CHAPTER 14

THE TARP THROWN over the wagon’s bed shielded us from any curious onlooker lurking on the side of the road.

“I’d be far more suspicious of the person who found himself spying on humble farm carts in the dead of night,” Sister Margitta said, complaining anew of the pain the rough voyage caused her aging hip.

“It won’t be long now.” My assurance was born of Hans’s promise that we would arrive in Torgau by morning’s light, and the spaces between the wagon slats had taken on a hopeful shade of gray. We’d passed the night in utter silence —or at least as much silence as a group of women poised at the point of a new life’s journey could muster. When the smoothness of the road allowed, we spoke in prayer, claiming Christ Jesus as our protector and the Holy Ghost as our guide. More often, the ruts and rocks made the wheels clatter and the boards creak, and we stifled our outbursts behind our hands.

So many years of silence had trained us well.

We rode in a cart once used to transport barrels of pickled herring and as such was wide and deep enough to allow some measure of comfort. Despite the thick layer of fresh, sweet-smelling straw kindly spread across the bed, my legs were cramped, my feet numb, and the base of my spine a solid ball of pain. Still, I owed a word of thanksgiving with every turn of the wheel. When I opened my eyes, I met the morning light that had found its way through the tarp and the slats, and I was greeted with the shadowy images of my fellow refugees. Twelve of us in all. How serious they all looked, clutching one another’s hands or gripping their veils or staring dejectedly into the emerging shadows.

Ignoring every ache in my body, I rose on my haunches, just enough to elevate my head a bit above the others. “Sweet sisters,” I said, hoping my voice sounded stronger than I felt, “we have reached the dawn of a new day. Our first day of freedom, to love and serve our Lord Jesus Christ as we wish. Listen —do you hear my voice? Do you realize that here, huddled in this cart, I can speak to you more freely than I ever could within the walls of Marienthrone?”

The wagon slowed; the road became smooth.

“And listen. Do you hear? The sounds of life. People, merchants, farmers.”

“Strangers,” Sister Ave piped from the corner by the wagon’s gate.

“The farmer’s wife is our sister as much as we are to each other,” Sister Margitta said, her voice as uneven as the road beneath us. “And the men our brothers.”

“And what are we to be to them?” This, again, from Ave, making me wonder if she should have been chosen to make this journey at all. She was young enough to cling to childish petulance, and old enough to know the fear of uncertainty.

“God alone knows that,” I said. “Our lives are in his hand, and I believe he is to be trusted more than the pope, wouldn’t you say?”

This brought a wave of laughter, albeit of a nervous sort, and by the time it died out, the wheels had stopped turning.

“Oh, sisters.” Whether by habit or some new sense of fear, I dropped my voice to a whisper and reached out to either side to take the hands of Margitta and Girt. One, withered and delicate with the brittle bones of waning days, the other thick and strong with a lifetime of labor before it. Soon the silence filled with masculine voices in greeting. Small talk about the journey, the weather. That they’d been blessed with a cool night and dry roads. That the woods had indeed been dark, but the path familiar.

“And the women? What about the women?”

Somehow, I knew it was Luther. His voice tinged with impatience, forceful enough to bring all other conversation to a halt.

“Not a peep from them.” This, Hans, who seemed amused at his report.

“You speak as though that’s a trait to be admired.” Luther again, and I found myself biting my tongue to keep back a retort. “Shall we see what all this fuss has been about?”

The next I knew, the tarp rustled above my head, raining down bits of straw and dust, and I looked up into bright morning sky.

“Sisters of Marienthrone —” again, his voice, with exaggerated grandeur —“may I welcome you to Torgau?”

I gripped the top of the wagon and used it to pull myself to my feet. At least, I assumed I was on my feet, as I could feel nothing of a surface below. Peering down, I saw a man dressed in simple, dark garb. His face was broad and kind —nothing even my limited experience would call handsome. But his eyes glistened with authority and triumph.

“You must be Herr Doktor Luther,” I said, giving no thought to what I would say if, indeed, he wasn’t.

