Jesus was already more beautiful than a man could be, but Margery wanted to adorn him with her own grief in order to possess by giving. So it was a joy to be punished for speaking of Jesus; she wanted to be murdered for his sake. She imagined the easiest death so she wouldn’t back down at the last moment: her head and feet were tied to a stake and her neck was severed with an axe so sharp she felt only the gust of an opening door. The blade flashed: a moment of elated appetite.

Jesus said “thank you” rather mildly. L.’s half-smile guarded Jesus’s lack of definition; he would not be named by Margery’s desire. He avoided her eye and, entering St. Margaret’s, he slammed the wicket door in her face. It banged against her forehead and sent her staggering backwards down two stone steps into the airy summer morning. She was confused by her own unreality and broke into parts that looked around slackjawed as though they were in a strange place instead of a strange situation. She heard the crusty whistle of a hawk and slowly reunited in the blinking sunlight.

She found Jesus sitting in a dark side-chapel unwrapping a walnut cake. He offered some fondly as though he hadn’t seen her in days. Margery loved pastry, loved to eat.

He said, “I have a late birthday gift for you.” He stood and let his tunic drop to his feet. They both took in his clavicle’s architecture, his solid belly with its tiny navel, the veins in his arms and legs. Margery wore a goofy grin. She liked skinny men and wanted to climb his body like a ladder. Just a head, a cock, and a backbone to keep them apart.

Jesus shoved two fingers between the lips of the wound in his side. He was not in pain; he aimed his tight excitement at Margery as he exposed himself. She responded with lust so direct it was also wonder. Jesus fished a blue cuff trimmed with vair from deep inside and continued pulling the sleeve and bodice till he yanked the entire garment free of his body and shook it out with a feeling of volume. He helped her on with it, a gown of heavy brocade, close-fitting right up to the chin.

She interpreted his gift as an apology because its blue matched her pale eyes. Between bites of the walnut cake she asked, “Why did you slam the door in my face?” The cake was sweetened with honey and figs, seedy and prickly on her tongue.