CHAPTER 25

“OUR TREE,” as Luther insisted on calling it, filled the great hall of the Reichenbachs’ home with its fragrance and its presence. Red ribbon had been laced through the branches, scraps of fabric fashioned into bundles and tied to the ends of the limbs. Nestled in the branches were small, oval-shaped ornaments —white-washed wood, decorated by the Reichenbachs’ children. For each day of Advent, I asked the children to paint a small picture to represent Jesus Christ in every way that we knew him. As a baby, yes, but also a Shepherd, a Light, a Word.

“Someday,” I told them, “you will be able to read the words of Jesus in the Gospels as easily as you read your primers. And you’ll be able to thank Herr Luther for that.”

Later, when I shared this with Luther, including the children’s less-than-enthusiastic response at the prospect, he gently reminded me that I must not be so quick to give him praise.

“Better men than I have died in pursuit of the same goal,” he said. “If I am to be branded a heretic by the Church, at least I’ve escaped execution for the sake of it.”

In the days after that walk into the woods to find our tree, I’d had very little to say at all —to Luther, to the children, to anyone. Ten days had passed, and with each one the tree grew more festive, and I more despondent. I convinced myself that Jerome hadn’t seen me, given the pace of his horse and the element of dusk. I told myself he wanted to see me alone, not with Luther on my arm, or by my side, or anywhere near enough to monitor our conversation. I told myself he’d been waiting here, at the house, pacing the hall, impatient for my return. I attributed the swiftness of his ride to his frustration, and I pictured him waiting, and planning, for the perfect moment to come to me again.

So, of course, I didn’t leave the house. Not for another bracing walk in the snow at the invitation of von Amsdorf, not for supper at the nearest neighbor’s home, even though I was flattered at the invitation. I went only where I thought Jerome might be. To church on the Sunday before Christmas, where Luther read from the Gospel of Luke in lyrical German —the first I’d ever heard it in my native tongue. And to the market to help Cook with the necessities for our Christmas supper and celebration the Eve before. Here, I thought, Jerome might be on such an errand. Or perhaps, like Luther who tagged along, he’d want to witness the good-natured bustling at the shops and carts that lined the street. All manner of meats roasted on spits, making the very air smell like a king’s smokehouse. And there were cakes and breads and sweets like none I’d seen before. This outing nudged my tongue, and I questioned the vendors, learning of all the decadent ingredients of their wares. I was reminded of something Luther said at the beginning of the summer —how, if he saw me in the marketplace, he would think me a fine-looking girl. Somewhere, lurking in the loss and loneliness for Jerome, I wondered if he thought so still.

Jerome’s persistent silence and absence made me wonder if he hadn’t been a dream. A frozen mirage. But Luther had seen him too. And like a true friend, said nothing of it since.

Whatever social sin the Reichenbachs had committed in hosting me and encouraging my unworthy pursuit was obviously forgiven, if the crowd gathered in their home on Christmas Eve served as any indication. Their summer parties, resplendent with food and music, paled in comparison to the feast offered this evening. Because there were too many guests to sit at the table, all chairs had been removed and lined the walls. We roamed free, sampling from platters, tasting the days of labor from the kitchen. Mugs were dipped into massive vats of mulled wine or tipped to barrels of ale. One set of musicians played in the dining hall, where the floor was cleared for dancing. In the great hall, where the tree stood in its magnificence, guests sang carols with reverence or gusto, depending on the song and the drink at hand. Brightly wrapped candies had been strung on the lower branches, and the children —too many to count —made a great show of sneaking them away.

Welcomed into the celebration as a guest rather than a servant of the house, I found a moment when I became truly lost in the levity. von Amsdorf proved himself a perfect dance partner, going through the steps with the stamina of a man half his age. Luther was attentive with food and drink, and Elsa tugged at my ear more than once to offer gossipy insight. By ten o’clock, the revelers who weren’t red-faced from drink were sated with food, and laughter filled the house with a solid mass of mirth.

Despite the frigid air outside, Herr Reichenbach kept the windows open. Not wide and welcoming, but inches each, to allow a bit of cold to cut through the heat of the blazing fires and cool our faces. Winded from dancing, I went to stand near the breeze, refreshed instantly. The tendrils of hair set free from my complicated, looping braids turned to icy strands against my face, and I gulped the air the way I would water.