“I am,” he said, then laughed. “You seem eager to escape the cart.”

Pain now sparked in my feet, and I stamped them, encouraging circulation. “I am.”

The tailgate had been lowered, and I inched my way along the edge of the cart, hoping to have full feeling in my feet before jumping. Like sheep at the cliff’s edge, one after the other, the sisters descended, some on their own power, others —like Sister Margitta —with unconcealed trepidation.

“Not so eager, then?” Luther stood at the gate, hand extended.

“Doesn’t Scripture tell us that the first shall be last?”

“You are the first, then?”

“In a sense, I suppose.” I bent at my knees, braced my hands on the lowered gate, and —ignoring his gesture of assistance —somehow got myself to the ground with as much grace as possible. My feet wobbled, my legs threatened to buckle, and my wrist took an uncomfortable twist as I tried to hold myself steady.

“Whoops, there,” Luther said, stepping forward but stopping short of touching me. “We don’t want the first to be fallen.”

“I am Katharina von Bora.” How strange my name sounded, spoken aloud like that. All alone, stripped of any meaning or connection. Suddenly, I was six years old again, dropped into the home of a stranger, though I was fairly certain I wouldn’t spend this evening curled up in Luther’s lap. “I signed the letter we sent.”

“So you were the first to sign it?”

“I wrote it.”

A statement of fact, nothing more. Certainly not worth the rocking back on his heels, or the thin, approving whistle that came through his barely exposed teeth, but his admiration sparked a fuse of pride in me, and I was glad for the wimple that hid the flush I felt.

“Quite eloquent, I must say. You are a woman of words.”

“Just a woman. Though I don’t suppose we’ll be seen as such. Here, away.”

“And why not?”

He was challenging me, inviting further discourse, reminding me of the hours spent in catechism with Sister Elisabeth. I looked around at the sea of stained white robes, so unbefitting this environment, and ran my fingers along the edge of my veil.

“I imagine we’ll be objects of curiosity for some time. Pity, maybe? Hostility from those who will see us as having betrayed the Church. Sacred vessels. Brides of Christ. Abominations. Faithless, fallen.”

Words poured forth, and somewhere midstream I realized this was the longest uninterrupted speech I’d ever had with a man outside of a confessional. Luther, as one familiar with the sacrament, merely listened, his face unchanged, leaving no hint of his approval or disapproval. To my left, the sisters gathered like a cake newly sprung from a pan, holding the huddled shape from the night’s journey in the wagon. I alone had stepped free.

“Some of us,” I continued, hiding my own anxiety in the collective, “have no recollection of what it means to walk in a marketplace. Some have never handed money to a merchant or purchased cloth. We don’t know patterns, or how to even begin to appear —”

“Are you bemoaning your lack of vanity?”

The humor in his voice pierced me —not in any painful way, but in a manner that deflated my worry and afforded enough space for me to take a deep breath before responding.

“It is not vanity, sir, to wish simply to dress in a way that represents our freedom. I should think you would understand, having played such an instrumental role in attaining it for us.”

“Remember the words of our Savior, as recorded in Matthew’s Gospel. Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?”

Not even the quoting of Scripture could tame the smugness from his demeanor. The words of the Gospel rolled off his tongue as easily as the lyrics of tavern singers from my earliest memories with my father.

Frustration ignited within me, its heat no doubt coloring my cheeks. “I’m afraid you have me at quite the disadvantage, sir. I’ve not been given such unfettered access to the Scriptures. So while I am steadfast in my faith that he will provide all I need, I lack the words to engage in such an argument.”

To my surprise, he laughed —a great guffaw that caused the now-entwined sisters to startle.

“Oh, my, Katharina von Bora,” he said, chuckling through each syllable of my name. “I have known you for less than a quarter of an hour, and I can say with all honesty that I doubt you have ever —or will ever —lack words for any circumstances.”

A collective giggle came from the sisters, Girt’s loudest among them. I turned my head, expecting to silence them with a glare, but unable to control a smile.

