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Or the Horse May Learn to Sing

Written by Virginia DeMarce

Christmas Vacation, 1634

The Reverend Al Green opened the back door into the rectory kitchen, stomped the snow off his boots, shook it off his hat, kissed his wife Claudette, looked around, spotted their adopted children Clemens and Emilia helping the maid accomplish various food-associated chores, and asked, "Where's Anthony? Isn't he going to be home for supper?"

Allen, the Greens' older son, looked up from the book he was reading and called through from the once-upon-a-time television room off the kitchen that was now his bedroom since they'd adopted Emilia, "Hi, Dad. Gone with some of his friends to look at the outdoor manger scene at the Lutheran Church. Back later."

Grantville's Baptist minister laughed. "That seems harmless enough."

****

"We really shouldn't be doing this," Anthony Green said. "Not here."

Carly Baumgardner giggled. "Why not? It's fun. Not as handy as Mrs. Genucci's gazebo was when the weather was warmer, but it's been pretty hard to find any place we can get together this winter. Over Thanksgiving, we didn't have a chance at all. And we never do when school's in session full time. Because you're either doing homework on weekday evenings or at church with your folks on the weekends."

"Even so." Anthony looked anxious. "Carly, it's a manger scene. Right here between St. Martin in the Fields church and Countess Kate school. It's religious."

She reached over and tickled him. "But it's still fun. Or . . . isn't it still fun, for you?"

"I worry about what could happen."

"We've lucked out so far.

****

Jonas Justinus Muselius locked the door to the upper-grades schoolroom at Countess Kate and looked across toward the church, thinking he had heard something. What? A girl's voice? From the manger scene?

Then there were footsteps. "Jonas," someone called. "I was hoping we could catch you before you left."

"Oh," he smiled.

Gerry Stone came around the corner of the church, his friends Denise Beasley and Minnie Hugelmair with him.

"We were wondering . . ."

The four of them moved away, down the slight incline toward the trolley stop.

Ohrdruf, State of Thuringia-Franconia, February 1635

The silent household worship in the small section of Schloss Ehrenstein that the will of the late and last count of Gleichen had assigned to his widow as a residence came to a close. Not that anything had happened. The practice of worship in a faith that rejected both written scriptures and the sacraments tended to be quiet almost always. Direct revelations from the Holy Spirit were, in the nature of things, rare. The countess withdrew to her private chambers, accompanied by her lady-in-waiting, Fräulein Effler. Two maids, sent in the by steward, began to remove the chairs they had gathered in the center of the room to their usual locations, neatly against the walls.

"Her faith is greater than mine," Ezechiel Meth said to his mother.

Die Stiefelin looked after their patroness. "Her faith is remarkable indeed. Perhaps even greater than that of my late brother Esaias. She still lives in hope that since God brought about such a miracle for Sarah, he will bring about such a miracle for her. Not merely that God can, because of course he can. But that he in fact will."

****

"I hereby declare that Countess Erdmuthe Juliana of Honstein . . ." The voice behind the bullhorn continued to boom.

The woman looked out the window of her residence which was, effectively, a townhouse fronting directly upon the street. If she had been living at one of her late husband's castles, out in the countryside, the demonstrators could never have come so near.

". . . Dowager Countess of Gleichen . . ."

She laughed, a little bitterly.

"Make that 'widow of the late Count Johann Ludwig of Gleichen,' why don't you?" she said to the window pane. "You need a lesson in heraldry, you insolent little man. It's impossible to be a dowager when there is no new count. When the county itself has become extinct and the lands have fallen to distant cousins such as Hohenlohe."

". . . once again harboring in her household Ezechiel Meth, chymicus, relapsed from his solemn vow to return to the practice of orthodox Lutheranism . . ."

"Does our steward know who is speaking, Lämmerhirt?" The countess addressed these words, more or less, in the direction of an elderly man standing by the other window.

"Pankratz Holz, I believe, My Lady. A Silesian. For several years now, he has been an errand boy for Superintendent Melchior Tilesius in Langensalza. Most recently he has been in Grantville, I understand. I am somewhat surprised to see him here."

"Not if there is trouble to foment." The lady-in-waiting, at least as old as the steward, moved away from the fireplace to join him in looking out the window. "Neither of them has any jurisdiction here. Not even if the Erfurt city council gave them permission, as they claim."

"Who would have jurisdiction?" the countess asked.

