now he had remembered. “And will you go to the Gloria on that day?” he asked.
“I doubt it. I haven’t been to one in years.”
“You haven’t told me yet. Where are you living? What have you been doing? Why are you in Laban?”
“I came to Laban for the festival,” I said.
He almost smiled. “Why are you in this part of Samaria,” he said, speaking deliberately, “and under what conditions do you live?”
“I’m living at a large farm about forty miles from here—a big complex run by a wealthy landowner. About fifty people live there, and every one of us is needed to keep the place running. I mostly work in the kitchen, but at harvest, sometimes all of us are in the fields.”
“I can’t say this is a setting I would ever have expected to find you in.”
Now I smiled. “No, nor the kind of place I would have expected to come to rest,” I said. “But I find I like the work. I like the rhythms of the seasons. I like the thought that my labor contributes to something tangible and meaningful. Something that sustains life.”
It sounded embarrassingly naïve and melodramatic, but Stephen was only nodding. “Yes—I can understand that—it is easier sometimes to get through the days if you are convinced they have a purpose. How long have you been there?”
“Ten years.”
“And how long do you propose to stay?”
I had long ago perfected the art of watching someone very closely without seeming to be paying much attention at all. “As long as Sheba needs me to provide a home for her.”
“Who’s Sheba?”
“My niece. Ann’s daughter. She’s seventeen.”
His brows dipped in a slight frown. “Why are you raising her?”
“Ann died fourteen years ago of a lung infection, and there was no one else to take Sheba.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, but the response was one of those automatic expressions of sympathy; he didn’t seem remotely moved. “Did you reconcile with your sister before she died?”
I gave a short laugh. “No. In fact, I would say our relationship deteriorated after Sheba was born.”
“Was there a reason?”
“Well,” I said, my voice almost breezy, “she told me that the man who had fathered her child was you.”
He simply stared at me.
I elaborated. “She said that when you came looking for me, you were satisfied to find her instead. She said you stayed with her a week, promising when you left to return often—but you never kept that promise. She said she wrote to tell you of the baby’s birth, but you never replied.”
“None of that is true,” he said, finally finding his voice. “Not a word of it.”
I could feel my spirits soaring, for what seemed the first time in seventeen years. I had never known Stephen to lie, whereas Ann had lied all the time. But I had believed her about Stephen. He had left behind a bracelet, patterned with the Windy Point jewels, an item that I had seen on his wrist a hundred times. He had obviously been to her house. Why wouldn’t he have slept with her?
“I told her that angels never cared about their mortal offspring,” I went on. “I told her that she now knew what it was like to live an angel-seeker’s life, and that she should be glad she learned her lesson in a few months, instead of years.”
“I never went to bed with her,” he said, his voice insistent. “I was in her house perhaps two hours before I left again. I never came back because I had no reason to believe that you would ever be at that house again.”
“I thought she was telling the truth,” I said simply.
He came a step nearer, though he was already quite close. “And all this time, that’s what you have thought of me?” he demanded. “That I would betray you with your sister—a woman I knew that you despised?”
“I had betrayed you with a man you have come to hate,” I said. “I suppose it seemed like justice.”
“I have never believed in a justice so severe,” he said, sounding almost angry. “You did not
“I doubt it. I haven’t been to one in years.”
“You haven’t told me yet. Where are you living? What have you been doing? Why are you in Laban?”
“I came to Laban for the festival,” I said.
He almost smiled. “Why are you in this part of Samaria,” he said, speaking deliberately, “and under what conditions do you live?”
“I’m living at a large farm about forty miles from here—a big complex run by a wealthy landowner. About fifty people live there, and every one of us is needed to keep the place running. I mostly work in the kitchen, but at harvest, sometimes all of us are in the fields.”
“I can’t say this is a setting I would ever have expected to find you in.”
Now I smiled. “No, nor the kind of place I would have expected to come to rest,” I said. “But I find I like the work. I like the rhythms of the seasons. I like the thought that my labor contributes to something tangible and meaningful. Something that sustains life.”
It sounded embarrassingly naïve and melodramatic, but Stephen was only nodding. “Yes—I can understand that—it is easier sometimes to get through the days if you are convinced they have a purpose. How long have you been there?”
“Ten years.”
“And how long do you propose to stay?”
I had long ago perfected the art of watching someone very closely without seeming to be paying much attention at all. “As long as Sheba needs me to provide a home for her.”
“Who’s Sheba?”
“My niece. Ann’s daughter. She’s seventeen.”
His brows dipped in a slight frown. “Why are you raising her?”
“Ann died fourteen years ago of a lung infection, and there was no one else to take Sheba.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, but the response was one of those automatic expressions of sympathy; he didn’t seem remotely moved. “Did you reconcile with your sister before she died?”
I gave a short laugh. “No. In fact, I would say our relationship deteriorated after Sheba was born.”
“Was there a reason?”
“Well,” I said, my voice almost breezy, “she told me that the man who had fathered her child was you.”
He simply stared at me.
I elaborated. “She said that when you came looking for me, you were satisfied to find her instead. She said you stayed with her a week, promising when you left to return often—but you never kept that promise. She said she wrote to tell you of the baby’s birth, but you never replied.”
“None of that is true,” he said, finally finding his voice. “Not a word of it.”
I could feel my spirits soaring, for what seemed the first time in seventeen years. I had never known Stephen to lie, whereas Ann had lied all the time. But I had believed her about Stephen. He had left behind a bracelet, patterned with the Windy Point jewels, an item that I had seen on his wrist a hundred times. He had obviously been to her house. Why wouldn’t he have slept with her?
“I told her that angels never cared about their mortal offspring,” I went on. “I told her that she now knew what it was like to live an angel-seeker’s life, and that she should be glad she learned her lesson in a few months, instead of years.”
“I never went to bed with her,” he said, his voice insistent. “I was in her house perhaps two hours before I left again. I never came back because I had no reason to believe that you would ever be at that house again.”
“I thought she was telling the truth,” I said simply.
He came a step nearer, though he was already quite close. “And all this time, that’s what you have thought of me?” he demanded. “That I would betray you with your sister—a woman I knew that you despised?”
“I had betrayed you with a man you have come to hate,” I said. “I suppose it seemed like justice.”
“I have never believed in a justice so severe,” he said, sounding almost angry. “You did not
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