“Well, I find myself in obedience to one part of the Savior’s command,” I said. “I’ve taken no thought. Nothing beyond escape. And now . . .” To my horror, my throat stung with the threat of tears, and if Luther doubted anything would render me unable to speak, he hadn’t taken into account the weight of all these women. They stared at me, not challenging, but searching. Girt, usually such a bluster of confidence, chewed her bottom lip. Of all, she had the most promising future, with love and marriage on the horizon. But what of pretty Ave, naive and unaware that there could be any darkness in a human soul? Or our oldest, Margitta, bent with age, knowing nothing but a life lived under the weight of a veil?

My eyes scanned the gathering, and I silently named each one.

Sister Girt.

Sister Gwenneth.

Sister Margitta.

Sister Magdalena.

Sister Maria.

Sister Anna.

Sister . . .

The next face became a blur, nothing more than a swath of flesh within the veil’s frame.

“Sister —” I spoke out loud, hoping the sound of my voice would bring the features into focus. Though I stared intently, doing so only made each individual woman blur. Nothing but white, a solid mass. And my legs began to tremble.

“Katharina?” It was Margitta’s voice, unmistakable in its quaver. “Are you all right?”

Everything disappeared. The sisters folded into a cloud, and the other souls surrounding —the onlookers who had gathered within my periphery —became a single multicolored ribbon wrapped around this tiny bit of earth. At the edge of hearing, men’s voices spoke in low, concerned tones. My mind emptied, save for the echo of Luther’s words from the moment before.

Take no thought for your life. What you shall eat. What you shall drink.

No, not Luther’s words. The words of Jesus Christ. Recorded and written, meant for comfort in just this time. Not unfamiliar at all. At least, not in form. But in meaning —until now they had been something akin to chastisement.

Take no thought of what ye shall eat. What ye shall drink. Because the Church would provide. Just enough to stave off hunger. Except when there wasn’t enough, and there’d be no recourse for more.

Or what ye shall wear. For you take on the robe, the wimple, the veil. Identical to your sisters. Set apart from the fickle fashions of the world.

Take no thought. And I hadn’t.

A hand steadied me, grasping my arm. A strong hand, a man’s hand, and a voice that sounded as distant as it seemed the first time I ever read his words. With his touch, everything —my balance and my thoughts —was restored.

“There, now.” Assurance, without patronization. “You all must be quite exhausted. Let’s get you something to eat, and to drink.”

“And to wear?” I said it without a single thought of its impertinence.

“Even so.” He dropped his grip, but hovered close and whispered words for me alone. “I know your fear. I may understand it better than any person alive. I know what it is to lead, and to bear the weight of those who follow. But our God is mighty in strength to take on such a burden. For now, take a moment to feel his pleasure in your obedience.”

He leaned away, scanned the crowd, and raised his hand to beckon a stout, red-faced woman from its midst.

“Frau Dunkel,” he said by way of introduction. “Take the ladies inside now, get them something to eat, and then show them each to a bed to rest. It’s been an arduous journey, as you can well imagine.”

“Aye, Doctor Luther,” Frau Dunkel said, her gaze and her voice full of reverence for the man. She began a purposeful stride out of the yard, moving as if she were a knight leading a charge rather than a smallish, round woman herding a crowd of weak and frightened nuns. Silently, we followed, nodding our veiled heads to the villagers who parted themselves like the Red Sea of Moses.

She led us into a long, low-ceilinged room lit only by the morning’s light streaming through the windows. A dozen rough-hewn tables were set in an orderly pattern, all square with four benches tucked beneath.

“This seems a fine establishment,” I said.

“Haven’t had a soul in here for days,” Frau Dunkel said, every hint of the civility and deference she’d shown with Luther gone. “Got six rooms upstairs been sitting empty, waiting on your lot to arrive. Sacrifice for Christ, he calls it. Empty pocket is what I see.”

“I am sure your hospitality will not go unrewarded.” This from Margitta, whose strength appeared to be waning with each passing moment.

