1146 A. D.

I

“Tamberly checking in. Volstrup isn’t here, he’s with some of the men guests, but I’m alone in our room and taking this chance to call. We’re both okay.”

“Hi, Wanda.”

“Manse! Is that you? How are you? How’ve you been? Oh, it’s good to hear your voice!”

“And yours, honey. I’m here with Agop Mikelian, your contact. Will you have a few uninterrupted minutes?”

“Should. Wait, I’ll bar the door to make certain…. Manse, listen, we’ve found out that Lorenzo de Conti is alive and getting set to marry—”

“I know. And I’ve confirmed uptime that he’s the figure on whom everything turns, has been turning and will be, unless we put a stop to it. The information damn near cost Karel Novak his life.”

“Oh, no.”

“Well, he covered my retreat. Once I’d reached the hopper, Jack and I doubled back downtime and snatched him out of the fracas he was in. That isn’t a history we care about preserving.”

“Your tone of voice—It was a near thing for you, wasn’t it, Manse?”

“Never mind. I’m unhurt, if that’s what’s fretting you. Tell you all about it later. Have you anything new to report?”

“Well, uh, yesterday Bartolommeo Conti de Segni arrived, as per invitation.”

“Huh?”

“You remember, don’t you? You’re the one who told me about him. He’s a cousin or something. Young, bachelor. Seems in a pretty sour mood. My impression is, he’d hoped to marry Ilaria. It’d be a useful alliance for his family.”

“That figures. He’s got to be the man who did marry her, in our history, and fathered Pope Gregory. What we have to do is clear Lorenzo out of the way. Fast. I hear the wedding’s set for next week.—Wanda? Wanda?”

“Yes. I—Manse, you aren’t thinking … you can’t be—to off him?”

“I hate the notion too. Have we any choice, though? It can be instant, painless, not a mark on the body; neural projector, stop his heart, like switching off a light. Everybody will suppose it was natural. They’ll grieve, but life will go on. Our people’s life, Wanda.”

“No. Prevent this marriage of his, sure. We must be able to finagle that somehow. But murder him? I, I can’t believe that’s you talking.”

“I wish to God it weren’t.”

“Then talk different, damn you.”

“Wanda, listen. He’s too dangerous. It isn’t his fault, but I discovered at Frederick’s court he’s the focus of, of chaos. So many world lines come together with his that—even his great-grandson nearly ruined our mission; would have, except for Karel. Lorenzo’s got to go.”

“You listen, Manson Everard. Kidnap him or what-lever, fine—”

“What kind of trouble might his sudden disappearance bring on? I tell you, the entire future is balanced in Anagni this month. On him. I didn’t know any better, so I didn’t make sure of him at Rignano, and look what’s come of that. We’ve no right to take any more unnecessary chances. Don’t forget, I like him. This hurts like cancer.”

“Shut up. Let me finish. I’m in a position to help you pull off a smooth operation. I don’t think you can do it without me. And you better not think I’ll make myself a party to murder. He—we can’t—”

“Hey, Wanda, don’t cry.”

“I’m not! I, I—Okay, Ev-Ev-Everard. Take it or leave it. Haul me up for insubordination if you want. Whatever they do to me, I ought to have a lot of years left to spend despising you.”

“Manse? Are … you there yet?”

“Yeah. Been thinking. Look, I’m not so weak or selfish I can’t shoulder guilt if necessary. But will you believe me when I say it’d have been easier to die there with Karel? If we really can find some other way that doesn’t spawn still a third monster, why, Wanda, I’ll be in your debt to the bounds of infinity and the end of eternity.”

“Manse, Manse! I knew you’d agree!”

“Easy, gal. No promises, except to try my damnedest. We’ll see what we can figure out. Suggestions?”

“I’ll have to think. It, uh, it’s a question of what will work on him, isn’t it? His psychology. Intuitive stuff. But I have gotten to know him pretty well.”

“Really?”

“Yes, he’s been giving me quite a play. I’ve never had my virtue more delightfully threatened.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t you see, that’s why I can’t go along with—If he were just a charming rascal, I might. But he’s for real. Honest, brave, loyal, no matter how wrongheaded his causes may be; not well educated by our standards, but with as much life between his ears as any man I’ve ever met.”

“Well, let’s both consider how we might use these many qualities of his, and get back to each other tomorrow.”