All at once, the break in the music filled with the sound of welcoming cheer as a new arrival entered the room. My stance had taken me away from its center, tucking me close to the edge, so at first I could not see the object of the gathered guests’ warm reception. I craned my head, finding a path of vision, and grasped the windowsill for support.

Herr Baumgartner, looking as sleepy as he ever did; Frau Baumgartner with her bulging eyes scanning the crowd; and behind them, Jerome. He wore a doublet of black velvet, embossed with ornate gold stitching, and a silk hat with a brim that touched the top of his left cheek. If he’d meant the hat to mask his identity, he’d wasted its purpose. Even from this angle, with half of his face obscured, I could see well the strength of his chin, the bearing of his body. The dark curls full at the nape of his neck. His hands —one resting on an ornamental sword —called my senses to attention, bringing heat again, despite the chill of winter on my skin.

Elsa and Herr Reichenbach made their way to offer greetings, a kiss to each cheek, and I burned watching Jerome bend to Elsa. While Frau Baumgartner continued to survey the room, Jerome looked nowhere but straight ahead. If he’d turned, just a portion of a degree, our eyes would have met. As it was, I had only the fortune of meeting his mother’s gaze, and nearly withered in its triumph.

My fingers grew numb, whether from the cold or the strength of their grip on the windowsill, I couldn’t say. Such a feeling of unbalance, one hand nearly turned to ice, the other hot and slick with sweat. With each breath, my corset constricted, like a whalebone prison, but I took some comfort in the fact that I was breathing at all.

See me. See me. See me.

And he turned.

His eyes widened in recognition, and even from this distance, I saw the infinitesimal clenching of his jaw. I gasped, aloud —the sound masked by the striking of the minstrels. A tune familiar to us, one to which we’d danced many an evening in this very room. One that allowed our hands to touch, and I wondered which I would offer —my cold one or my hot. That is, if he asked. If he threaded his way through the crowd, begging pardon of the gentlemen who stood in our path. Touching his cap to the ladies, suffering the children with a tousle of their hair.

I brought my hands together, clasped them against my stomach, hoping to bring them to a neutral warmth, so that if I touched him —when I touched him —he would have no need to startle away. Before I could squelch the betrayal, my foot took a step in his direction, then another, my roiling body set to follow. By the third step, he was gone. No tipping of his cap, no begging of pardon. Were I to take another step, I would have to run to catch up, even to get close enough to touch his sleeve. But the music played on, and a circle of dancers formed between us, and I would not disrupt their joy to display my sorrow.

The first measure half gone, it was too late to join the dance, and I feared my proximity to the couples made me appear desperate for a partner, so I backed up to the wall, where the open window brought me to a new realization. Of course Jerome would have no such public reunion with me. All that we ever were to each other had been based on secrecy, even when it was a secret of which everyone was well aware. He would not rush across a crowded room to take me in his arms. He would hold to his promise in our place of commitment. In the garden.

If I took the time to go to my room and fetch my cloak, I risked the chance of being followed, questioned, delayed. Instead, I inched my way along the wall, crossed the room, and gave not another glance to the revelers around me. I inhaled sharply with my first step outside, finding the bite of the air enough to bring me to my senses. A light snow fell, and I raised my face to it, feeling the sting of each flake, promising myself there would be no tears.

I could still hear the music and found myself humming, intending to announce my presence, lest any other guests be out here, enjoying the solitude as Jerome and I once did. The snow was powder-soft beneath my feet, and though the weight of my overdress and skirts proved enough to keep me warm, I did regret my shoes, as the silk became damp, then wet. Regardless, I charged on, taking the familiar path through the hedges, past the fountain, toward the farthermost wall where he had waited that last night. Never mind that I walked a carpet of purest white, no steps preceding mine. With each one, my promise broke. One tear, then another. Tasting salt, I swiped my sleeve across my face —quickly, lest he be watching from somewhere.

The silence in that garden, gripped in the dead of winter, rivaled that of the deepest forest. The music and laughter seemed miles away, drowned out by my own beating heart, my own shallow breath, my own soft whisper.