“This life or the next,” Frau Dunkel said, unsoftened. “Take yourselves a seat, and I’ll have some food brought out directly.”

The habit of silence clung to the sisters as we moved throughout the tables, pulled out the benches, and sat —hands folded in our laps, eyes cast down. Within minutes, the room was filled with noise as Frau Dunkel and a trail of girls —each a nesting-doll replica of her mother —burst from the kitchen, carrying trenchers heaped with bread and stacks of precariously balanced wooden bowls. These were the charge of the youngest of the girls, and she maneuvered through the tables with a practiced ease, saying, “Good morning, miss. And welcome,” as she placed a bowl in front of each of us. The girl couldn’t have been more than eight years old, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, her hair an unremarkable shade of brown tied messily at her nape with a scrap of ribbon.

She was followed by an older girl, thinner and slightly taller, who carried a steaming crock of stew, which she ladled into each bowl, spilling nary a drop in the process.

“It’s lamb,” she said, responding to the silent question raised when Girt leaned forward to inhale the enticing scent. “Fit for Easter Monday, don’t you think?”

I thought of Sister Gerda, who would have been breaking her fast this morning had she been alive. She would have been delighted at the beauty, poise, and grace of these girls.

Another delivered the bread; two more brought cups to be filled with sweet, fresh water. Frau Dunkel herself carried nothing, only stood at the door and directed her charges in a voice of strident affection.

I, like all the sisters, remained motionless in the midst of the bustling service, and still after each bowl and cup had been filled. I had no memory of ever lifting a spoon without directed instruction. Someone needed to rise up, pray the blessing over the food, and give permission to eat. But who? Margitta, the oldest, seemed the most logical choice, but I could not catch her eye. So this, too, would fall to me. I braced my hands on the table and was about to stand when Frau Dunkel’s voice rang out.

“Lyse! Say the blessing, will you, so these poor women can eat.”

Lyse, it turned out, was the youngest of the Dunkel daughters, but the child seemed undaunted by the responsibility. She took a step forward from the line in which she and her sisters had assembled, made the cross, and bowed her head. An audible rustle of veils followed.

“Our Father in heaven,” she began, the echoes of her mother’s strength infusing every word, “we thank thee for the safe journey of these women and ask that the food thou hast provided will replenish the strength they’ve lost and fill them with new strength for a new day. Amen.”

We sisters echoed her amen and, without further instruction, dipped our spoons into the stew, showing obvious restraint not to gobble it directly from the bowl.

I, however, remained still, in awe of the boldness of this child.

“Psst. Kat!” Girt broke into my reverie. She hefted her spoon, smiled, and dove it back into her nearly empty bowl.

“Go on, then,” Frau Dunkel directed to one of the older girls. “Don’t let them see the bottoms.” Then, louder, addressing all in the room, “And don’t you let my bread go stale in front of you. Sweated over the oven on Easter Sunday so’s it would be fresh for you. And if you’re waiting on a knife for making pretty slices, you’ll waste the day here. Tear into it.”

Exhilarated at the invitation, Girt reached for the round brown loaf at the center of the table, picked it up, ripped off an end piece for herself, and continued the process until nothing was left on the trencher and each of the women had a chunk balanced on the edge of her bowl.

“And dunk it in,” little Lyse said over our shoulders. “Just like that, to get up all the broth.”

The room filled with the sounds of slurping and scraping, punctuated by Frau Dunkel’s never-ending stream of commands. More water, here. Get another loaf from the kitchen —two, then. And butter? How could we forget the butter, churned fresh on Friday?

Soon after, my sisters found their voices. Small sounds of appreciation at first, comments on the deliciousness of the food, sincere thanks given to Lyse and the other daughters who served with warm graciousness. Then conversation. Multiple conversations, in fact, with occasional bouts of unchecked laughter. Voices rose to combat each other, to be heard above what had become a veritable din.

I engaged too, confessing to Girt that I’d been sick to my stomach for the better part of the month in fearful anticipation of this day.

