Lower than Lillies

She found the first sign up in the chapel eaves: a curved smudge in the endless dust no bigger than her pinkie nail. She wiped it away and continued her midnight cleaning.
        A week later, a flash of green against brown thatch distracted her from her conversation with the baker. Violet slipped in her arms; she adjusted the babe and lowered her gaze.
        “Yes, please,” she said in answer to the half-heard question. She accepted the stale crust for her teething child and then the loaf the baker placed in her basket. “Thank you,” she said after a moment. She felt the baker’s eyes on her back as she left, but not his alone.

        Getting Violet asleep was always easier when the choir practiced. She enjoyed the peace in the temple garden, and found herself lulled by the song. Her gaze drifted upward to the fat clouds in the blue blue sky—and, like a memory, she heard the wet, panicked noise of a dying animal. Her eyes snapped down to the base of the big oak tree, where a robin lay with a truly red breast.

        She lowered Violet gently onto her blanket; when the child didn’t stir, she rose. The choir practiced for another hour, which should keep both parties occupied. She gathered her dress around her knees and began to climb.
        Three speckled eggs, cracked and eaten as neatly as with a spoon. She sat back and pushed back her mop of hair. “Hello?” No answer, but something in the upper branches skittered and shook leaves down into her hair. “Hello!”
        “Fennel?” She frowned. The head priest stood below, holding Violet. “Not again...” He averted his eyes until she was safely grounded and had straightened her skirt. “Did—you do this, Fennel?” She followed his eyes to the robin’s corpse.
        “No, sir. Some animal, maybe. It went for the eggs.”
        “I see.” She reached for her child; when the man recoiled, she hastily shook leaves and twigs from her hair. “If it’s hunger, child, you may say so. The kitchens are always open to you—”
        “No! No, sir!” She clenched her hands. “t wasn’t me. You’re all so kind to me and treat me so well. I, I would never do that to God’s creatures, never.” He studied her for a long moment before his eyes softened, and he released Violet into her mother’s arms. She began to jiggle the baby to soothe her as she fussed—and then froze, just for a moment. 
          “Is she well?” the priest asked.
          “Oh yes, father. Just heavier than I remembered. She grows so much every minute!” He smiled.
          “They do grow so fast. Enjoy your time while you have it.” The priest turned to go, then glanced back.
           “Fennel?”
           “Yes, father?”
          “No more climbing. Violet needs her mother.”
          “No, father.” She buried her face against her child until she heard the door close. She clenched her hand hard around what she’d found in Violet’s chubby fist: a spider-silk rope and a nail hook that dug into her palm. 

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