“Why, Manse! Did I catch a note of jealousy?”

II

Master Emilius van Waterloo explained that he was indisposed and had best take to his bed. He wished to make certain he would be in condition to attend the wedding mass and feast three days hence. Sir Lorenzo found goodwife Walburga moping in the solarium. “Wherefore so disconsolate, my lady?” he asked. “Surely it’s but a slight malady your man suffers.”

“God willing.” She sighed. “But—forgive my worldliness—I looked forward more than you know to that outing you spoke of.”

“I understand.” His gaze ranged over her. Flowing garb did not hide litheness and fullness. From beneath the headcovering peeped a lock or two of golden hair. “One such as you, youthful, far-traveled, must come to feel penned between these walls amidst the clucking of lesser women. I too, Walburga, often and often.”

She regarded him wistfully. “You see deeper and kindlier than I would ever have thought a great warrior could.”

He smiled. “Well, later I’ll take you forth, I swear.”

“Alas, make no promises you cannot keep. You shall be wedded, with better duties, while we—we must not presume longer on your father. Straightaway after the joyous day, we start homeward.” Tamberly dropped her glance. “I will always remember.”

“Uhm, uhm!” He cleared his throat. “My lady, if this is improper, tell me, but … perhaps you might grant me the pleasure of escorting you, at least, tomorrow?”

“Oh, you—You overwhelm me, sir.” Am I laying it on too thick? How should I know? He doesn’t seem to mind. “Surely your time is more valuable than—No, but I’ve come to know you somewhat. You say what you mean. Yes, I’ll ask my husband, and believe he will be pleased and honored. Though not as much as me.”

Lorenzo flourished a bow. “Threefold are the pleasure and honor mine.”

They talked on, merrily, till evening. Conversation with him was easy to maintain, despite his curiosity about the lands she claimed to have come from and to have seen. Like practically every man, he could be steered onto discoursing of himself. Unlike most, he made it interesting.

When at length she returned to her quarters, she found Volstrup staring at the ceiling by the light of a single candle. “How goes it?” she asked in Temporal.

“Incredibly tediously,” he answered. “I never before appreciated what a blessing printing, an abundance of books, is.” Wryly: “Well, needs must. I have thoughts for company.” He sat up. Excitement trembled: “What have you to tell?”

She laughed. “Exactly what we hoped. He’ll take me out to the woods in the morning. If you give permission, of course.”

“I doubt he expects me to object. It’s obvious that I’ve gained a reputation for, m-m, complaisance.” The little man wrinkled his brows. “But you, aren’t you afraid at all? Do be careful. Matters can too quickly get out of hand.”

“No, I am not afraid, unless afraid that they won’t.”

Did he blush? The light was too dim to be sure. Shameless hussy, he must be thinking. Poor guy. Suddenly I wonder how easy this sleep-naked-beside-but don’t-touch business has been for him. Well, one way or another, by tomorrow we should be about at the end of it.

Tamberly’s skin tingled. Taking forth her communicator, she called Everard. They spoke fast and to the point.

Odd, how readily she fell asleep. It was a light sleep, alive with dreams, but at dawn she woke refreshed. “Loaded for bear!” she exclaimed.

“Pardon me?” asked Volstrup.

“Nothing. Wish me luck.” When she was prepared to leave, impulse took hold. She leaned over and brushed lips across his. “Take care, old dear.”

Lorenzo waited downstairs, at a table whereon was set the usual meager, coffeeless breakfast. “We will eat better at midday,” he promised. Blitheness danced in his voice. Every gesture was full of the Italian extravagance and grace. “A shame, that no eyes but mine shall savor the feast you spread for them; yet am I selfishly glad of it.”

“Please, sir, you grow bold.” Would a medieval Flemish woman really talk like a Victorian novel? Well, he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Bold in the cause of truth, my lady.”

As a matter of fact, Tamberly had taken some trouble with her riding habit, lacing the bodice tighter than was quite comfortable, arranging the drape of sleeves and skirts just so; and blue was her best color. She didn’t look as dashing as Lorenzo—elbow-length red cape over richly embroidered gold-and-green tunic halfway to the knees, sword at bronze-buckled belt of chased leather, russet hose (matching his eyes) cut to bring out the shapeliness of thigh and calf, curly-toed red shoes—but she was no drab little hen to his rooster, either.