Lämmerhirt shook his head. "I have no idea. First the New United States and now the government of the State of Thuringia-Franconia have refused to accept any responsibility for supervising the Lutheran churches of the county of Gleichen as it formerly existed. The peculiar entity that chooses to call itself Vasa County, Thuringia, which embodies all the parts of the former county of Gleichen that West Virginia County—that's the new name for the Ring of Fire, Grantville and its surroundings—had not already annexed, will, I suppose, set up a superintendency. When it gets sufficiently organized. Until then, the pastors and congregations in the cities are being supervised by the city councils. The villages are appealing to the various neighboring superintendencies for aid and assistance when they encounter any problem above the strictly parish level. Without any kind of authorization, I must add, which is probably why Count Ludwig Guenther has been so reluctant to become involved in the problem, even though he, in Rudolstadt, is as close to Ohrdruf as Tilesius."

"And why Tilesius has not been reluctant at all." The countess pressed her face against the window again. "He has been looking to destroy the followers of my prophet for thirty years now. He must see this as an unequaled opportunity."

A man standing behind Holz—behind the man who was probably Holz—bent over, picked up a stone, and threw it at the window where the countess was standing.

She flinched back. The stone cracked one of the panes several feet above her head and then rattled down the window before it bounced off the sill and landed on the ground next to the front steps.

Fräulein Effler moved across the room and grasped her shoulder. "My Lady, come away."

The countess shook her head. "Why won't the SoTF government take charge of this? Deal with this kind of thing?"

"It's in their constitution," the steward said. "Separation of church and state, it's called. That the government has no authority over matters of faith. The up-timers are said to be utter fanatics on the topic, which is why, so far, they have forbidden the city council to arrest us because of our beliefs."

The countess turned. "So the SoTF will not persecute. Will it protect? That might be too much to expect. But I am sure that this 'hands-off policy' shouldn't extend to permitting actual violence by one religious group against another. Does it? Do we know?" She looked toward the rear of the townhouse. "Has anyone summoned the watch?"

"Ezechiel said that he would send one of the stableboys. But I'm sure that whatever the SoTF believes, the city council of Ohrdruf has no interest in protecting us." The older woman sighed. "Rather, they are probably looking for a member of Your Ladyship's household to commit some kind of violence in return. Hoping for it, rather—which would give them an excuse to arrest us. Just as the Erfurt city council arrested us when we were in Gispersleben, at St. Kilian's. In Solomonsborn. So long ago."

"Arrest us, when we are the ones being attacked?"

"Who is there to testify to that? Other than we ourselves? Whose testimony the city council will refuse to accept."

There hadn't been any more stones. The countess returned to the window.

The man with the bullhorn continued to declaim.

****

"You just can't let it keep going on. Somebody's going to get hurt." Fred Jordan, right at the moment, dealing with the city council of Ohrdruf, was not appreciating his job as liaison between West Virginia County and outside-the-Ring of Fire law enforcement agencies. Which had led him into being, right at the moment, Ed Piazza's personal emissary to Ohrdruf.

"I don't believe you quite understand," the deputy mayor of Ohrdruf answered.

Fred realized that it was a status thing. They—being the deputy mayor and two other guys—were communicating that he wasn't important enough to deserve a face-to-face with the mayor himself.

"The countess has been residing in Ohrdruf quite voluntarily. She is under no obligation to remain here. Not the slightest. She could always go live somewhere else on the income she receives from her dower lands. Erfurt, for example. There are nice townhouses in Erfurt. Also, I understand, a significant number of your up-timers now live in Erfurt. Perhaps they would wish to take her and her household of extremists under their protection."

"The point," Fred said patiently, "is that she and her folks, whatever they believe and no matter how peculiar it is, have a perfect right to live anywhere in the State of Thuringia-Franconia. Undisturbed."

One of the other guys—the lawyer type, Fred remembered—rustled through a folder of papers. "According to the false prophet Esaias Stiefel," he said solemnly, "the countess was to be the designated mother of the Messiah at his second coming."

Fred swallowed. His parents weren't church members and he'd never gone himself, back when he was growing up. He'd had to take a kind of short course after he proposed to Bitsy. She was Presbyterian and wanted to get married in church. Old Enoch Wiley wouldn't do the ceremony unless he went through with that. Then, after the kids came along, he'd joined up, because Bitsy said it would be less confusing for them.

Not that he ever actually went, except for the kids' programs and such. But he was pretty sure that some lady giving birth to the baby Jesus again was not in the curriculum.

