knocking my cloak and his to the floor. Sweat drips from his head, and his chainse is soaked through. The fire has warmed the house quickly, and I suppose he didn't need a second cloak around his shoulders after all.

Father squints and his eyes dart around the room, confused. For a moment, I know he has forgotten why he sleeps at the table. His face shows his thoughts: Did he upset Mama? Did he get home so late that he did not dare sneak into their bed?

I wonder what his face shall look like when his memory drifts back past last night. The color quickly drains from his face, and I know he remembers why he has slept at the table. Not because he was afraid Mama would be angry with him, but because she is dead, and it pains him to sleep in his own bed. I imagine he must feel quite guilty for all those nights he'd spent at the Gilded Gopher. All those nights he worried her. All those nights he could have spent beside her. I hate to see my father pained, but his guilt is well earned.

"Good morning," Galadriel says sweetly with a smile. Mama would have shot him a dirty look, and her "good morning" would drip with sarcasm. Father groans and puts his head in his hands.

"Morning," he grunts tersely. Galadriel continues to smile obediently. I can see in her eyes that his crossness hurts her. She turns back to the pot and continues stirring.

Father looks up and sees me peering at them from the edge of my loft. I snap up quickly, toss Galadriel's cloak to the floor, remove my night shift, and dress quickly before joining them by the hearth fire.

I rest my cheek on the back of Father's head and hug him tightly. "Does your back not wrench from sleeping that way?" I ask.

"It's nothing a little ale can't fix." He groans and stands to stretch, his bones popping like wet wood on a fire. He grabs a mug and fills it with beer from the barrel. I walk over to the window and open the shutter to see if anyone is in the street, but it is still empty.

"Have my bed," I offer.

"I've slept long enough. Close the shutter. You'll let the chill in." He rubs the stubble on his face as he stumbles toward the window. "What are you staring at?" He steadies himself with his drinking arm anchored on the wall.

"An empty street," I reply with a smile.

An eyebrow arches in surprise. "Church hasn't let out yet?" He leans over me. With one hand on the window sill, he looks into the street and his eyes narrow. He looks down at me for a moment and wraps his arm around my shoulder.

"It looks as though Father Soren hadn't a reason to start Mass today," I smirk.

"No one went?" he asks with surprise.

"Filzengraben has been empty since sunrise," I say excitedly.

Grinning, he slaps the window sill and laughs. He sips his ale and stares out the window for a while. He glances down at me, and my smirk seems to make his grin curl closer to his cheeks. But it quickly twists back to his pensive scowl, and he lurches back to the table. "What is wrong with him?" I wonder. "How can he not appreciate this? Oh well, his sulking shan't ruin my morning." I try to pay him no mind, but I cannot. Wondering what upsets him rains upon my happiness at Soren's humiliation.

Galadriel watches Father, too. Her porcelain forehead crinkles with worry as she stirs the burning porridge. Even her worried face is pretty, though. She curses as she realizes her porridge is charred, and apologizes. She squeezes out a smile as she plops several heaping spoonfuls into small bowls for each of us.

Father reluctantly swallows one spoonful after another. He masks his disgust well, but Galadriel takes a bite and grimaces at the taste.

"I ruined it." She says.

"It's fine." Father says.

"No, it's not. A whole pot of porridge, and it's ruined. I doubt we could feed it to pigs." She says angrily and drops her spoon in her bowl. "I'll throw this out and make another pot." She sighs and reaches for our bowls to take them away, but Father grips his with both hands.

"We don't throw good food away." He says.

Galadriel's face whitens, and she releases our bowls. She sits in her seat, and her face reddens with embarrassment.

We eat our food in silence, and it amazes me that Father can eat this slop with a stomach soured by last night's liquor. I can barely stomach it, but it is better than an empty belly, so I eat just enough to keep from having hunger pangs.

"Can I visit Ivo?" I ask.

"Have you finished eating already?" Father asks, and I nod. "I'm full." I lie.