A stab of pity: Poor Ilaria. Quiet, shy, sort of homely, meant for a pledge of alliance, a mother, a chatelaine; and here I come along and take up most of her betrothed’s attention. … But it’s nothing remarkable in this day and age; and maybe I’m kidding myself, but I’ve gotten a body-language impression that Bartolommeo does care about her as a person, at least a little bit; and—and whatever happens, I am not conniving at an assassination.

Horses were ready in the street outside. Lorenzo had spoken imprecisely when he implied lunch would be tête-á-tête. Even here, that would occasion some scandal. Two attendants, man and wife, were in charge of supplies and of service in general. Sometime during the day, Tamberly needed to be alone with the knight. If he didn’t take the initiative about that, she must, and wasn’t sure how. Preferring her relationships straightforward, she had never gone in for seductiveness. But she didn’t believe it would be required.

Still, when she mounted and settled herself—no prissiness about sidesaddles—it didn’t hurt to show a little snugly stockinged leg, did it?

Hoofs clattered on cobbles. As they left the city gates and city smells behind, Tamberly caught her breath. Sunlight torrented from the east. Downhill the land tumbled away in heights and hollows, brightness and shadow, valley where streams threaded with silver a patchwork quilt of fields, orchards, vineyards. Villages nestled white. She glimpsed two distant castles. Above and beyond the farms, wild brown pasture mingled with remnants of forest, among whose greens lay the first faint tints of autumn. Birds winged and cried multitudinous overhead. The air was cool but rapidly warming, overwhelmingly pure.

“How beautiful,” Tamberly said. “We have nothing like this in our flat Flanders.” We do in my California.

“I will show you a glen where a waterfall sings and little fishes play beneath like shooting stars,” Lorenzo replied. “The trees are pillars and arches whereunder you will think you spy wood nymphs aflit. Who knows? Perhaps they linger in that place.”

Tamberly recalled Everard remarking that people in the Dark Ages had little appreciation of nature. By the high Middle Ages, it was tamed enough for them to enjoy. Maybe Lorenzo was a bit ahead of his time…. Everard—She thrust guilt from her. Tension, too. Be Zen. Take this pleasure you’ve got around you while it lasts. Let the duty lying ahead do no more than sharpen it After all, what a challenge!

Lorenzo whooped. He touched heels to his mount and started off at a reckless canter. Tamberly kept up. She was a pretty good rider herself. Soon they must have mercy on the servants bouncing behind and slow down. They looked at each other and laughed.

Time went, along winding trails, in rhythms of muscle and deep-drawn breath, creak and jingle, tang from leather and sweat and woodland, vistas intimate or enormous, brief words and, from him, longer snatches of song. “In green and in joy did we lie. ‘Tilirra!’ the nightingale—”

She judged that about two hours had passed when he reined in. The forest path they were following passed a meadow where a brook tinkled. “Here shall we take our repast,” he said.

Tamberly’s pulse briefly wavered. “But it’s early yet.”

“I meant not to ride us saddlesore. Rather, I would fain give you close memories of our land to take home.”

With a conscious effort, Tamberly fluttered her lashes. “As my guide wishes. You have never chosen ill, sir.”

“If I do well, it is because the company inspires me.” He swung from his seat and reached a hand to help her dismount. The clasp lingered. “Marco, Bianca,” he directed, “prepare things, but you may take your ease about it. I mean first to show my lady the Apollo bower. She may well desire to stay a while.”

“Master commands,” the man sáid impassively. The woman bobbed and couldn’t quite suppress a giggle. Yes, they knew what Sir Lorenzo intended, and that they’d better keep mouths shut afterward.

He offered Tamberly his arm. They strolled away. She put hesitancy into her tone. “The bower of Apollo, sir? Isn’t that … heathen?”

“Oh, no doubt it was sacred to some god in olden times, and if that wasn’t Apollo it should have been,” her companion replied. “Thus young folk name it these days, for the sun and life, beauty and happiness there. We, though, should have it to ourselves. Surely the next who come will find a new magic.”

He continued stringing out his line as they walked. She’d heard much worse. He also had the wit to fall silent now and then, letting her savor the unquestionable charm of the path. Narrow, so that they must go close together, it followed the streambed uphill. Trunks soared to a ceiling of yellow and gold. Sunbeams flecked shade. This late in the year, birdsong was ended, but she heard calls, while squirrels darted fiery and once a deer bolted. The morning grew steadily warmer; the trail steepened. He helped her doff her mantle and folded it over his left arm.

