standing up and brushing grass from her skirt. “Max. Here, Max.”
The little dog trotted up, the stick still hopefully clasped between his jaws.
They made their way across the street and back up the hill. The houses were dark and narrow around and above them, blocking out the sun. Walking uphill always troubled Anne. Her hips felt more out of balance than usual.
“I’m so disappointed that I didn’t see the King,” Mary said.
“You might see him another time,” Deborah said.
“I should like it if the King loved me,” Mary continued, a sly smile on her face.
“He’s too young for you,” Deborah replied coolly, refusing to be baited.
“If we had an angel who could grant wishes, I would ask him to make the King love me and —”
“Don’t!” Anne shouted, stopping in her tracks and turning on her sister. “I asked y-y-y—”
Mary looked horrified. Clearly she hadn’t expected such a violent response. “I’m sorry, Anne, I’m only making a joke.”
“D-don’t.” Already her tongue was letting her down. She wanted to say so much more.
Sister, if you love me, don’t mention this again, for it terrifies me all the way down in the pit of my soul.
But all she could say was, “Don’t.”
Mary fell silent. Deborah took Anne’s arm. “Here sister, let me help you up the hill.”
“I c-can manage,” she said, trying to shrug off her sister’s help. Deborah, who always seemed to be able to sense Anne’s needs, steadfastly held on, supporting her the last few steps to the house. Once inside, Mary mumbled an excuse about finding food for Max, and Father called for Deborah, so Anne found herself ascending the steep staircase to their room alone.
She sat on the floor near the dresser and opened the lowest drawer, carefully pulling out folded scarves and ribbons, making her way to the bottom where her first prayer book was kept. The book seemed so small now, but when she had it from her mother it had seemed enormous, the largest book she had ever owned. She opened the cover and found the woodcut portrait of Jesus on the first page. Her fingers traced the beloved lineaments of his face, his loving eyes, his forgiving smile, and she felt the familiar pull between peace and yearning. If she met him, he would heal her. She knew this for a certainty, and for this reason had been in love with him since first learning of his sacrifice and his forgiveness and his unbounded love.
Anne held the prayer book to her nose, hoping to smell the lingering fragrance of Mother in its yellowed pages. Nothing but dust and years. She flipped it open and found between its central pages a folded piece of paper. It was safe here: Deborah wouldn’t dream of touching Anne’s possessions, and Mary would have no interest in a prayer book. Anne carefully removed the letter and smoothed it out, glanced over the lines her mother had written.
Dearest Anne,
To summon Lazodeus, who will watch and protect you …
She didn’t need to read the words; the summoning was imprinted forever in her brain, as much as she hoped to forget it. Her eyes scanned down to the bottom of the page, where the name of the wise woman was written carefully in letters made large enough for childish eyes.
Amelia Lewis, Leadenhall Street 251.
Perhaps she was no longer there. Nearly fifteen years had passed. Perhaps Amelia Lewis was dead by now.
Anne refolded the paper. If it wasn’t such a dear reminder of her mother, she would have thrown it away. But here it was: a letter addressed solely to her, not a trifle to share with her sisters. It was far too valuable to consign to the fire.
She hid it inside the prayer book, and buried the book below layers of clothes. Safely away from Mary’s inquisitive eyes.
Routine made its mark upon their lives as the first and second weeks passed. Deborah would arise early and sit with her father, writing his letters and reading to him from the Hebrew bible; Anne would help Liza with the washing or daydream on a
The little dog trotted up, the stick still hopefully clasped between his jaws.
They made their way across the street and back up the hill. The houses were dark and narrow around and above them, blocking out the sun. Walking uphill always troubled Anne. Her hips felt more out of balance than usual.
“I’m so disappointed that I didn’t see the King,” Mary said.
“You might see him another time,” Deborah said.
“I should like it if the King loved me,” Mary continued, a sly smile on her face.
“He’s too young for you,” Deborah replied coolly, refusing to be baited.
“If we had an angel who could grant wishes, I would ask him to make the King love me and —”
“Don’t!” Anne shouted, stopping in her tracks and turning on her sister. “I asked y-y-y—”
Mary looked horrified. Clearly she hadn’t expected such a violent response. “I’m sorry, Anne, I’m only making a joke.”
“D-don’t.” Already her tongue was letting her down. She wanted to say so much more.
Sister, if you love me, don’t mention this again, for it terrifies me all the way down in the pit of my soul.
But all she could say was, “Don’t.”
Mary fell silent. Deborah took Anne’s arm. “Here sister, let me help you up the hill.”
“I c-can manage,” she said, trying to shrug off her sister’s help. Deborah, who always seemed to be able to sense Anne’s needs, steadfastly held on, supporting her the last few steps to the house. Once inside, Mary mumbled an excuse about finding food for Max, and Father called for Deborah, so Anne found herself ascending the steep staircase to their room alone.
She sat on the floor near the dresser and opened the lowest drawer, carefully pulling out folded scarves and ribbons, making her way to the bottom where her first prayer book was kept. The book seemed so small now, but when she had it from her mother it had seemed enormous, the largest book she had ever owned. She opened the cover and found the woodcut portrait of Jesus on the first page. Her fingers traced the beloved lineaments of his face, his loving eyes, his forgiving smile, and she felt the familiar pull between peace and yearning. If she met him, he would heal her. She knew this for a certainty, and for this reason had been in love with him since first learning of his sacrifice and his forgiveness and his unbounded love.
Anne held the prayer book to her nose, hoping to smell the lingering fragrance of Mother in its yellowed pages. Nothing but dust and years. She flipped it open and found between its central pages a folded piece of paper. It was safe here: Deborah wouldn’t dream of touching Anne’s possessions, and Mary would have no interest in a prayer book. Anne carefully removed the letter and smoothed it out, glanced over the lines her mother had written.
Dearest Anne,
To summon Lazodeus, who will watch and protect you …
She didn’t need to read the words; the summoning was imprinted forever in her brain, as much as she hoped to forget it. Her eyes scanned down to the bottom of the page, where the name of the wise woman was written carefully in letters made large enough for childish eyes.
Amelia Lewis, Leadenhall Street 251.
Perhaps she was no longer there. Nearly fifteen years had passed. Perhaps Amelia Lewis was dead by now.
Anne refolded the paper. If it wasn’t such a dear reminder of her mother, she would have thrown it away. But here it was: a letter addressed solely to her, not a trifle to share with her sisters. It was far too valuable to consign to the fire.
She hid it inside the prayer book, and buried the book below layers of clothes. Safely away from Mary’s inquisitive eyes.
Routine made its mark upon their lives as the first and second weeks passed. Deborah would arise early and sit with her father, writing his letters and reading to him from the Hebrew bible; Anne would help Liza with the washing or daydream on a
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