Strands of Starlight by Gael Baudino

stepped into a short hall that ran to left and right. There was light to the left and she could see a small kitchen.
    “Is that you, my child?” called Kay.
    She winced at the my child . “Yes.”
    When she entered the kitchen she found Kay and a girl of perhaps thirteen years. “Miriam,” said Kay, “this is Charity. She's the daughter of Andrew—the man who carried you here.”
    Miriam knew without asking whose gown she wore. “Hello,” she said softly, staring at her.
    “Blessed be,” said Charity. Her voice was sweet, and she wore her dark hair long, almost reaching to her waist. Blue eyes, like mountain lakes, regarded her quietly. She curtsied as though Miriam were gentry.
    “I . . .” Miriam felt uncomfortable under the gaze of those blue eyes. Innocence. “Thank you for the gown.”
    Charity smiled. “I'm glad I was able to help.” She laughed. “I'm also glad we're the same size.” She was holding a cloth-covered basket, and she lifted it slightly. “Mother sent some bread.”
    “Elizabeth is the best baker this side of the mountains,” Kay explained. “Eating her bread is like . . . is like . . .” He had lifted his hands in preparation for the simile, but it did not come. He furrowed his brow. “It's . . . uh . . . very good. Very good indeed.”
    “I will assume your guest is hungry, Kay,” Charity prompted.
    Kay clapped a hand to his head. “There I go. My child,” he said as Miriam winced again, “you must forgive me. Please, come sit down.” He pulled a chair away from the split-log table.
    It was a good, hearty breakfast: porridge and fresh milk and bread and honey, and Miriam felt her stomach begin to unclench. Charity sat beside her and served her, and although Miriam found that embarrassing, the presence of the girl was strangely comforting.
    Miriam found herself watching her. There was more to Charity than was usual for a girl of thirteen years, but what it was, she could not say.
    Priests who were not normal, children who were not normal . . . Miriam wondered what was going on in the Free Towns. That's not human , she had said, but Kay and Charity were quite human . . . and quite out of the ordinary.
    “What became of Varden?” she asked as calmly as she could.
    Kay answered between mouthfuls. “Oh, he went away, back to the forest to be with his people. He said you'd gotten through the worst of the night and that he really couldn't do anything more. He left a while before dawn.”
    “To be . . . with his people.”
    “Yes.” Kay was unflustered.
    “Where are you from, Miriam?” said Charity as she refilled Miriam's cup with milk.
    Miriam glanced between Kay and Charity, wondering what the officers of the Church would do with what she was seeing and hearing. After a moment, she dropped her eyes and shrugged. “Everywhere.”
    “I've always wanted to meet someone from everywhere,” said Charity with a smile. “It's so dreary to be from one particular place.”
    Miriam wondered at first if she were being ridiculed, but Charity's smile was honest and open. Her stomach unclenched a little more. “I was born in a village near Maris. My father was a fisherman. I guess . . . I guess I've tried to forget more than that.”
    “Did you lose your parents?”
    “You might say that.” In truth, she had lost them the first time the power had taken her. She had been only three then, but the final rupture seven years later had been a mere technicality.
    Charity's eyes were sympathetic. “I'm sorry,” she said.
    “I've wandered about. I never stay anyplace for very long. People . . .” Miriam wondered how much she could say. “People become afraid of me. I'm . . . I'm a healer.”
    Kay was unperturbed. “Varden mentioned that. You're welcome in Saint Brigid.” He started to butter a piece of bread.
    Miriam found his nonchalance irritating. “Doesn't your Church take a dim view of people like me, Kay? I had a fine time with your friend Aloysius Cranby—”
    “Aloysius