Aaron was far away, up in the mountains of Savoy.

If Naomi had been angry at first, after a time her temper subsided into moodiness. She was allowed once again to take little Jacob for walks, which she did listlessly. Often Jacob would come upon her sitting with her brother by the fire, but while the boy chattered, she would be staring off into space.

Jacob and Sarah both suspected that Naomi might be hoping to receive some word from Aaron, and they watched carefully to intercept any such message. But as far as they could tell, no message arrived.

December came and went. There was ice in the streets. Snow fell. And in those dark days of the year, their daughter seemed to be wrapped in a mantle of sadness.

They tried to behave as normal. They did their best to be quietly cheerful in her presence. Jacob told stories in the evening, as they all sat together, and she seemed to enjoy them. If he recounted some foolish joke he’d heard in the market, she would laugh quite easily. But as gray January began, he could see little joy in her face, but only resignation.

One day, returning home from some business, he saw her sitting on a bench by the fire. She was alone. She must have heard him come in, but she did not turn, as though silently letting him know that she wanted to be left alone. And he was about to go into his counting house, but then, thinking better of it, he quietly entered and sat on the bench beside her. He did not say anything, but observed the sad curve of her neck and the way she stared with stony eyes at the embers of the fire. And after a time he put his arm around her tense shoulders and said: “I am so sorry, my child.”

She said nothing. But she did not draw away.

“I know you are unhappy,” he continued quietly. “I am sorry that you wanted to leave us, but I understand.”

After a pause, she answered.

“The truth is, Father, that I no longer wish to live in a land where they do such things.”

“Ah.” He sighed. “Aaron’s father once told me, ‘You will never be safe.’ He may have been right. Whoever is born a Jew is never safe, no matter where he goes.”

“Why are we Christian, Father?” she asked.

And then, because it seemed to him at that moment to be the right thing to do, he quietly told her everything. He told her about Renard’s warning, and his agony over what to do, and how he had feared for Sarah, the unborn baby, and herself; how he had converted, and the agony it had brought him. He told her everything.

“I may have been wrong, my child, but that is what I did and why. And now I have caused you great pain, which was never my intention, and I am sorry for it.”