A clear, rushing sound grew louder. They came into another opening. Tamberly clapped palms together and cried out in genuine delight. Beyond, the water tumbled and sparkled down a bluff. Woods ringed and partly roofed the glade through which it ran onward. Turf on either side remained green and soft, richly edged with moss. “Well,” Lorenzo asked, “have I redeemed my promise?”

“A thousand times over.”

“To hear you say that pleases me more than a battlefield victory. Come, drink if you are thirsty, sit down”—Lorenzo spread her cloak on the ground—“and we will thank God for His bounty by taking our pleasure in it.”

I think he means that, flitted through her. He does have his very serious side; yes, real depths in him, which it would be … interesting to explore. She chuckled inwardly, dryly. However, the observance he has in mind today is not religious, and that cloth isn’t laid for purposes of sitting on.

Tension seized her. This is the time!

Lorenzo gave her a close regard. “My lady, are you faint? You’ve turned pale.” He took her hand. “Rest yourself. We need not go back for hours.”

Tamberly shook her head. “No, I thank you, I am quite well.” She realized she was muttering and raised her voice. “Bear with me a moment. I’ve vowed a daily devotion to my patron saint while on this journey.” Sending a slow look his way: “If I perform it not at once, I fear I might forget later.”

“Why, of course.” He stood aside and took his plumed cap off.

For this occasion she had been wearing her communicator out in the open. She raised the disc to her lips and thumbed the switch. “Wanda here,” she said in American English; Temporal sounded too alien. She heard her heartbeat louder than the words. “I think the situation is set up, just about how we hoped. He and I are alone in the hills and, well, if he isn’t pawing the ground it’s because his tactics are smoother than that. Get a fix on my location and give me, m-m, let’s say fifteen minutes for things to get lively. Okay?” Not that Everard could respond without derailing the plan. “Out.” She switched off, lowered the medallion, bowed her head, crossed herself. “Amen.”

Lorenzo made the sign likewise. “Was that your native tongue wherein you prayed?” he asked.

Tamberly nodded. “The dialect of my childhood. It feels more, more comfortable thus. Mine is a motherly saint.” She laughed. “I feel purified enough to be ready for mischief.”

He frowned. “Beware. That edges the Catharist heresy.”

“I did but jest, my lord.”

He put his doctrines aside and smiled like the sunshine on the water. “Yon’s an unusual badge. Has it a relic inside? May I see?”

Taking consent for granted, he laid hold of the chain, his fingers brushing across her breasts, and lifted it over her head. The case bore in low relief a cross on one side, a crozier and flask on the other. “Exquisite work,” he murmured. “Almost worthy of the wearer.” He hung it from a nearby twig.

Unease touched her. “If you please, sir.” She moved to retrieve the thing.

He moved into her way. “You don’t want it back immediately, do you?” he purred. “No, you’re overdressed for this air, I see perspiration on that white skin; let me help you to freshness.”

His palms cradled her cheeks, slid along them, displaced the cloth that covered her head. “What gold blazes forth,” he breathed, and drew her to him.

“My lord,” she gasped as a proper woman ought, “what is this? Bethink you—” She kept back the martial arts, and strained only slightly against his strength. His body was hard and supple. The musk on his breath, the springiness of mustache and beard, made awareness whirl. He knew how to kiss, he did.

“No,” she protested weakly when his mouth strayed down her throat, “this is wrong, it’s mortal sin. Let me go, I pray you.”

“It is right, natural, my fate and yours,” he insisted. “Walburga, Walburga, your beauty has raised me to the gates of Heaven. Cast me not thence into hell.”

“But I, I must depart erelong—”

“Cherishing forever the same memories that shall bear me onward through the crusade and the rest of my days on earth. Deny not Cupid, here in his own abode.”

How often has he said the same? He’s practiced in it, all right. Does he mean it? Well, a little, I suppose. And, and I’ve got to keep him on the hook till Manse arrives with the gaff. Whatever that takes. I thought fifteen minutes was safe, but golly, this is like shooting rapids.

