Batya’s head reeled in confusion. So much had happened in the last few days that none of it made sense. How was it possible that merely days after Miriam’s murder, Batya was being carried away in a fancy carriage harnessed to two magnificent horses, like a princess in a fairy tale? The man seated across from her could very well have been a prince who’d awakened her from a nightmarish dream.

Darkness had fallen upon the earth. Through the small front window, Batya saw the coachman’s silhouette against the full moon. Inside the cabin, Reb Moskowitz pulled on his cigarette, the flare from its tip casting a reddish glow on the lower part of his face. Batya breathed in the fragrant aroma of his tobacco, so different from the raw cigarettes that her goyim neighbors smoked, made of weeds and smelling of field dust.

She was supposed to feel bliss, but her brain felt numb. Only the jolts of the road, cushioned by the soft seat, made the moments real. Mist filled Batya’s eyes. Was it only two hours ago that she had exchanged hasty goodbyes with her family? How could she wait two years, till she turned sixteen and married this man, before seeing her family again?

The image of the paper money her father had received made it worthwhile. It was twice as much as he had hoped for—and she was the one daughter who’d finally brought him happiness and hope.

The horses accelerated the rhythm of their trotting hoofs. Batya took out the piece of cheese, and, taking small bites, the taste of home brought her mother closer.

“Are you hungry, my dear?” Reb Moskowitz asked her.

She nodded, although she wasn’t sure that this was what made her insides rumble.

“You’ll have a queen’s meal as soon as we reach our inn,” he said. “Try to sleep now.”

She rewrapped the cheese in its gauze and curled up on her seat, her head resting on Surale’s rag doll.

She woke when the carriage came to a stop. Sitting up, Batya found that she was covered in a soft wool blanket. She fingered its silk trim. Her father, too, would have covered her, although not with a blanket as fine as this one. Reb Moskowitz was indeed showing his care, just as he had promised.

Looking out the window, she saw a manor house, three floors high, with twin columns flanking its entrance. Its many windows were lit as they would be only in homes of the rich.