“No more of that,” Girt said, swiping the air between us with a piece of sodden bread. “Nothing more of fear. Or secrets. Ever.”

Frau Dunkel instructed the girls to begin clearing the tables, taking away the abandoned, empty bowls and crumb-filled trenchers. For the first time in any memory, my stomach was comfortably full, and a drowsiness threatened to overtake me in this very place. Luther had promised beds, and it took all my strength not to stretch myself out on the table in front of me —or the bench, or the floor; such was my fatigue. From the looks on the faces around me, my fellow refugees felt the same, and I was about to brave Frau Dunkel with my request when a new bustle of activity came with the encore appearance of the Dunkel daughters. Having divested themselves of food and dishes, they reappeared, each carrying a mountain of fabric that threatened to engulf her completely.

“Now,” Frau Dunkel spoke above the curious whispers, “I can’t tell you that any of these are new. Except for the linen —that’s fresh-spun. But the dresses are quality; that I can assure. Our women work hard, and things have to last. You can’t very well go around dressed like a flock of doves, now can you? Never going to catch a gentleman’s eye like that.”

Four tables remained unoccupied at the top of the room, and it was here that the girls dropped their bundles. A single collective sound of awe rose from the sisters.

“So come,” Frau Dunkel said, harsh in her encouragement. “Choose what you like. My little Lyse will close the shutters, so there won’t be any eyes peeping while you dress.”

In an instant, the women pounced on the clothes, grappling through piles of fabric and colors and patterns.

I remember my mother had a dress in just this color.

Look at these! Tiny flowers stitched right in!

Anything red? I’ve always wanted a red dress.

I stood back and watched as they laughed and held the gowns out for scrutiny, plastered them against their chests, and turned to one another. They clucked approval, emitted sounds of delight, and fussed over the choices.

Ave was the first to doff her veil, sending it straight to the floor. Her wimple followed, and she stood bareheaded, her hair cropped to her shoulders. She’d pulled one arm from the sleeve of her robe and appeared ready to yank the entire garment off when a burst of indignation made its way through the stupor brought on by the heartiness of the breakfast.

“Stop it.” I spoke quietly at first, a volume that had served well all these years, and had even proven dangerous at times. Here, though, the noise made no impact.

“Stop!”

The compliance was not immediate, but by the time I repeated the command a third —and again, softer —time, it was complete.

“We made a vow the day we took the veil, a vow that we’ve broken. Do none of you remember the anguish? I cannot be the only one who wrestled in prayer, seeking God’s guidance through my freedom. No matter how the Church would seek to confine us, these garments were meant to set us apart, to show us to be holy women, consecrated to Christ.” Every word of the ceremony spoken as I donned these garments for the first time echoed through my memory as I spoke. “After this moment, you’ll have nothing but your character to act as testament to your faith. Can we please treat these with reverence rather than discarding them like nothing more than turnip tops? And think of the women who acted as our first Christian sisters did, giving of what little they had to those who had less. Can we not take even a moment to pause and give thanks to God the Father for his providence? And to the Holy Ghost who moved within the hearts of these strangers to meet our needs?”

Slowly, silently, Girt picked up the coverings she’d discarded and held them to her breast. The others, too, clutched close whatever they held, and all heads bowed —the covered and the uncovered, including Frau Dunkel and her daughters.

“For your provision, heavenly Father, we are truly grateful. Amen.”

Such a short prayer, given the length of the speech that preceded it, but I knew those words spoken to my sisters were taken as sacred by the Father. Some of the women —those who’d been surprised by the prayer’s abrupt end, or whose hands were too full of overskirts and kirtles —failed to make the sign of the cross upon the prayer’s conclusion. This lapse did not go unnoticed, but neither was it unsettling in any way. Imagine —I’d felt a need to pray, voiced the prayer, and now the activity had resumed, but at a more respectable volume. The women did not appear punished, merely prompted, and they followed Girt’s example in removing veil and wimple with reverence and care, folding each carefully and setting them on the empty tables.