Before long—though time was a tumult—she didn’t beg him to stop. She did try to keep his hands from going quite everywhere. That effort faded fast. Suddenly she noticed they were down on the cloak and he was ruffling her skirts past her knees and well, if this is how it is, I could make a lot worse sacrifices for the cause.

Air banged. “Sinner, beware!” roared Everard. “Hell gapes for you!”

Lorenzo rolled clear of Tamberly and bounded to his feet. Her first, confused thought was, Oh, damn. She sat up, too shaky and pulse-pounding to rise immediately.

Everard brought his timecycle to earth, got off, and loomed. A white robe covered his burliness. Great wings rose iridescent-feathered from his shoulders. Radiance framed his head. He was almighty homely for an angel, she confessed; but maybe that gave a convincing force to the illusions that a Patrol photon twister generated.

The crucifix in his right hand was solid. Within it, she knew, was embedded a stun gun. He’d told her he probably wouldn’t need the weapon. Their badger game ought to work. He and Keith Denison had pulled a similar stunt in ancient Iran, and thereby straightened out a lesser historical mess than this.

“Lorenzo de Conti, most wicked among men,” he intoned in Umbrian, “would you besmirch the honor of your guests on the very eve of your wedding to a pure and trusting maiden? Know that you damn far more than your wretched self.”

The knight lurched back, aghast. “I meant no harm!” he wailed. “The woman tempted me!”

Tamberly decided that disappointment was an inappropriate reaction.

Lorenzo forced his gaze to Everard’s countenance. He had never seen it before, though the Patrolman knew his well, from a time line annulled. He doubled his fists, squared his shoulders, drew a sobbing breath. “No,” he said. “I spoke falsely. The fault is none of hers. I lured her here intending sin. Let the punishment be mine alone.”

Tears stung Tamberly’s eyes. I’m twice as glad we’re letting him live.

“Well spoken,” Everard declared, poker-faced. “It shall be remembered when judgment is passed.”

Lorenzo wet his lips. “But, but why us—me?” he croaked. “The thing must happen a thousand times daily around the world. Why does Heaven care so much? Is she—is she a saint?”

“That is a question for God,” Everard answered.

“You, Lorenzo, have transgressed greatly because His intentions for you were great. The Holy Land is falling to the paynim and in danger of being altogether lost because those Christians who have held it under Him have fallen from righteousness, until their presence profanes the sacred shrines. How can a sinner redeem them?”

The knight staggered where he stood. “Do you mean that I—”

“You are called to the crusade. You could have waited, preparing your soul within the peace of matrimony, until the German king marches. Now your penance is that you renounce this bridal and go to him at once.”

“Oh, no—”

A terrible disruption and fuss, especially if he dares not explain why to anybody but his priest. Poor, spurned Il-aria. Poor old Cencio. I wish we could’ve done this different. Tamberly had proposed taking Lorenzo back in time and making him decline the proffered marriage at the outset. Everard had responded, “Don’t you understand yet how precarious the balance of events is? You’ve talked me into the biggest gamble I can possibly square with my conscience.”

To Lorenzo: “You have your orders, soldier. Obey them, and thank God for His mercy.”

The man stood still an instant. Something cold stirred along Tamberly’s nerves. He was a child of his era, but tough and smart and not naive about human things. “On your knees!” she urged, and rose to hers, hands clasped before her.

“Yes. Yes.” He stumbled toward the angelic form. “God show me what is right. Christ strengthen my will and my sword arm.”

He knelt before Everard, clasped the Patrolman’s legs, laid his head against the shining robe.

“Enough,” said Everard awkwardly. “Go and sin no more.”

Lorenzo released him, lifted his arms as if to implore. Then in an instant he brought his left hand down, a vicious chop, across Everard’s right knuckles. The crucifix spun free of that grasp. Lorenzo well-nigh flew erect, leaped back. His blade hissed from the sheath. Sunlight burned along the steel.

“Angel?” he shouted. “Or demon?”

“What the hell?” Everard moved to regain his stunner.

Lorenzo pounced, blocked the way. “Hold where you are, or I hew,” rattled from him. “Say forth … your true nature … and be gone to your rightful place.”

Everard braced himself. “Dare you defy Heaven’s messenger?”

“No. If that is what you are. God help me, I must know.”