“Please. Father in heaven.”

And then, an answer. A message, as clear to me as that spoken to the shepherds in the field. He wasn’t coming. Not tonight, not at all. Not for me. I knew as much the moment he looked at me. I knew it on the path when he thundered by. I knew it in the months without a word, on the night he left. My memories had no substance; every word he’d ever said floated as weightless as the flakes swirling around me. What a fool I’d been to believe them.

Now I faced foolishness of a new kind, knowing I had to walk back into the party, my shoes wet, my hair nothing but a mass of dripping tendrils. At least I had the cold to blame for my red nose and blotchy face, but no way to explain why I’d taken myself away from the warmth within. A breath of fresh air, I’d say. A moment of quiet contemplation.

The walk back to the house stretched twice as long, and the sound of voices made me drag my steps even more. Guests, it seemed, had followed my lead, gathering in pockets in the courtyard. Listening to the conversations, I heard delighted chatter about the refreshing night air, the beauty of the drifting snow, the merriment of the party. I took a final swipe at my eyes and nose, preparing to join in and say, Yes, a bracing walk is just the thing to clear one’s head. Straightening my spine, I put on my bravest face for one man in particular who had ventured out into the night.

Luther.

Upon seeing me, he peeled away from the small group held rapt by whatever story he told and came straight for me, creating a blessed barrier between me and the others.

“For you.” He offered me a cup of mulled wine. I took it in both of my hands and prayed my grip was strong enough to hold it, as I had no true feeling in either. The first sip warmed me, both the temperature of the wine and the spices. I left the cup balanced on my lips and looked down into its blurry depth. Three more sips before I felt strong enough to face him.

“Is he still here?” I had no reason to clarify.

“No.”

“Are his parents?”

“Yes.”

Another sip, this one draining the cup by half.

“Did anyone notice? Are they talking about me?”

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. You are not the object of everyone’s attention tonight.”

“Not his, anyway. Did you speak to him?”

“No. He made his greetings to Philipp and Elsa, deposited his parents, and left. It seems he has another social engagement this evening.”

“Of course he does.” I finished the cup and was rewarded with a pleasant blurring of my thoughts. Immediately, I wished for more.

“Now, come inside.” Luther put his arm across my shoulder, meaning to comfort or guide me. Or both. “More wine, more music. Dance with von Amsdorf. Or just stand by the fire. You’re like ice.”

“I don’t want to go back in there.”

“You can’t stay out here.”

“I can do as I please.” My words came out more harshly than I’d intended, as I kept my jaw clenched to prevent my teeth from chattering.

“You can; of course you can. But might I suggest you find a place to lie down? You’ll make a much more tragic corpse when they find you in the morning.”

“Your wit is no longer welcome.” I pushed against his chest, but he did not move. “I’m going up to my room. To bed.”

“Let me fetch you more wine, to warm you.”

“I don’t want more wine.” I shouldered past him, lifting my skirts as if doing so would speed my steps. Heedless of the curious eyes that followed, I made my way around to the side of the house, where an obscure door led to a back stairway I could take directly to my room.

“Katharina.” He followed, hard on my heels. “Kate!” This, louder, once we’d turned the corner. My feet, encased in sodden silk, felt like pointed spears of pain, and he soon had my arm, gripped at its elbow. “Wait.”

“No! I don’t have to do what you say. I don’t have to speak to you. I don’t have to listen to you. I owe you nothing, Luther.”

“You’re right.” He dropped my arm, and his voice took a turn to sarcasm. “I only rescued you from —”

“You rescued me from nothing.” The anger I felt for Jerome, the humiliation I’d heaped upon myself —I fashioned it all into arrows and fired them with my words. “You aided an escape. And then you . . . you abandoned me.”

“Abandoned you? In this fine home, with hosts who have been nothing but generous and gracious to you. Wouldn’t I love to tell my friends that you feel abandoned?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then use your mind to better choose your words.” He’d come to the end of his patience, armed with anger of his own.

The side of the house was lined with a privet hedge, grown up to the second-floor windows and groomed into spires. I stepped within, seeking to hide myself from whatever onlookers might follow the sound of our argument, and to my surprise, Luther followed, enclosing us with stone, and green, and snow.