A tug on my sleeve called my attention to the oldest of the Dunkel daughters, Marina. A lovely, healthy girl who looked to be about eighteen years old.

“Here, Sister.” She held up a garment draped over her arm. “Try this one. I think the color would be perfect for you.”

I took the dress and held it at arm’s length. It was dark green, the color of moss in shadow, with narrow, widely spaced black stripes. At her unspoken insistence, I held it up, just below my chin, and looked for her approval.

“Oh, how it brings out your eyes, Sister. Such a beautiful shade of green they are, too.”

“Are they?” My experience with any kind of looking glass had been limited to brief encounters with clean windows and polished tin, and even then not much of an opportunity beyond ensuring that all of my hair was tucked neatly within my wimple.

“There’s a mirror in your room. Look for yourself when you go.”

My room.

The fatigue that had been allayed returned, grasping at a place between my shoulder blades and threatening to carry me to a nest in the midst of all those donated dresses.

“Oh, but you must be exhausted,” Marina said. Perceptive girl. “Let me ask Mother if I can show you to your beds. Quite a luxury that will be, won’t it? To sleep through the day?”

I watched her thread her way back to her mother and comprehended the conversation as all five of the girls were summoned and given orders. At Frau Dunkel’s command, they were dispatched and assigned —a daughter or two for each handful of sisters. We were given our final opportunity to pick from among the clothing: linen tunics, a vast array of overshirts and skirts and kirtles. Stockings, caps, headscarves, sleeves, belts, petticoats. So much confusion for a group of women who had been denied such choice for most of their lives.

“Listen here,” Frau Dunkel said, speaking at a volume that rendered the rest of us silent. “You ladies just let the girls take you to your rooms. Rest up, and I mean it. A good sleep for all of you. And you just leave it to my Marina to have something set out for you to wear when you wake up.”

“I know the perfect thing for each of you,” Marina said, eyes bright as she scanned the gathering of ramshackle nuns. “Trust me. You’ll all be beautiful.”

I began to follow suit with the others, returning my green dress to the common pile, but once again she laid an attention-getting hand on my sleeve.

“Oh, no, Sister Katharina. That I’ve already picked out for you. Take it upstairs. Come, follow me.”

She motioned for Girt and Ave and Margitta to follow her specifically, leading us to the narrow staircase at the end of the room.

“You’ll have to share beds,” she spoke over her shoulder, “so you might want to open the window a bit for a breeze. Cool the room down, as it gets stuffy. But there’s a heavy curtain should keep out most of the light.”

“I could sleep on a rock in the middle of the market,” Girt said, dragging herself up the final step.

“I’ll just pretend I’m in morning chapel,” Ave piped up from behind. “After breakfast? Never could stay awake.”

This prompted a few giggles, but also a chastising sound from Margitta.

Our room —Girt’s and mine —was the first at the top of the stairs. Marina closed the door behind us, wishing us a good rest, and went on with the others to their accommodations. It was small, even in comparison to the cell I’d shared with Girt and Therese, but the bed was covered with a colorful quilt, and the pitcher on the washstand was a bright blue and decorated with a delicate pattern of vines and leaves.

Immediately I crossed to the window and opened it to the bustling life below. The sweet smell of roasting pine nuts wafted up on the spring breeze, overcoming less pleasant odors. I heard laughter and singing, shouts of impatient mothers, wails of vendors, profane exclamations from men —all of it culminating in a singular, profoundly discordant music.

“Life,” I said, speaking out loud to all those who wouldn’t hear me.

And then, separate from them all, a solitary, familiar figure. Luther, in his black cloak and worn shoes, stopped in the middle of the path. He placed his hands on his hips, as if posing for a portrait, and lifted his face. The near-afternoon sun caused his eyes to narrow, perhaps blinding him, for I could think of no other reason he would be so bold as to stare directly up at my window. At me.