"Give me your bowl. Go, then. Be back by supper," Father says.

I nod and kiss him on the cheek. I grab my cloak from the floor and run out the door.

~

I sneak over to the window by Ivo's mat, hoping he is sleeping late this morning so I can startle him. I peel back the wooden shutter, and there is a yelp. Greta stands up from her sweeping. She stares back at me with a raised eyebrow and a fist on her hip. There are daggers in her eyes as she waits for an explanation. It'll just make her angrier if I lie. I feel the warmth of blush in my cheeks which only adds to the embarrassment.

"Is Ivo here?" I ask and smile impishly. She is not amused.

Ivo's mouth is wide as he is about to shove a spoon of porridge into his mouth. His eyes meet mine, and his brow knits with confusion. Greta's eyes grow larger, angrier by the moment.

"Ivo!" Greta squawks. Ivo and Levi startle at her scream, and the blackbirds flutter from the roof. Ivo rushes to her side. Erik is asleep on their straw mat in the corner and doesn't even stir.

"Yes, Mother?" he asks calmly, looking down to hide a smirk.

"This girl's confused the door with the window. Show her where the door is and how to knock on it."

"Yes, Mother," he chortles and my cheeks burn.

He goes to the table and scoops the rest of his porridge into his mouth quickly, then runs to kiss his mother, throws a cloak over his shoulder, and is out the front door in a flash.

Greta slams the shutters in my face, and I shrink into my cloak as I step back from the window. I meet Ivo at the door.

"This is a door," he says, speaking slowly to me like I am a simpleton. "To get our attention, you must ball up your fist and tap on it like this. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I grumble.

"Are you sure?" He cocks his head and smirks at my embarrassment.

"Yes," I snap, and punch him in the arm. "What's crawled up her hose?" I ask.

"Not you. Something else has set her off," he says. "I can't believe you thought I was going to be in bed at noon." He chuckles.

"It's not yet noon."

"Close enough," he says matter-of-factly, walking quickly.

"I bet I got up earlier than you did this morning." Unable to keep up with his pace, I grab his arm, cuing him to slow down.

"The rooster woke me up this morning. Actually the rooster woke up my father, and his boot woke me when he threw it at my head," he laughs.

"Well, then we woke up at nearly the same time," I quip, finally catching my breath.

A growl from my stomach interrupts the short silence, and Ivo looks at me strangely.

"I'm hungry," I say.

"Don't they feed you?"

"I'd rather eat mud than Galadriel's cooking," I declare with my lip curled in disgust. "She burned the porridge terribly today."

"Well, mud is in great supply," he teases. "There you go." He points to the ground. I slap his hand playfully and give him a look. "You think my mother's cooking is much better?" he laughs, casually tossing his hair out of his eyes.

"I'm quite sure your breakfast wasn't charred to cinders!"

"No, but I wasn't eating breakfast. I was eating dinner," he teases and I roll my eyes.

I follow him, wishing I had a full belly, but the market is not open Sundays. "I am so hungry," I whine, before I realize we are about to pass St. Laurentius. Getting snatched and questioned by Father Soren's guard is not how I want to spend my afternoon.

"Not that way!" I grab his arm and pull him back.

He points ahead. "I thought we could go out Kunibert's gate and climb trees."

I grab his arm and pull him the other way.

"What?" he asks.

"Just come with me," I sigh. "Do you think you could sneak me out something to eat?" I ask with my best fake pout.

He shakes his head. "Mother's on the warpath, remember?"

"What's she so mad about, anyway?"

Ivo shrugs. "So where are we going?" He makes it a full, four, gigantic, Ivo-sized paces ahead of me before he realizes I'm lagging behind. He turns and shrugs his shoulders.

"It's a... surprise," I reply, out of breath.

"We can stop by your place to get food."

"Then Father could change his mind and make me work on shoes all day."

He shrugs.

