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violence; he would never kidnap her son, let alone throw him off a cliff.
    Yet Galen had thrown away something cherished, something Rebecca had treasured for years . . .

4
    REBECCA HAD JUST CELEBRATED her twelfth birthday when she decided it was God’s will for her to marry Galen. Naomi’s wedding the previous year was still fresh in her mind, and Rebecca adored her new brother-in-law, Crispin, who worked with their father in the shipping business. Ever since their wedding Rebecca had been praying that God would bring the right husband into her life. She was in no rush; she wanted to wait until she was eighteen, as Naomi had, even though many girls married at thirteen or fourteen.
    Even now, Rebecca could remember the precise moment she knew Galen was the one. It happened the night he came up to her and smiled—a rarity in itself—and asked if he could sit beside her at the agape feast. Although she had known him for several years, she looked up now as if seeing him for the first time, registering every detail: the slight cleft in his chin, the whiteness of his evenly spaced teeth, the lock of straight jet-black hair that fell over his forehead, obscuring his brooding black eyes, which were ringed with long dark lashes. Something in her twelve-year-old mind said, “This is the one.”
    Galen was gifted; everyone knew it. And most of them admitted that his talent would someday surpass that of his father. But no one ever knew what Galen was thinking. His ability to express himself was found not in his voice but in his hands, as he deftly worked molten strands of silver and gold into shapes of graceful beauty.
    And no one, except for Rebecca, ever knew what was in his heart. For some reason, which she could only attribute to God, she had always been able to communicate intuitively with the budding artisan, who, like her twin brothers, was two years older.
    It took a while longer for Galen to realize they were meant to be together. The first time they had talked about it was two years later, when Rebecca was recovering from a serious illness. She had run a terribly high fever for days, and Galen had come to see her every afternoon, after he finished his work. As she began to get stronger, he would visit with her in the garden, sometimes sitting quietly beside her on one of the stone benches surrounding the central fountain, and sometimes making an effort at the kind of light-hearted conversation he knew she would enjoy. He described the various people who had come into the silversmith shop, and he made her laugh by imitating the accent of the Anatolian traders he’d overheard in the agora .
    Rebecca had learned that with Galen, what he didn’t say was as important as what he did say—more so, perhaps. One day she knew something was on his mind. She could tell by the intense look in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t watching him.
    â€œI had an offer for a big job,” he told her when she finally decided to pry into his secret. “But I turned it down.”
    That’s what I would have done too.”
    Galen pushed away the long shock of hair that habitually fell across his forehead as he told her about the temple official who had wanted to commission new serving pieces for the banquet hall at the Temple of Artemis. “It would have meant a lot of money,,” he said, since I hope to be married someday, I’ve started thinking about what it would take to support a wife.”
    Rebecca suddenly felt flushed, and it had nothing to do with her recent fever. She was proud of his principal decision and intrigued by his mention of marriage.
    â€œLucrative jobs like that are hard to come by,” he continued, “so it was naturally tempting.” Galen looked away quickly, staring into the fountain. When he spoke, his voice could barely be heard over the gentle roar of cascading water. “Especially when the girl I want to marry comes from a very wealthy family. I