“Forgive me if I’m not perfectly articulate,” I said, clearly without repentance.

“I’m not asking for perfection. Only perspective.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, don’t let this fool of a man destroy what we’ve accomplished.”

“I don’t think anyone in there would say that he is the fool.”

“Hold your head up, my girl. Come inside and lift a glass. Indulge me that much.”

“You speak as if I owe you.”

“You owe me nothing, Kate.”

“Oh, but I do.” A false sense of courage infused me, a heat generated to stave off the chill that threatened to freeze me into complacent obedience. “I owe you my heart. It’s been ripped out and broken, and I owe that to you. Before you —before your rescue —I had no idea such pain existed. I had no idea I could walk and talk and die inside. So I owe you that, Luther. I owe you my pain and my humiliation. I owe you my loneliness and my despair. All of that —all of it —I lay at your feet.”

He allowed me to speak, long after I’d given him reason to rise up and stop the ugliness I spewed. When I’d depleted myself of words, I erupted in bottomless tears and slumped against his familiar, worn black coat.

“There, there.” He patted my back, soothing my childish rage, wisely saying nothing even in his own defense. I clutched at his sleeves, drawing him closer, hating myself more with each sob. Soon I felt his lips, a soft kiss at the top of my brow, and I burrowed deeper.

“Look up,” he said, inching himself away. “See how clear the stars are tonight.”

I obeyed, as we both knew I would, and marveled at the sight. It was one of those rare moments, a break in the clouds, when the snow seems to appear without a source. The stars formed a silver tapestry behind the dance of pure white.

“Imagine the faith it took to follow a single star. To look up into that vastness of the heavens and focus on a single point of light. And then, to follow.”

“I suppose you are my single point of light?”

He was still holding me, but stepped away. “Christ is the Light we follow, Katie. Our own understanding will fail us. Always. Think how frightened and alone Mary must have felt on this night.”

“But she wasn’t alone. She had a husband. And child. I have nothing. I have nobody.”

“Mary held the Christ within her arms. You hold him within your soul. How much more is that?”

I knew he wanted me to say that it was enough. That my faith would be enough to sustain me for the rest of my days. But I knew what it meant to love someone, and to be loved —the way God designed a man to love a woman. Even if Jerome’s love hadn’t proved to be lasting, its hold on me was strong, and an emptiness ached within me to find such love again.

“Have you no words of wisdom for me, then? No comfort from the man who endangers his life for truth?”

He looked away, gathering his thoughts, seeming to go far away, and then returned. “You saw our tree in the great hall?”

Our tree. “Yes, of course. It’s beautiful.”

“Is it more beautiful than these?” He opened his arm expansively, directing me to see the clump of firs in the side yard, and then the towers of green offering shelter.

“It’s more festive,” I said, determined to have a say in the argument. “Unique from these.”

“Ah, yes. But more beautiful? No. These here, in starlight, with the whiteness of snow adorning the branches —these manifest God’s creation. His perfection. And they will for years and years, long after our death, if left alone. We brought our tree into a place of celebration. But we’ve killed it. It will never be what God intended, and his plan, his design, is always best.”

“Jerome is a good man. A godly man. Why couldn’t he have been God’s design for me?”

Luther looked like he had an answer but discarded it with a breath of steam. “I don’t know. It is not for us to know. At least not now, but maybe someday you’ll see everything more clearly.”

Slowly, a sense of peace settled in drifts around me. “If only I’d been able to see this clearly in June.”

“In June there are only stars, no snow. Now is the time for grace. As the prophet Isaiah records, Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.”

“Are you saying it was a sin to love him?”

“To love him? No.”

Luther made it clear that there were other aspects of our love that could be interpreted as sin, and for that I bowed my head. “Are you to be my confessor?”

“No, as I owe you no forgiveness.”

“Then what are you to me, Luther?”

Again he searched for an answer, scrutinizing my face as if to find it there. “Tonight, I am your friend, hoping to help you find a place to reason with the Lord.”

“You’ve helped mightily.” Somehow, my voice was even, my breath steady, my chattering gone. And though I’d long ago come to think of Luther as a true friend, in the washing white of Christmas Eve, I first pondered if he could be anything more.