"I'll be fine," I sigh, just as we are about to pass the alley off Foller Strasse. I see Levi from the corner of my eye cross the alley while some other farm boys follow him at a run. Ivo and I take the narrow alley to see what he is up to.

"Levi!" I call, and he comes running.

"Hi, Addie! Want to help us catch the chicken? We'll get a pfennig if we do!" He hugs me, and I look down Foller Strasse to see a chicken running in zigzags with a half dozen farm boys at its heels.

"No," I smile, then kneel and whisper in his ear. "I'll give you two pfennigs if you get me some bread and cheese."

"Really?" he shouts.

"Yes, but it's a secret so don't tell your mother who it's for."

He nods, but looks a little uncomfortable at the thought of lying to his mother.

"Here's an extra pfennig. Give it to her and tell her you love her very much," I say.

Levi smiles widely and runs for the house. Ivo catches the chicken and hands it to the smallest boy. The rest whine while the little one runs to the manor yards for his pfennig. Levi returns with my bread and cheese.

"Who caught the chicken?" Levi cries.

"Matthias," Ivo replies.

"Oh," Levi says with a shrug just like his big brother. He runs off to join his friends who are now playing a game called "Chase the Chicken" in which one of them pretends to be a chicken while the others try to catch him.

I offer half the bread and cheese to Ivo, but he shakes his head. Good, I think, as I eat the whole thing in three bites. We make our way back down the narrow alley and onto to the wide thoroughfare of Severin's Strasse, making small talk about how my arm is feeling and predicting what had set his mother off this morning. It is a short walk from his house to the tree-lined city wall. I find the tallest tree and hope we aren't in the middle of our climb when the church bells strike noon.

"You climb first," I order.

"Why?" He asks. I think if I stay silent for long enough, he shall just start climbing, but he doesn't.

"Come on. Just go," I grumble, pushing him forward.

"Fine..." he shrugs, shaking the hair from his eyes as he grabs a limb. But rather than climb, he looks to me one more time. "Is this a trick?"

"No! If you don't hurry, we're going to miss it!" He turns and hoists himself onto the branch. Before I am even onto the lowest branch, he has climbed three. The muscles and veins in his arms swell, though he never struggles with the climb. I am much slower, for my wounded arm hurts. He pauses on a limb ten feet above me, turns, and swings down from the branch he's on, shaking his head with a gloat.

"It's my arm."

"Sure it is."

I eventually reach a place in the tree where we can see all the way to St. Laurentius and all the streets that wind around it. I motion for Ivo to come down a few branches. Before I am even seated comfortably, he is sitting on an opposing branch, watching me nervously.

"Scared of heights?" I quip.

"I'm scared you'll fall, and I'll have to explain it to your father." His foot twitches nervously. "I'm coming over there. Scoot forward."

Gripping the trunk, he slides over to my branch and sits behind me. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close so my back rests against his chest. I gasp, startled from the pull and from being so close to him.

"What are we looking at?" he asks nonchalantly, as though being this close is ordinary for us.

"Well..." I forget. I lose myself in the warmth of his chest on my back and his arm around my waist, but I recover quickly enough. "Actually, we are listening for something."

The timing could not have been more perfect. The first dongs of the dozen church bells echo through the city. Although I've anticipated them, they startle me, and Ivo grips me tightly.

The bells chime noon, and there should be a flock of Christians filing out of St. Laurentius, slowly making their way back to their homes in Airsbach for dinner. Only a few parishioners walk through the doors.

Ivo rests his chin on my shoulder as we stare out over the city. The slow steady flow of his breath tickles my neck, raising goose bumps on my arms. Luckily, they are covered by my sleeves, so he does not notice.

I expect him to gasp or curse or react in some way, but he does not even seem to notice that no one has attended Mass at St. Laurentius, that Soren has been humiliated, and, soon, all of Cologne will hear about it.

"Don't you see?" I turn to look at his face.

"See what?" he asks in a daze.

"Look at the streets of Airsbach! At St. Laurentius!"

