The day had arrived. In silence, Lydia and Isabelle walked to Mass. Whether Isabelle was happy or sad, Lydia could not tell. As for herself, she felt numb. By Brewer Arlette’s grace she would be allowed to continue to work and live in the candle shop until they found a buyer or a renter. Every night she prayed, no one would make an offer or a lease. This morning they went to their usual places in worship. Tomorrow, after today’s reading of the bans, they would sit with Brewer Arlette and his girls. The girls were with him this morning. They were small for their age with large dark eyes. Their eyes darted to and fro, resting upon occasion upon Isabelle. They had been to the shop with their papa a couple of times over the last week. They spoke very little and were pointedly polite when Isabelle spoke to them. Beneath their delicate exteriors, Lydia suspected that they possessed lioness strength. It would not be an easy adjustment period. Another negative was that they sneezed around cats. So, Ashes would live with Lydia and Patch in the outbuilding that was scarcely more than a glorified shed.

Marguerite was in worship with Tobias and Peronelle. Since her miscarriage she attended every Mass. Moder had done the same. Why would a woman think that keeping a seat warm in church would prove faithfulness and sway God? And the prayers? What desperate prayer was Marguerite pleading in her quest to birth a healthy child? Peronelle sat between her parents, content to just be in their presence. Why could one child not be enough?

For whatever reason, Jon Paul was not present this morning. It was probably best, at least this is what Lydia told herself. Why was it best? She did not know, but she had to tell herself something or else she would hear the echo of Na Simeon’s words, "And what of Jon Paul? Has he not offered a solution for your future.” Would he offer her a future once he learned of the this marriage? If so, what would she say? What would she do?” She refused to allow herself to even think of the possibility he might not speak to her at all, might not want her at all. The fear that he might too have lost interest in her the way Antone had, hovered just below the surface of her thoughts.

The next thing Lydia was aware of was that they were standing outside. She had absolutely no memory of the closing prayer or even taking the Eucharist. Brewer Arlette and his girls were beside Isabelle.

Friar Judas read the Banns. “Donovan Arlette will take Isabelle Beauxchampe a week from this day to be his wedded wife.”

A week! Isabelle had not said it was THAT soon. Just a week? What was the rush. Only seven days? Lydia looked at Isabelle, her face was emotionless. What ever she was thinking or feeling was buried deep within her. Congratulations were bestowed upon the couple. Brewer Arlette received them with great joy. Isabelle received them with polite courtesy. The girls eyed, their soon to be stepmother with suspicion. This could turn out to be a fine mess.

*

That afternoon Isabelle was with her soon to be husband, while Lydia tended the shop. No customers had come in all afternoon. Did they think that because Isabelle was getting married she had immediately gone out of business? Lydia prayed this was not the case. A sob hung in her throat. She refused to release it. Perhaps Na Simeon was mistaken. Perhaps no one would buy her candles ever again. Then what? A midwife? Could she truly be a midwife? Time would tell. A bit of her had actually expected Jon Paul to show up and claim her as soon as he heard the news. Only he had not. At least not yet. Perhaps never. Did she want to be claimed? In the secret place of her heart, she did very much. To distract herself, she let the cats into the work kitchen for company and got to work tidying it up. She found an errant ball of string beneath a shelf. Would she get to clothe the entirety of that string in wax or tallow before this shop passed to other hands?

Later, after Lydia closed the shop for the day, she refused to retire to her room for the cry that had been threatening all day. She was not ready to cry. She did not want to give into it. Instead, she locked the shop and went for a walk. Her pace was so brisk, she paid absolutely no attention to her surroundings. Due to her frame of mind and her lack of attentive navigation, she found herself in a part of Dijon she had never been in before. It was the Jewish settlement. Men and women dressed like Rabbi Rashbam and his wife walked the streets. Everyone wore a yellow star sewn to their clothes. A chill went through her. This star marked all of them, even the children as set a part, as people threatened with expulsion from their homes and everything they knew. Their future lay in the fickle hands of King Philip the Fair.

From the open door of what looked like a shop, came the voice of a man chanting a Hebrew prayer. The cadence of the prayer, drew Lydia into its rhythm. She went to the open door and peeked inside.

The building was a makeshift house of Worship. The Menorah stood on a table near the front of the room. Five benches were on either side. Light from an open window slashed through the dim interior illuminating a portrait of the Lion of Judah. The strong face of the lion and its mane caused Lydia’s heart beat to speed up. Was this, could this be another example of Beatrice’s work? Heedless of the man praying, Lydia went to the painting for a closer look. Her hand reached up and touched the mane. The brush strokes had to be Beatrice’s. The gaze of those tawny eyes was so similiar to the eyes of Christ on Sister Timothy's wall. Finding this portrait now had to be a good omen.