It whirled through Tamberly: He’s alerted. How? I do recall, yes, Manse said there are stories about devils disguising themselves to entrap people, yes, even taking on the appearance of Jesus. If Lorenzo got a suspicion—

“Merely behold me,” Everard said.

“I have felt you,” Lorenzo snarled.

Uh-huh, Tamberly realized. Angels aren’t supposed to have genitals, are they? Oh, we’re dealing with somebody brilliant as well as fearless. No wonder the whole future turns on him.

She went to all fours. The stunner lay about ten feet from her. If Everard could hold Lorenzo’s attention while she sneaked across to it, maybe they could still save their plan.

“Why should Satan want you to go on crusade?” the Patrolman argued.

“Lest I be of service here? If Roger the wolf decides to rob us of more than Sicily?” Lorenzo looked skyward. “Lord,” he appealed, “am I in error? Grant me a sign.”

Manse can’t so much as flap those wings.

Everard darted for his vehicle. On it he’d be in control of everything. Lorenzo yelled, sprang at him, slashed. Everard barely dodged. Blood welled over the torn robe, from a cut deep in his right shoulder and down the chest.

“There’s my sign!” Lorenzo howled. “No demon, you, nor angel. Die, wizard!”

His rush sent Everard in retreat from the cycle, with not a second free to take out his communicator and summon help. Tamberly scrambled for the stunner. She laid hands around it, jumped to her feet, found that she didn’t know how to work it in its disguise.

“You too?” screamed Lorenzo. “Witch!”

He bounded at her. The sword flamed on high. Fury writhed inhuman over the face.

Everard attacked. His right arm lamed, he had only time before the blade fell to hit with his left fist. The blow smote under the angle of the jaw, all his muscle and desperation behind it. A crack resounded.

The sword arced loose, glittering like water flung down the fall. Lorenzo went a yard, bonelessly tossed, before he crashed.

“Are you okay, Wanda?” jerked out of Everard’s throat.

“Yes, I, I’m not hurt, but—him?”

They went to see. Lorenzo lay crumpled, unstirring, eyes wide to the sky. The mouth hung horribly open, tongue protruding above a displaced chin. His head was cocked at a nasty angle.

Everard hunkered down, examined him, rose. “Dead,” he told her slowly. “Broken neck. I didn’t intend that. But he’d’ve killed you.”

“And you. Oh, Manse.” She laid her head on his bloody breast. His left arm embraced her.

After a while he said, “I’ve got to return to base and have them patch me up before I pass out.”

“Can you … take him along?”

“And get him revived and repaired? No. Too dangerous in every way. This surprise we’ve had—it should never have happened. Hardly made sense, did it? But … the tide was carrying him … trying to preserve its twisted future—Let’s hope we’ve broken the spell at last.”

He moved unsteadily toward the cycle. His words came ever more harsh and faint, through lips turning grayish. “If it’ll help you any, Wanda—I didn’t tell you before, but in … the Frederick world … when he went crusading, he died of sickness. I suspect … he would’ve … again. Fever, vomiting, diarrhea, helplessness. He deserved this way, no?”

Everard let Tamberly assist him into the saddle. A little strength returned to his voice. “You’ve got to play the game out. Run back screaming. Tell how you were set upon by robbers. The blood—He’ll’ve wounded one or two. Since you escaped, they decided they’d better scram. People will honor his memory in Anagni. He died like a knight, defending a lady.”

“Uh-huh.” And Bartolommeo will press his suit, and before long marry the hero’s sorrowing bride. “Just a minute.” She scampered to the sword, brought it back, rubbed it over his red-drenched garment. “Bandit blood.”

He smiled a bit. “Bright girl,” he whispered.

“On your way, boy. Quick.” She gave him a hasty kiss and moved backward. Vehicle and man vanished.

She stood alone with the corpse and the sun, the sword yet in her clasp. I’m sort of gory myself, she thought in a remote fashion. Setting her teeth, she made a pair of superficial cuts above her left ribs. Nobody would examine or question her closely. Detective methods belonged to the distant morrow, her tomorrow, if it existed. In Cencio’s house grief would overwhelm thought, until pride brought its stern consolations.

She knelt, closed Lorenzo’s fingers around the hilt, wanted to shut the eyes but decided better not. “Goodbye,” she said under her breath. “If there is a God, I hope He makes this up to you.”

Rising, she started back toward the meadow and the tasks that still awaited her.