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go hungry than eat anything I might prepare.”
    Luis harrumphed and turned his attention back to his own meal.
    Errol ate, gulped desperate bites of stew, hoping the meal would somehow mollify his body’s demand for ale. Outside, the last purple rays faded from the sky and unrelieved darkness covered Martin’s cabin. As if on cue, Errol’s hands began shaking. His spoon rattled against the side of his bowl as he tried to take another bite. Martin and Luis turned toward the source of the noise and lifted their gazes to Errol’s face. Embarrassed, he dropped the spoon and clenched his hands under the table. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice the sheen of sweat that covered him. He felt the blood draining from his face, knew he would be sick if he didn’t get ale soon.
    He dropped his gaze to his hands. “Pater Martin, do you have any ale? I-I’m thirsty.”
    â€œI’m sorry, Errol. I don’t.” The priest’s voice was soft. “And if this is what ale has done to you, my son, wouldn’t it be better to forsake it?”
    Errol laughed. Ale hadn’t done this. Outside, the last of the purple disappeared into darkness. In the five years he’d served as Martin’s messenger, he’d never attempted a crossing of the Sprata at night. But with luck it might be done. It would certainly take longer than the four hours it had taken to bring him here, but in five, possibly six hours he could be back at the inn and Cilla would still have time to sneak him a few tankards out the back window. In five or six hours he’d be fine . . . or dead from a fall.
    He clenched his trembling hands, regretting his decision to stay. His stomach lurched, demanding ale. The meal sat on that demand, like dead weight. Then it moved.
    His chair clattered, bounced on the floor behind him as Errol bolted for the door. Wrenching the handle, he jumped from the porch to land in the garden, his stomach emptying even as he moved. Cramps forced him to his knees, where he heaved again and again, the spasms forcing blood into his head until his face swelled and burned. Still they went on. He fell to his side.
    Later, unsure how much later, his body at last noted his dry heaves, believed his stomach no longer held food. His throat burned, and he longed for something to drink, even water to wash away the bile. Crossing the Sprata was beyond him now. He doubted he could even drag himself back into the cabin. He tried to relax as much as his knotted stomach would allow. As his breathing slowed, images came to him, pictures of himself before he’d disappeared in the ale barrel.
    No. He thrust himself from the ground, away from the stink of his meal, and staggered, hunched and aching, toward the cabin. As he set foot on the threshold, hands came to him, supporting his weight, and brought him back into the light and warmth. He found himself looking up into Luis’s eyes, their deep brown dry but sympathetic.
    â€œCome,” he said, “Martin is ready to celebrate the sacrament.”
    Errol’s memories swam before his eyes, superimposed themselves in a mismatched tapestry against the interior of the cabin. “What could I possibly have to celebrate?”
    â€œAh, Errol, there is always something to be thankful for.”
    His response died on his tongue as he saw Martin standing behind a narrow table. While he’d been throwing up in the garden, the priest had donned a chasuble and stole. They were wrinkled, but he wore them with dignity. The interior of the cabin reflected light from a trio of large candles on the table, and the rough furnishings took on an austere grace. Luis deposited Errol on the couch and then offered a dented hand bowl to Martin to rinse his hands.
    The priest dried them on a towel Luis had draped over his arm and then took a stoneware pitcher and poured a cupful of water into an earthen goblet. Facing Errol, he intoned the familiar