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

it
was worth the attempt. She held the box with both hands, fingers splayed,
concentrating on the sensation of warmth that traveled through them and upward
along her arms. She carried it up the back stairs, her hands becoming almost fiery
hot by the time she reached Abran’s bedroom.
    “Papá, show me where it hurts.”
    When she applied her hands to the
muscles along his neck and shoulder, he moaned quietly. His eyes closed as she
applied slight pressure and moved over the aching places.
    “My Sophia,” Abran said, “you are
such a kind girl. I feel so much better I shall go back to my work.”
    She stared at her own hands. How
could this be? No time at all and he felt well enough to go to work? She
thought of the young boy who had been unconscious one minute and sitting up the
next. She nearly laughed out loud. The things she could do with this power! The
numerous people she could help!
    A tap sounded at the door. “All
right, Papá, but eat your soup first.”
    She admitted the kitchen maid.
The girl placed her tray on Abran’s bedside table.
    “What’s this?” Sophia asked,
noticing a bandage on the girl’s hand.
    “Carelessness. I’m sorry ma’am.”
    “Don’t be sorry. Tell me what
happened.”
    “My hand touched the large kettle
over the fire. Cook insisted that I put this cloth over it.”
    “Let me take a look.”
    As her father sipped the hot
broth from the bowl, Sophia unwound the cloth, which looked none too clean,
revealing an inflamed spot the size of a coin. The servant winced and turned
her head away from the sight.
    Sophia tentatively touched the
area around the wound and saw the redness fade before her eyes. She laid the
palm of her hand softly over the spot; when she raised it the circle was just
faintly pink. Her breath caught and the maid looked at her.
    “It doesn’t seem too bad.” Sophia
forced the quiver out of her voice, afraid of showing her excitement.
    The young maid stared at her
hand, then looked up. Sophia smiled, like a mother who had kissed away her
child’s small scratch. All better. The girl’s face was full of gratitude as she
left the room.
    “What did you do just then?”
Abran whispered once the door had closed. His eyes were sharp.
    “It was not so serious a wound as
the girl thought.”
    “And my shoulder? Did I only imagine the pain that has wracked me for
weeks?” He held up a hand. “I am only cautioning you, my dear. Do not speak of
this, and be very careful as to who might observe. Your acts of kindness could
easily be taken the wrong way in these treacherous times.”

 
    *
* *

 
    Father Benedict lifted the heavy
metal knocker and dropped it for the third time. The sound echoed through the
Borega house like a rock bouncing off the walls of a dry well. No response
came. The sun was now low in the sky, throwing gray shadows over the streets
and homes.
    He needed to get inside and make
a pretense to visit the studio of the artist. Bishop Andreas wanted the box
that had performed the miraculous healing of the gypsy child, but the bishop
had not seen the box. From the brief description he’d given, Benedict felt sure
this other box would serve the purpose. When the bishop failed to perform a
miracle with it, the explanation would simply be that the bishop was a holy
man—he could never perform such an act of witchcraft. The box’s very benign
nature would be clarification enough.
    Over the city, bells from the
cathedral tower rang out, calling the faithful to vespers. There was the
reason—the entire family, plus servants and guests, would be in attendance.
Benedict turned away from the door. He made quick steps toward the high spires
that rose above the other nearby buildings.
    Inside the cool, dim interior
sounds of the liturgy and the parishioners’ responses echoed from the massive
central pillars and surrounding stone walls. He took a place near the font of
holy water, scanning the altar area for a sign of the bishop. He caught sight
of white