“That each fowl had its own branch, the one where it preferred to dwell. God had not assigned a place for each of His creatures, but rather let each creature choose its own.”

Batya was too sleepy to contemplate the fable. “What does it mean?”

“Some decisions we make are not predestined, but we are placed in a position to make the right one,” her mother whispered. “Go back to sleep now. It will be clear when the sun shines bright on all of us.”

Relieved by her mother’s mood change, Batya fell asleep in the warmth of her arms, for the first time in days being comforted rather than giving comfort.

In the morning, she rose up to milk Aggie, letting Surale sleep. She hugged the cow’s rump, love filling her in her anticipation of loss. When she returned to the cart to pour the milk into their tin canister, her father was there, drinking milk from the previous day.

“Are you selling Aggie to Reb Moskowitz?” she asked.

“Why would I do that?”

“I heard you talk during the night.”

“No, Batyale. Reb Moskowitz wants you. For his bride.”

“What? That’s not possible . . .” Batya’s words trailed off as shock spread through her. “I’m only fourteen!”

“That’s what I told him. That you must wait until you are at least sixteen, as your sisters were when they got married.” He chuckled. “Not that they asked my permission.”

Batya’s mouth felt dry. “Why would he want me?” she asked. And he was so old, perhaps thirty.

“A pretty face is half a dowry, as the saying goes. As for the other half, Reb Moskowitz saw how hard you worked at the tavern. As the Good Book says, ‘A good Jewish wife is her husband’s helpmate.’”

Batya’s head swam in confusion. She had worked hard at the tavern so the innkeeper would let them stay in the barn, not for this. Maybe that was the sages’ conclusion about each creature having its own shadow. It followed her whether she wanted it to or not.

The sound of her mother’s voice summoned Batya inside. “We must pack the bedding before the congregants arrive for the morning service.”

“Is that true, that Reb Moskowitz wants me for a bride?” Batya asked as she shook a blanket to air it.

Her mother waved dismissal. “Whoever heard of a man who is both the groom and his own matchmaker? It’s never done.”

“Fishke, he didn’t bother because Keyla already had done the asking,” Surale piped in. Batya hoped she wouldn’t mention Hedi’s goy; he had sought his priest’s approval, not his bride’s father’s.

Batya’s mother shook her head sadly. “In these tough times, we must still believe that good things can happen, too.”

“What is a good thing?” Surale asked.