True man and true God . . .”

It was Myrtle. A delicate flower, so sweet and vibrant she chased away the darkness. In her life, she proved that God was real, because only a Lord of Might could create such a wonder as she.

And delicate though she might be, she was not fragile. Never had she wilted: not when she’d been alone, and not because of him, not even when, in those first days, he’d met her with his usual ugliness and gruff demeanor. Nay, much like the petals of those blooms that remained strong during summer storms, even as the harsh, unforgiving wind battered and whipped at them, she remained resolute, unfurling and remaining untouched by the tempest, bold and strong through it all.

“O Jesu, bis zum Scheiden,

aus diesem Jamerthal

Laß dein Hilf uns geleiten

“O Jesus, until the parting

from this Jamerthal

Let your help guide us.”

She sang of that parting, a lyric that served only as a reminder he did not need of the coming of the end of his time with her.

The wind howled its mournful wail, the angels weeping. The carriage shook as the Lord thundered his discontent.

“Hin in der Engel Saal,

In deines Vaters Reich,

da wir dich ewig loben:

o Gott, uns das verleih!

“Go to the angel hall,

In your father’s kingdom

since we praise you forever:

Oh God, give us this!”

Suddenly, the carriage swayed.

Val shouted, gripping the side of his carriage bench with one hand, even as he reached for Myrtle with the other.

A gasp burst from her as he wrapped a powerful arm around her, and pulled her onto his lap.

“V-Val?” she called, her head, buried against his chest as it was, lending a muffle to her voice. “Are you all—”

“No.” He shot a fist up, pounding hard on the roof, instructing the driver to stop.

Which the man did.

Too quickly.

His brother’s conveyance went skidding down the old Roman road.

Tensing, Val braced his booted feet upon the carriage floor to brace himself, and held Myrtle tight as he could, for all he was worth.

Praying.

And he remembered how.

Praying.

Because it was all he had power over in this moment.

Praying.

For this ride to end, and for Myrtle’s safety.

And then, it appeared the Lord had not abandoned him, after all.

The carriage stopped.

Even so, he did not release her. He continued to hold her, breathing in the scent of apple blossoms that clung to her, fixing on that safe, innocuous detail. She was alive. He’d not killed her.

“Val?” she asked, angling her head back and looking him in the eyes.

“You smell like apples.”