Free Inconceivable! by Tegan Wren Page B

eternal with the ephemeral, heaven and earth. It’s the retelling of the ancient story of Christ’s death, but the imagery makes it fresh. Growing up, people at our church talked about Jesus being the Lamb of God, but to see such a literal portrayal of that metaphor is stunning.”
    There was a soft knock on the door. John went over and opened it. A small man wearing round glasses stepped into the room with us. He gestured to the chairs, indicating we should sit.
    For the next fifteen minutes, he regaled us with stories about the painting and its history. Thieves had stolen, dismantled, and mutilated it. But since the end of World War II, Ghent had been its home. A group of artists from all over Europe came here and painstakingly restored it.
    As we left, I took one last look at the bleeding lamb. It had witnessed our first kiss, and somehow, that made everything that followed seem ordained by God.

    After we left St. Bavo’s, we browsed the wares in several small shops. Yep, the day kept getting more bizarre―I was shopping with a prince. Thanks to his baseball cap and casual clothing, no one looked at us twice. Bernard, also dressed in plain clothes, was in the shop but kept his distance to avoid drawing attention.
    I loved all the chotskies―the small figurines of Brussels’ Mannequin Pis, snow globes that put Belgian landmarks in the middle of a blizzard, and miniature wooden replicas of the guild houses that lined the Graslei harbor.
    John hovered over a table covered in pieces of lace. “The sign says these were all handmade in Belgium. Don’t you think you need to take home some Brussels lace? Look at this one.”
    He held up a delicate section of lace. Vines, flowers, and leaves sprang from a central stem, all held together by threads thin enough to rival a spider’s web.
    “It’s beautiful.” I took it from his hand gingerly, not wanting to stress the lace.
    We took it to the woman behind the counter. She must have overheard us talking in English.
    She spoke to us with a heavy accent: “This is perfect for couple.” She held it up and pointed to the flowers and leaves. “The pattern means many babies.”
    She smiled as she patted her abdomen. Heat instantly enflamed my cheeks. I busied myself digging for my credit card, a convenient way to ignore the implications of her words. I wanted to say,
Hey, lady. He and I only met for the first time a couple of weeks ago. We’re not even really dating yet. I haven’t signed the paperwork!
    When I finally pulled the card from the depths of my purse, John handed me a brown paper bag.
    “It’s a gift. It’s the least I can do since you let me drag you out of the country today.”
    I suppressed the words, “You shouldn’t have done that!” and merely smiled. “Thank you. I’ll treasure this.”
    John took my hand and kissed the back of it. “Time to go. More surprises await.”



ohn led me down the cobblestone street with Bernard several steps behind us. He reached for my hand, and his fingers locked with mine. This wasn’t the kind of neutered touch I remembered from the hallways of my middle school. This was a deliciously awkward feeling of skin against skin, warm and constantly adjusting.
    We meandered our way to Korenlei where we stopped at the front door of a restaurant. The small flag hanging by the door had the words
Allegro Moderato
printed on it. Inside, the maître d’ waited for us, apparently prepped for our arrival by one of the guards. He led us to a private room where a lively fire in the fireplace radiated warmth for the room’s only table. We took our seats by a giant window that looked across the Lys River to the guild houses.
    “Bon Appétit!” He quietly shut the door.
    “Do you bring all the girls here?”
    “Hatty. I know you think I date a lot of women. But can you imagine the kind of exposure I’d face if I did? I’ve only seriously dated two women. Both of them ended our relationship once the press found out and began