Free The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) by Connie Shelton

his
knowledge.
    Andreas had slipped the money
pouch out of sight and he stood now.
    “When the clock tower strikes
midnight, that is when I shall expect to have the item.”
    Outside, the wind had become
stronger, whipping around corners and sending a draft under his robe. Benedict
gathered the coarse brown fabric closer and pulled the cowl over his head. The
gold coins felt burdensome in the pocket. He turned a corner where the chill
wind did not reach. On this side of the high stone walls the sun shone high in
the afternoon sky. He paused a moment, fighting back the uneasy seed that the
bishop’s words had planted in his gut.
    His eyes scanned the gardens and
nearby streets. No sign of any gypsy anywhere. With a nervous glance over his
shoulder at the clock tower he started walking.
    At the small square where the
children had earlier played, where the old woman had healed the injured one, he
paused. The area was eerily quiet. Not a face showed at a window, not an open
door in sight. He could begin knocking on doors but these were wily people,
able to sneak through small openings like mice. None would turn on a member of the
tribe and they would offer assistance to each other in escaping. He glared at
the surrounding buildings, wishing ill to any who harbored there.
    Hours later, he had trudged every
alleyway of the entire barrio; his head felt as if it would burst. Where would
he find that box?
    Wait a moment, he thought. Call
it witchcraft or a miracle, no matter—the bishop had not witnessed the event.
Only Benedict, among the Church hierarchy, had seen the old woman and the box.
He had been charged with one mission—bring the box.
    He set off in the direction of
the Borega family home.

 
    *
* *

 
    Sophia’s thoughts ran in a tumble
as she walked hastily home. There were two boxes, almost identical in appearance, both with mystical powers. So far, with
hers, she had only seen visions that appeared to be scenes from other places
and times—perhaps a minute peek into the history of the box itself. But what if
it could perform miracles of the type she had now witnessed?
    She had a brief glimpse of a life
as a healer. No more would she spend her days uselessly brushing the dust off
someone’s furniture or cleaning messy paintbrushes while her father worked at
his life’s calling.
    Perhaps I have found my own calling. The thought quickened her
pulse as she turned onto Calle del Solano and made her way toward the Borega
house.
    From the dining room she could
hear the lively sounds of a meal in progress, one that included visitors by the
sound of it. She edged to the stairs and ascended quietly. In the studio her
father seemed agitated.
    “Where were you, girl?” He
gestured toward the half-finished painting.
    “A child was injured. I stopped
to see if I could help.” She reached into her bag and took out the linseed oil,
setting it on the table. The carved box sat exactly where she had left it.
    He made a scoffing sound and
busied himself with his brushes.
    “I brought you a treat.” She
unwrapped the cloth with the honey-coated bread inside. “Let me go to the
kitchen and get some soup for you.”
    He eyed the bun but did not stop
working turpentine into the delicate bristles.
    “You’ve made good progress today,
Papá. Stop for some food and a rest.”
    He sighed. “My shoulder aches.
Worse each day, I am afraid.”
    Her gaze fell to the box.
    “Go to your room, Papá. I shall ask
the kitchen girl to bring the soup and then I will stop in and rub the painful
area for you.”
    At last, a small smile. He set
the brush down. Sophia guided him by the elbow, out of the studio and toward
the stairs. After a quick trip to the kitchen, she came back to the studio.
    She closed her eyes and
remembered the old gypsy woman, how she had held the other box. The woman had
murmured some words, something Sophia could not understand. If that was a
critical part of the treatment, her actions now might have no effect. But