Strands of Starlight by Gael Baudino Page A

Cranby is no friend of mine,” Kay said bluntly. “I was ordained by Augustine delAzri of Maris. I stay away from Hypprux.”
    “Well, my powers are supposed to come from the devil.”
    Kay was still buttering the dark bread, and his movements became agitated. “Some people are fools,” he said. “They should get down on their knees and praise God for people like you. Healing coming from the devil indeed! And Who was it that made lame beggars walk and blind men see?” The bread slipped out of his hand and skittered across the table. Kay peered at it. “It does always land with the buttered side down, doesn't it?”
    Miriam smiled in spite of herself.
    “I think of them as city dwellers,” Kay resumed, peeling up the slice and then mumbling through it. “Noses buried in their books while the sun shines and the flowers bloom about them. They've never gone out and gotten their hands dirty, never really looked at a sunset or watched a tree grow.”
    “How did you ever become a priest?”
    “I wanted to serve God,” said Kay. “Not gold. Not the bishops and the cardinals, not Rome—or Avignon either. I grew up out here among the fields, and I always knew there was magic about. No one had to tell me. At school, I simply kept my mouth shut.” He smiled at her with the expression of an angel who had just purloined the largest, reddest, juiciest apple from a neighbor's tree.
    “This place is a miracle,” she said. But I can't ever enjoy it.
    Kay was working on another piece of bread. “Yes,” he mused, “I suppose you'd say that there is something about Saint Brigid. Of course there have been ups and downs. If you'd come here a few years ago, my child, you'd have found a different reception.”
    Miriam stifled her instinctive retort. “Why is that?”
    “My predecessor, Jaques Alban, was an associate of Bishop Cranby, and held to most of his views. How he was ever given this town as a cure, I'll never know. He certainly never fit in.” Kay rambled on. “Saint Brigid was a rather unhappy town for several years, but Alban, fortunately, disappeared one day.”
    Miriam thought for a moment. “Was he the one the Elves turned into a pig?”
    Kay looked uncomfortable. “Uh . . . wherever did you hear that?”
    “Up north. It's a popular little tale.”
    “Well, Alban disappeared one day. . . .”
    Charity sighed softly. “It's sad.”
    Kay shrugged. “Alban did some good in the end, though his motives were not the best. He rebuilt the church, and he made sure that he had a fine large house to live in. This one. Comfortable . . . and capable of taking in wandering healers.” He looked at Miriam.
    She understood the unspoken question. “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your hospitality. If I could repay you in some way—maybe keep your house for you—I would like to stay for a while.”
    “You're welcome to stay as long as you want,” said Kay. “As for the housekeeping . . . we can talk about that later.”
    Miriam was surprised when she looked at Charity. The girl's eyes were wide, and she was smiling broadly, as though the news that Miriam would be staying in Saint Brigid was a cause for great joy.

Chapter Seven
    Saint Brigid lay nestled against the southwest corner of Malvern Forest, separated from the trees by a bow shot or two of tilled fields and pasture. It was a neat, orderly town, its walls and streets well kept, its houses trim and sturdy. The tidy streets meandered off as streets will do, but within a few weeks Miriam could find her way about as well as any native.
    She had, without further comment, taken over the housework, though Kay lived so simply that there was not much of it other than the basic tasks of washing, sweeping, and cooking . . . and Kay did some of those himself anyway. He urged her to get out of the house as much as she could, obviously hoping that the fresh air and sunshine would cheer her up. Miriam had no such hopes herself, but she acceded to his wishes. She