Dark and Deepest Red(58)

“Oh, Lavinia,” the priest says, his eyes rimmed red from the salt of tears. “You live in a place that has fallen so deeply into madness, they think dancing is their greatest folly.”

He says it with such apology, as though a gift he wished to give her has broken in his palms.

Lala draws him back into the shadows, so no one, not even Geruscha and Henne, will hear.

“I want to save him,” she says. “And I think I might have a way to try, but I will need you in order to do it, even though you will never bless the means.”

A light comes back to the priest’s face. Not a smile. Nowhere near. But hope.

“Let us see about that,” he says in a low voice, “shall we?”

So Lala speaks the words. She speaks them in the Lord’s dwelling, expecting at any moment to either burst into flames or for the priest to order her to confession.

The priest only lifts his chin, considering, and then nods.

His nod feels as though it carries the thunder of angels.

He glances toward Geruscha and Henne. “Tell them,” he says.

“No,” Lala says.

“They will want to help you,” the priest says, firmer this time.

She lowers her speech to a whisper. “I can’t.”

But Geruscha and Henne have already risen from their knees.

The priest motions between them, as though to say to Lala, Well?

Lala’s voice feels choked with the memory of them appearing in the lane four years ago.

Their glances flit between each other, not settling. It is so quiet their breaths echo.

The silence wears down Lala first. Her tongue loosens with a bitter “Why do you care what happens to him? Why have you ever cared what happened to me, or him, or my aunt?”

She regrets it instantly.

She waits for the pain or anger in their faces.

“I love her,” Henne says, so calmly that for a moment Lala does not know who she speaks of.

Then Geruscha lowers her gaze to her feet.

“As well you should,” Lala says, trying not to sound impatient. “She is your friend, isn’t she?” Geruscha and Henne have been the best of friends for years. It would be a great pity if there was no love between them.

“No,” Henne says, her voice deeper, heavier now. “I love her.”

Her emphasis on the word love is so great Lala feels the weight of it in her hands.

Now Geruscha’s cheeks flush, so brightly it is visible even in the dim light of the church.

The meaning blooms in Lala.

Four years of understanding blooms in her.

The reason they placed Lala and her aunt as Romnia, and still offered her friendship so fervently.

The reason they have cared so deeply about Lala, and now about Alifair.

Lala and Alifair are not the only ones who have feared Li livres de jostice et de plet, who have lived with the threat of it like a knife at their backs.

If the friar knew, he would surely declare Geruscha and Henne to have violated the natural law of God.

Lala’s eyes flash to the priest, and then back to Henne. Does she realize what she has said in front of him?

But the priest’s face shows neither shock nor judgment.

Lala’s heart feels heavy as a river stone.

How many have known about her and Tante, about Alifair, and loved them still? What friendship has her fear made her disregard?

It breaks Lala open.

She tells them her last desperate plan. It seems to spill from her lips all in one moment.

Henne and Geruscha agree before Lala has even gotten all the words out.

Then, there is everyone else.

Alifair has never made a spectacle of his kindness, so it falls to Lala to remember who has shown him gratitude. The brother and sister to whom he has given bread. The exhausted mother whose children he has kept entertained with stories of fairies from the Schwarzwald, so she can nurse her baby and steal a little rest. The homesick families comforted by songs from his Blockfl?te.

Some, like Geruscha and Henne, say yes before Lala can finish her plea.

Others fear Lala, thinking she is a witch or worrying they will be thought one if seen with her. They withdraw into their doorways, clutching sprigs of angelica.

To them, she promises that, should they help, they will never set eyes on her again. She will never near their threshold as long as they and their children live.

That, it seems, is all they need to hear.

Strasbourg considers the burning of an innocent man to be a kind of show.

If there is to be any chance of saving him, Lala will have to give them a better one.





Rosella


On a first-grade field trip, Mrs. Woodlock told our class her version of Cinderella, the one that involved the stepsisters cutting off portions of their feet to fit the enchanted slipper. Five girls burst into tears, one after the other, and as they wailed Emil’s mother looked over at him as though asking her son for some explanation of these tiny, fragile women who sat in front of her.

But when those girls cried, I laughed.

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think the stepsisters’ blood inside the glass slipper was funny. And I tried to press a hand over my mouth, the way I’d seen my mother do in church when the oldest members of the choir fell asleep.

My laughing would not stop. It flew out of me like wings.

Emil’s eyes had flashed over to me, the hint of a surprised smile on his always-serious face, as though he thought I was fearless, and brazen.