Free The Wandering Arm by Sharan Newman Page A

always better to stay as close to the truth as possible in these matters,” Catherine added, causing Hubert to wonder how many times he’d been deceived by a tale of hers that was almost true.
    “How would you explain your skill?” he asked instead.
    “I’ve been mocked enough for cluttering the floor with wood shavings,” Edgar answered. “My friends consider it a harmless madness. They might find it more likely that I’d sell wooden trinkets, I suppose, instead of working in silver.”
    “Oh, yes!” Catherine interrupted. “Let’s do that, too. We could set up a stall at the Lendit! I’ve always wanted one, with a banner flying from the tent pole.”
    “NO!” Hubert told her. He ran his hands through his rapidly greying black hair. This child of his would drive him insane one day. He’d end up sitting in the middle of the street, giggling at the passersby and catching coins in his teeth. It was only a matter of time. “I haven’t worked for thirty years to see my daughter sitting like a common fame vilaine bringing cabbages to market!” he shouted.
    Catherine folded her hands in her lap and looked at him with demure respect. “Very well, Father,” she said. “No stall. Just a nice, clean room on the Île. Now, when do we leave?”
    Hubert sighed. He knew she had won again. “Baruch is willing to let Edgar begin his training tomorrow,” he said. “Catherine, you will be churched on the first Sunday of Lent. If Baruch thinks Edgar’s knowledge enough and if you are fully recovered, we’d like you to leave the next day for Paris.”
    Catherine got up and kissed him. “We’d be happy to help,” she said. “You know you can depend on us.”
    Hubert nodded in resignation.

    That afternoon Hubert and Baruch made their way down the rue de la Boulangerie in Saint-Denis. On one side was the high wall of the abbey cloister, on the other a row of shops. The smell of fresh bread surrounded them.
    “Can you imagine what that aroma does to the poor monks on fast days?” Baruch chuckled. “Even I can pity them. A bakery next to a monastery is a cruel trick.”
    “It could have been worse,” Hubert said, smiling. “It might have been a brothel.”
    They had composed themselves by the time they reached the corner where the abbot’s house stood. Hubert lifted the solid iron knocker. He hesitated before dropping it.
    “Abbot Suger is a very sensible man,” he said to reassure them both. “He’ll give us no trouble about this.”
    “Certainly,” Baruch answered with a touch of acidity. “He’ll likely reward us for our honesty. Get on with it, Hubert.”
    The clank was answered immediately. A slot in the door slid open and closed quickly and then the door was opened by one of the monks, so hooded and wrapped against the cold that he was no more than a black shape ushering them in.
    “We’ve come to see the abbot,” Hubert said. “We are expected.”
    The shape nodded and beckoned them to follow. Hubert had a sudden memory of a story told by a traveling player, about a man led into the nether world by just such a figure. He tried to remember the end of the tale, but it wouldn’t come.
    They were led only as far the entry room of the abbot’s quarters, where their guide left them with another bow. Baruch shuddered.
    “I never get used to their silence,” he complained.
    “It’s not their fault,” Hubert said. “Knowing Suger, I’d imagine they don’t get much opportunity to speak. Who would interrupt the abbot?”
    “Good afternoon, my friends.”
    Both men started like guilty schoolboys. Abbot Suger stood in the doorway to his receiving room. They knelt to greet him. The abbot said the blessing over Hubert, then hesitated when he came to Baruch.
    “May the Lord God bless and keep you,” he said, but refrained politely from making the sign of the cross.
    “And may the Almighty One protect you, as well,” Baruch answered. “We are honored that you can grant us a few moments with