They were there, all of them: the young lord, Ava, Pepin, Otker, Gerold, and that wriggling pile of the lame. The abbess had been right. If we stayed here, we would all be killed. Even these would not escape that fate. “Young Lord!” I held my breath as he turned toward me, hoping against hope he might be free of his tormenting demons. Stretching forth his hand, he approached me. Solicitous, eager, with every mark of the nobleman about him. “Sister Juliana?” I seized his hand. “You must help me.” “Of course, I shall help you.” “We must get all these here into—” Where? Where could we possibly find safety in an abbey filled with wooden buildings? My eyes lifted to the highest point in the place. To the roof of the church from which the spire projected. I remembered then that not all of this place was wood. It would not all burn.