"God's teeth! It's Sunday," he laughs. Parishioners from the other churches of Cologne fill the surrounding streets, but only a handful of people come out of St. Laurentius. They look very confused.

"No one went to Mass this morning," I laugh.

"Good."

The few confused parishioners who'd attended St. Laurentius disperse and make their ways home. My eyes stay on the doors of the church like a cat would keep his eyes on an unsuspecting mouse. I want Soren to walk through those doors and into the empty street. I want to see the embarrassment, the anger, the bewilderment on his fat, ugly face, but he doesn't come out. It doesn't surprise me. It doesn't even disappoint me. Soren is a coward, and I am sure he shall spend the rest of the day sulking like a spoiled little boy.

For the rest of this lazy afternoon, we sit and watch the streets of Cologne. Ivo rests his chin on my shoulder. Though I know it's forward of me, I lay my head back on his shoulder so our crowns are touching. Time passes quickly, I imagine, as it always does when one is happy.

~

The church bells chime three times more, and I know supper nears, but I don't want to go home. I've had time to think of what worried Father this morning, and I think I know what it is.

Perhaps, this is not over. Father Soren isn't a gracious man. He isn't likely to learn his lesson and beg his parishioners' forgiveness. He won't learn to treat the people of Cologne better. He shall want to find a way to make us fear him, obey him. He'll find a way to punish us. And what makes it worse is we do not know how, nor when, nor to whom this punishment shall come. Why hadn't I thought of this?

"Ivo, what do you think he'll do?" I ask, knowing he will understand what I am talking about. He always does.

"I don't know," he sighs, his breath blowing a strand of my hair out of place.

"My father looked worried this morning."

"Your Father? Really?" His head pulls back with shock.

"Does your father... did he look worried?" I ask.

"I haven't seen him much today." He leans back against the tree and pulls me with him. I lean my head on his shoulder again.

"Are you worried?" I ask.

"Nah, there's only one of him and hundreds of us." He rests his chin on top of my head.

"Do you think that is why your mother is angry? Maybe she's just worried we shall all be punished?"

"Nah, I think she's mad because you were trying to sneak into my bed," he chuckles.

"That's not what I was trying to do!"

"You should have seen your face when she caught you," he laughs.

"Mine! You should have seen yours." I push forward and turn to sneer at him, but lose my balance. I tip and nearly fall. His eyes widen with fright, and he catches me. My heart pounds from the shock. He climbs around the front of me and pushes me back up against the trunk of the tree.

"There, now you cannot fall," he says. I nod and look down because I am embarrassed by my clumsiness. I shift with discomfort. Our faces are so close.

His whole face relaxes as he looks down briefly, then back up, as if he were looking directly through me. "I'm going to kiss you."

"Right now?" I laugh.

He looks down. "Yes. Now." He laughs.

I giggle nervously. He slides closer, slipping his hand around the small of my back. Our cheeks nearly touch, and I freeze. My heart quickens, and I look into his eyes permissively. He shifts his head, and I close my eyes.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

My eyes shoot open, and we turn toward the city. Ivo sighs and his head drops. Airsbach is filling with guards carrying heavy sacks filled with rolls of parchment.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

The guards weave their way from St. Catherine's Strasse, Witschen Alley, and Filzengraben onto the smaller alleys that make up our parish. They are nailing something to all the doors. The sound of hammers smacking nails echoes through the city, ruining the quiet I had so appreciated. People open their doors and rip off the notices, struggling to decipher them as few of them are able to read.

At best, the parchments are a warning. At worst, I assume they are an issuance of punishment.

But the guards pass the boundaries of Airsbach and head into the other boroughs of Cologne whose inhabitants had attended church. We saw them exiting the churches at noon, so why are notices being nailed to their doors? Now, I do not know what to think, but the guards march soberly, and I know the news cannot be good.

Ivo rests his head on my shoulder again. I reach up and brush the hair out of his face.

"I'll walk you home," he sighs.

###

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