He worried a bit that Jamie would leave, and hurried back to the chapel, but Jamie was still there, standing in the middle of the tiny space, head down, staring at the floor.
“Here, then,” Ian said, pulling him toward the altar. He plunked the candle—an expensive one, beeswax and large—on the stand, and pulled the paper spill the old lady had given him out of his sleeve, offering it to Jamie. “Light it. We’ll say a prayer for your da. And … and for her.”
He could see tears trembling on Jamie’s lashes, glittering in the red glow of the sanctuary lamp that hung above the altar, but Jamie blinked them back and firmed his jaw.
“All right,” he said, low voiced, but he hesitated. Ian sighed, took the spill out of his hand and, standing on tiptoe, lit it from the sanctuary lamp.
“Do it,” he whispered, handing it to Jamie, “or I’ll gie ye a good one in the kidney, right here.”
Jamie made a sound that might have been the breath of a laugh, and lowered the lit spill to the candle’s wick. The fire rose up, a pure high flame with blue at its heart, then settled as Jamie pulled the spill away and shook it out in a plume of smoke.
They stood for some time, hands clasped loosely in front of them, watching the candle burn. Ian prayed for his mam and da, his sister and her bairns … with some hesitation (was it proper to pray for a Jew?), for Rebekah bat-Leah, and with a sidelong glance at Jamie, to be sure he wasn’t looking, for Jenny Fraser. Then the soul of Brian Fraser … and then, eyes tight shut, for the friend beside him.
The sounds of the church faded, the whispering stones and echoes of wood, the shuffle of feet and the rolling gabble of the pigeons on the roof. Ian stopped saying words, but was still praying. And then that stopped, too, and there was only peace, and the soft beating of his heart.
He heard Jamie sigh, from somewhere deep inside, and opened his eyes. Without speaking, they went out, leaving the candle to keep watch.
“Did ye not mean to go to confession yourself?” Jamie asked, stopping near the church’s main door. There was a priest in the confessional; two or three people stood a discreet distance away from the carved wooden stall, out of earshot, waiting.
“It’ll bide,” Ian said, with a shrug. “If ye’re goin’ to Hell, I might as well go, too. God knows, ye’ll never manage alone.”
Jamie smiled—a wee bit of a smile, but still—and pushed the door open into sunlight.
They strolled aimlessly for a bit, not talking, and found themselves eventually on the river’s edge, watching the Garonne’s dark waters flow past, carrying debris from a recent storm.
“It means ‘peace,’” Jamie said at last. “What he said to me. The Doctor. ‘Shalom.’” Ian kent that fine.
“Aye,” he said. “But peace is no our business now, is it? We’re soldiers.” He jerked his chin toward the nearby pier, where a packet-boat rode at anchor. “I hear the King of Prussia needs a few good men.”
“So he does,” said Jamie, and squared his shoulders. “Come on, then.”
Author’s note: I would like to acknowledge the help of several people in researching aspects of Jewish history, law, and custom for this story: Elle Druskin (author of To Catch a Cop), Sarah Meyer (registered midwife), Carol Krenz, Celia K. and her Reb Mom, and especially Darlene Marshall (author of Castaway Dreams). I’m indebted also to Rabbi Joseph Telushkin’s very helpful book Jewish Literacy. Any errors are mine.