A voice behind her asked, “May I help you?”

Unable to take her eyes off the painting, she asked a question she did not expect to get an honest answer to, “Who painted this?”

The man said, “A friend.”

Of course, he did not identify the painter as female. Lydia did not press further. It was best that Beatrice’s identity be hidden. Lydia turned to him. He had gray flecked hair and kind eyes. His clothes were made of fine dark wool but marred with the star that identified him as a Jew. She said, “Your friend is an amazing artist.”

“Oui. The best I have ever known.”

Two men, entered the room. The man said, "Good evening Brethren."

Lydia surmised they must be there for some kind of meeting. She said, “It is getting late. I best be going.”

“Of course.” He bowed to her and turned his attention to the men.

Out on the street it was getting dark fast. She would never get home before last light.

At a pace quicker than the one that had carried her to the Jewish Settlement, she made her way swiftly back to the shop. When she arrived, it was indeed dark, but the shop candles were lit. Isabelle must be doing the books. Inside, Isabelle was doing just that. She looked up and said, “Lydia, have you been out alone again? You know it it’s not safe.”

“I am sorry. I lost track of time.”

Isabelle shook her head, "As is your habit."

To change the subject and avoid any more scolding Lydia asked, “How was your day?”

A faint smile came to Isabelle’s lips. Apparently, she had had a good day. She said, “The farm is lovely. I grew up on a farm and to have so much space felt divine. The house is very nice and it is large. I have never lived in such a place before. The girls, thank God, have a nursemaid. They have definitely taken a disliking to me and I must admit the feeling is mutual. It is a concern, but perhaps in time I will win them over or accept defeat as a stepmother.” She gave Lydia a rueful smile and asked, “So how was your day?”

"Very quiet. Not a single customer. I got some wicks cut and some others trimmed. I cleaned up the work kitchen with the company of Ashes and the help of Patch.”

There was a knock on the shop door. Lydia knew that knock, as did Isabelle. She called, "Come in Jon Paul, it is open."

Lydia's heart stumbled within her. So, he had come after all. When Jon Paul entered, he looked nervous.

Isabelle asked, “Can we help you?”

He asked, “May I have a word with Mademoiselle Wade, alone?”

“If it is all right with her.”

Lydia nodded.

“I will just step into the work kitchen.” Isabelle left the room, but did not close the door.

With a side glance at the open door, Jon Paul quietly said, “Marguerite told me about the reading of the Banns and the wedding. Where does that leave you?”

“Here until the shop sells or is let.”

He took a step closer to her and said, “You are too fine a candle maker to loose this shop.” With candle light flickering across his face, Lydia could see and feel the intensity of his concern. She whispered, "You are very kind.”

His eyes were full of something that she could not identify. He said, “I mean to be more than kind. I have some money put away. I will lease this shop for as long as I can and you will continue to do what God created you to do.”

Though Lydia was stunned by his generosity, she needed to know his motive. “Why would you do that?”

The shadow of smile hovered on his lips. “I would do it because, I have seen you work and your work.” He motioned to the candles on the wall and counter. “You have a gift. It is in my power to see that you use that gift here, for a little while longer.” He had not said anything about marriage. Tensely, he asked, “Will you accept my offer?”

“What are the terms?”

“I take a cut of the profits to pay the lease and you get the rest. Upon my honor, that is all.”

She looked up at him and said, “That is the kindest thing any man has ever offered to do for me. But, I can not let you do it.”

His voice cracked when he asked, “Why not?”

In this life, she had compromised herself too much as Luke. She would not take such a risk again. She said, "It is not done. You know that. People would insinuate I am doing you favors in return.”

He turned bright red.

Did he want favors? What the hell did he want?

Flustered he said, “It would not be like that at all. Lydia, I just want to help you."

He was sincere and he had just called her by her first name. Was he aware of that? She liked the way he said it. Though there was physical distance between them, she felt the nearness of him. In this moment, she could not deny she had come to care for him deeply, and more importantly, he had earned her trust. She said, "The best help you could give me is the shelter of marriage."

The amber lights in his eyes flashed. He said, “But I thought you did not want a husband.”

“You changed my mind."

He smiled and said, "Marry me."

She spanned the distance between them and took his face in her hands. The stubble of his beard was rough. She said, "I will agree only if you promise me that you will be good to me and not put too many babies inside of me."

Solemnly he said, "I promise. I am a man of my word."

He was. She believed him. If she did not believe him, she would never risk her life on him. Looking directly into his eyes she said, "I will marry you." With just four words, she bound her life to his.