The church's lights flicker amid the rain, the yellow candlelight casting the hanging image of the Saint Master on the pillars in stark relief, its pupil-less eyes quietly observing Ansel on the bed.
Ansel's face is slightly pale, but after drinking the medicinal soup, he is now peacefully asleep.
If it weren't for the occasional kick sending the lower half of the blanket flying, Bryson wouldn't have been sure that this was a young man under twenty.
A child under twenty, who in three months learned more from the church than Bryson did in twenty years at the Church School.
Bryson turned his head toward the room's side, the cold wind rattling the window, bringing the shouts of mountain folk and sounds of wood smashing from outside.
Lalor's shouts mingled with the rain: "Quick, pile up these fences, you two, dig the trench deeper!"
