The Praying Pit is cold, and silent, and dark, the only heat a trickle of air slipping under the door from the catacombs, the only light a rectangle of lesser blackness from the high window. I see the ghost of my own face looking down into the murk, handing Tobias his pack of cigarettes. At least I am not being forced to listen to recordings of Scripture.

Huddled miserably on the hard pallet, my legs drawn up to my chest, chin tucked, the sleeves of my robe pulled down over my hands, I imagine Lynna, in Womenshome, less than two hundred cubits distant. Together, we are alone in the dark with our thoughts. Does she think of me as well?

I wake up shivering. The window is pale gray with dawn. I stand on the pallet to look out, but see only a clouded sky and part of the roof of Elderlodge. Faintly I hear the sound of a vehicle, followed by voices. It is Lynna’s father, come to take her. I hear the vehicle leave. What waits for her at home? I imagine Cal, with a bandaged neck. I try to pray for her, but I sense that no one is listening, and I am soon curled like a fetus on the pallet, refusing every thought that threatens to form.

Brother John brings food. Boiled wheat, dried apples, a pitcher of water, and a strip of dried venison. He places the tray wordlessly on the small wooden table by the door and withdraws. I should be grateful for the food, but it might as well be pine bark and gristle. I eat, because I have been taught that food should not go to waste.

It is difficult to describe what it is like to not think. My thoughts are flecks of foam on the Pison, leaves blowing across a field, raindrops striking water. Several times it occurs to me to pray, but as I clasp my hands, the words flit away like gnats and I am left with nothing. I am almost glad when John returns to tell me that I have been summoned by Father Grace.

John leads me through the catacombs and up a stairway into a small alcove at the back of Gracehome. Father Grace’s eldest wife, Marianne, is waiting.

“He is in the garden,” she says, offering me a coat.

I don the coat and step out the doorway. Behind Gracehome is a walled garden, a small version of the Sacred Heart, but with no Tree. The garden is covered with snow except for one patch of cleared ground about eight cubits on a side. Father Grace stands motionless at its center, his back to me, looking down at the three headstones jutting from the frozen earth before him.

“Father,” I say.

He motions with his hand for me to stand beside him. I do so. With his head bowed, his long hair falls past his face, and I can see only the tip of his nose. I read the names carved into the stones: Salah Grace, Adam Grace, Von Grace. We stand without speaking for a time.

“It has been a long winter,” he says at last.

“Yes,” I say. There is no denying it.

“The End Times are near. Can you feel it coming?”

I feel the end is near for me, but I do not know what form it will take.

“Each of us must have his Faith tested. Von failed. The boy Tobias failed, as did his sister, and Sister Mara. There are others among us whose Faith trembles and wavers. Even I, at times, have experienced faint glimmerings of doubt.” He turns his head and fixes me with his clear eye. “Does that shock you?”

“Yes,” I say, for it does. Father Grace is the very personification of Faith.

“I perceive that you have been tested most severely of late.”

“And I have failed,” I say.

“You are a man. To be a man is to fail again and again, as Cal Evert failed. He gave in to the temptations of his niece, the girl who came to Nodd with blood on her hands. He has paid a price and lies now in a hospital room. He will escape with his life, but his reputation will be forever ruined. It is fortunate for all of us that the Lord’s capacity for forgiveness is infinite.” His hand falls upon my shoulder, so heavy it is all I can do to remain standing.

“Speak to me now as a man, Jacob. Have you been with this girl as her uncle wished to be? As a man is with his wife?”

“No!”

“But that is what you desire?”

“No! I would not . . . I like her, is all. She’s nice.”

Father Grace steps in front of me and cups each of my shoulders in his hands and stares hard into my face. I feel my knees becoming liquid, my heart beating against my rib cage like a trapped bird. I can see nothing but those two eyes, so different, one dark and bright, piercing my flesh, the other milky and cocked toward Heaven.

He releases his hold on me and laughs. It begins deep in his chest, then spills out of him, flowing down his beard and filling the air, echoing off the garden walls and rising up like a pillar of fire. I lean back to give his laughter room, and this makes him laugh harder. He swings his arm and claps me on the shoulder, almost knocking me over.

“Young Jacob,” he says, wiping his good eye with the back of his hand, “fear not. Your sins are the sins of all men. So long as we occupy this mortal coil we are at the mercy of our loins. I will tell you this: the girl cannot be yours. She is an outsider, and among her people she is considered yet a child. Were we to take her in, her people would rise up like a horde of demons from Hell. Is one girl worth risking the destruction of all we hold dear? I think not.”

He grasps my shoulders again. “The Lord built these vessels we occupy, Jacob. We can fight the waves or ride them high. Some men are meant to take what they want; others are meant to follow.” He draws me closer, so that our faces are only a few inches apart. “Are you a follower or a taker?”

His breath washes over me, and it is foul, as if his teeth are rotting in his head. If Father Grace is the voice of the Lord, then why would the Lord give him rancid breath?

“You cannot have all you desire, but do not lose heart. I understand the urges and needs of a young man such as yourself.” He pulls me closer yet, so that his beard almost brushes my chin. “I give you my daughter Sister Beryl.”

“Beryl?” I croak, nauseated both by his breath and by what he is saying. “Beryl has but fourteen years!”

“I first had Fara, who has borne me three daughters, when she was but thirteen.”

I stare at him, hardly able to bear what he is telling me. From the time I was small, I have been taught that to be chaste and abstemious is to be close to Heaven, and who is closer to Heaven than Father Grace?

Breathing shallowly, I reply, “I do not want Beryl.”

“Ha!” He pushes me away. “So you say now, but let your loins starve a bit longer and you might settle for Sister Dalva.”

Sister Dalva is older than my mother.

“I wanted Sister Ruth, but you took her,” I say, stunned by my own boldness.

Father Grace is taken aback for an instant, but he quickly recovers.

“I had wondered,” he says slowly. “Ruth is a lovely child. Was this the reason you sought out the Worldly girl?”

I stare back at him. I know the answer to his question, but I am loath to share it with him. If he wants to think himself responsible for driving me to Lynna, then so be it.

“Speak, Jacob.”

“I cannot,” I say.

“I see.” He turns to face the graves of his children. “Let me tell you how it is. The Worldly girl has been returned to her home, where she will stay. You will put her out of your mind. In the spring, when the Tree blossoms, you will wed Sister Beryl. Your transgressions are forgiven. Put the Worldly girl out of your mind. There is much work to be done. Return to Menshome.” He looks at me. One eye is hard and dry, the other a moist wound. “You have my trust, Jacob. Do not disappoint me.”