He showed no reaction as I detached my veil, removed it, followed by my wimple. But then, as I emerged, bareheaded, he smiled. My hair, too, was short —shorter than Girt’s, barely covering my ears and the nape of my neck. I knew it to be dark. Not black, nothing so dramatic as a raven’s wing. But brown. And plain. I brought my fingers up to touch it and found it thick, with the promise of heaviness when allowed to grow, when there would be braids and pins and all those things of which I had no expertise.

“All is well?” Luther inquired, shouting above the din of village life.

“All is well,” I said, just loud enough for my voice to carry. Then I stepped back and closed the curtain.

In the meantime, Girt had divested herself of all clothing, save for the new linen chemise provided by Frau Dunkel.

“It’s the softest thing,” she said, hugging her own body. “Quick, get changed.”

Suddenly my habit felt unbearably heavy, and I took off every piece, folding the panel so that the stitched cross appeared smooth on top and making a neat pile on the bench at the foot of the bed.

“Everything,” Girt said. “Don’t worry. I’ll turn around.”

And so my undergarments followed, leaving me, for the first time in any memory, completely naked. True to Marina’s word, there hung a small looking glass above the nightstand, affording me a view of my bare shoulders and the hollows that made somewhat of a moat around my narrow neck. I dared not look down, never having seen the evidence of flesh that might prove to be the ruinous temptation of a man. So, like a blind woman, arms outstretched, I found the new chemise and dropped it over my head. It settled like a breeze, cool against my skin, stopping just short of my knees. I peeked at my feet and wiggled my toes, amazed that such distant things could be a part of me.

The bed responded with the groan of ropes when Girt lay upon it, and again when I joined her. It was a tight fit for two, but I took instant comfort in the softness of her body beside me.

“We did it,” she whispered.

“We did,” I whispered back.

“And I hope Marina chooses the most beautiful gown of all for me.”

I gave her a gentle nudge with my elbow. “You never struck me as one for vanity.”

“Oh, it’s not for vanity’s sake. It will be my wedding dress. Hans and I are getting married.”

The admission came as no surprise, but the word that followed took my breath.

“Tomorrow.”

We lay flat on our backs, staring up at the beamed ceiling, hands close enough to clasp, but separate.

“Tomorrow?”

I felt her nod. “It’s all arranged. Luther will perform the ceremony. And there will be a grand reception here, at the inn. Hans’s family arranged that, as I don’t have any of my own to host. Oh, Kat!” She took in a deep breath, then expelled it as a yawn, triggering my own.

“And you’ll stand up with me, won’t you?” she asked, once she’d recovered the power of speech.

“Of course I will.” I’d seen plenty of weddings before, in our small chapel at Marienthrone. We sisters were kept to the back rows, as if our solemn faces and hidden figures might sour the joy of the nuptials. “But Luther is an excommunicate. Will your marriage be lawful? Not in the Church, I know, but in God’s eyes?”

Girt raised herself up on one elbow to look at me. “Yes. See how everything’s changed? If we don’t need a priest to confess our sins, why would we need one to profess our love?”

“So you love him, then? That much?”

“With all my heart.” She collapsed back onto the mattress, causing it to groan anew.

“But that isn’t why you chose to leave, is it? Just to marry Hans?”

“I don’t know. Everything happened together, so I get it all mixed up. Nothing seemed truly clear until this morning. When I knew it was real. That it could happen. And I have you to thank for it, Kat.”

“Me? If I recall, you were the one ferrying in all those messages.”

“But I brought them to you because I knew you would know what to do. And see? How you’ve led us all. And all of us will be able to find our own happiness, just like Hans and me.”

“Not all of us have husbands waiting beyond the curtain.” I put the thought of Luther away the moment I said it.

“Some have family.” Her voice grew weaker with sleepiness, the words seeping out of the corner of lips that barely moved. “Parents, brothers. They’re here, or coming here. Waiting.”

“And some have nothing.”

Girt did not respond, as her breath was already even and deep, the mouselike whistling snore that had been my lullaby for the last twenty years. Tomorrow night, she would be in a very different bed —one neither of us could begin to fathom. With a man, a husband.

And I would be utterly alone.