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hair. He could see where two blond curls were knotted together.
     
    “Please,” Father John finally said, “put those away.”
     
    Benjamin Nab tucked the scalps back inside his coat. “He’s my brother. He’s mine and no one else’s.”
     
    “Well,” said Father John. “Of course.” And suddenly Ren knew that the priest was going to give him up. He’d spent his life here; he’d learned to speak and read within these walls, but Father John was not asking any more questions. He laid his hand on the boy’s head and gave him a blessing. Then he told him to gather his things.
     
    Brother Joseph was waiting outside in the hallway. When he saw Ren’s face he let out a puff of air and said, “Well, that’s it, then.” He led Ren to the small boys’ room, straining heavily up the stairs. He said, “I thought we had a few more years.” Then he opened the door, walked down the aisle, and stood by while the boy collected what was underneath his pillow. There was not much. The scrap of cloth with blue letters, a pair of socks, and The Lives of the Saints .
     
    Brother Joseph picked up the volume and flipped through the pages. “Where’d you get this?”
     
    Ren looked at the monk’s stained and dirty robe, the belly hanging over the cord that served as a belt. He would never see this man again. And yet he could not bring himself to lie. “I stole it.”
     
    “That’s a commandment broken.”
     
    Ren shrugged his shoulders.
     
    The monk closed the book. “Why did you take it?”
     
    Ren didn’t know how to answer. He had reached for the volume because he wanted to hear the rest of Saint Anthony’s story. But then he’d read about Saint Veronica curing Tiberius with her veil; Saint Benedict flowing water from a rock; Saint Elizabeth, with her apron full of roses. Possessing the book had made what happened inside the pages somehow belong to him. During the day he looked forward to the sun setting, to the time when everyone else would go to bed and he could read the stories again. He cared for this more than eating. More than sleeping. He finally said, “I wanted the miracles.”
     
    Brother Joseph glanced from the book to the boy and back again. He ran his finger down the cover. “We better make your penance quick.”
     
    The boy got on his knees by the side of the bed. Brother Joseph sat on the cot, his weight making the small wooden frame groan, as Ren whispered the prayers. When he finished, the monk handed him The Lives of the Saints .
     
    “Shouldn’t I return it?”
     
    Brother Joseph made the sign of the cross on the boy’s forehead. “Take it with you,” he said. “It’s not stolen anymore.”
     
     
     
    On his way back down the stairs Ren ran his hand along the old wooden banister. This is the last time I will touch this, he thought, and just as he did a splinter jammed its way into his palm. Ren went outside and crossed the yard, sucking at his skin, trying to pull the piece of wood out with his teeth, feeling the edge of it with his tongue. In the sunlight he examined the sliver nestled under the surface, a tiny piece of Saint Anthony’s determined to come with him.
     
    He turned around and looked at the winery, then the chapel, then the orphanage. It was hard to believe that he was no longer going to work or pray or sleep on these grounds. All he’d ever wanted was to leave, but now as he was about to, he felt uneasy. He walked over to the high brick wall surrounding the buildings and pressed his wet palm against it. The masonry felt as thick and substantial as ever.
     
    “Good-bye,” he said. But it didn’t seem like enough. So he kicked the wall, as hard as he could. The impact made the bones in his leg shake. He stood there panting for a moment, then limped away, his toe throbbing inside his boot.
     
    At the well Brom and Ichy were waiting for him.
     
    “Are you really leaving?”
     
    Ren nodded. The twins stuffed their hands into their pockets. Ren knew they