Even so. He looked at the lawyer. "If that's what she wants to think, she's got a right to. Weird just isn't a prosecutable offense, Mister."

"I beg to disagree," the lawyer type answered. "I have right here–my researcher found it at the state library—a discussion of the limits on freedom of speech under the constitution of the United States of America. One of the justices of your up-time supreme court wrote that the right of free speech did not extend 'to yelling fire in a crowded theater.' The beliefs of the countess and her household are the religious equivalent of that kind of provocation."

"I expect," Fred answered, "that you're going to need to talk to one of Ed Piazza's legal staff to iron this out. I was just a deputy sheriff. But I don't mind saying that I'm here to tell you that you've got to keep a handle on the demonstrations. Holz and his guys can picket and proclaim all they want, but if there are any more rocks, somebody's going to arrest them. If it isn't you and your watch, it will be the SoTF. We don't have a state police yet, but we do have the Mounted Constabulary and he'll send them in if he has to."

Grantville

There was a flash of light. April Lafferty put her hands on her hips, looked at the overhead fixture, and said, "Oh shit."

"April." A reproachful voice came from the next room.

"The bulb blew out."

"That doesn't excuse unladylike language."

"Sorry, Mildred."

For the five hundredth time, she wished that her mother's house had a basement, where she could work in peace. But the rock around Grantville didn't lend itself to basements. She looked at her work bench again, then up at the light fixture. She'd have to sweet talk Mildred out of another bulb.

She could predict it now. At least one more apology for the bad language. Up to three more apologies. Two serious conversations about keeping a closer eye on Carly. A couple of extra turns at doing the dishes, since Mildred thought Carly was sloppy about them. At least one trip to the Senior Citizens' Center to play games with the old folks. Mildred didn't approve of either cards or bingo, so a weekend wouldn't work. It would mean giving up a Thursday, which was their board games night. Mildred would play Clue or Chinese Checkers or Uno. Scrabble. That sort of thing. Scrabble was her favorite.

Mildred was really stingy with her light bulbs. After it had hit her what the Ring of Fire meant, she'd gone through her and old Horace's house and taken all but one bulb out of every lamp in every room. Wrapped them up carefully in wadded newspaper and stored them. Brought them along when she moved over to Mom's.

Which did mean, at least, that they were among the comparatively few families in Grantville that still had a stash of light bulbs.

****

"What do you think, Claudette?" Al Green asked. He relied heavily on his wife. On her common sense. On her good heart. He told her so often. "It's what Mildred Baumgardner wants. She's a faithful member of the church. So was Horace, before he died. But her grandson has never testified to his faith . . ."

Claudette frowned. What she wanted to say was that the Baumgardners had been so estranged from their son Zane, and so hostile to the woman he had, eventually, married, several years after Ronnie was born, that they hadn't made any real effort to give the boy a Christian upbringing back when it might have done some good. But she had to live up to the "good heart" bit, even if sometimes, in private, she thought that her husband was a more than a bit unworldly and needed a keeper just about as much as he needed a spouse. Or maybe more than he needed a spouse. Still . . . she supposed she had to talk him through it, to the point that his own good heart would override all the scruples that seminary had instilled in him.

"They don't want to make a big fuss about the wedding, do they? No gigantic production with white satin and the trimmings? Not so soon after the mine disaster."

"They couldn't afford it, even if they did want to. Megan and Mariah both—I have to give credit where it's due, even if they aren't from a churchgoing family—have been supporting themselves and pitching right in to help their grandparents ever since the Ring of Fire. Not by themselves, of course. Della Frost and Jennie Lou Burston help with Glenette's expenses, and Gayleen, Robyn, and Samantha with Sandra's, ever since John's been gone. Still . . . except for Della, their aunts all have children of their own who have to be fed and clothed and housed. I'm pretty sure the girls don't do more than just get by."

"Megan's not pregnant, is she?" Claudette thought that if she was, that might be what had Al worried. Part of the marriage counseling materials they used advised strongly against "have to" marriages as not being a good basis for an enduring commitment—too likely to lead to divorce.

"Not as far as I know. It's not a 'short notice' marriage. They've been engaged quite a while. Several months, at least. She's not very feminine, though. Is she likely to make a good wife? A heavy equipment operator for the Streets and Roads Department?"

"So's Crystal Blocker—Dorrman, now—and you married her to Walt here in the church."

"She's actually a member. So's Walt Dorrman. Megan Collins isn't. Neither is Ronnie Baumgardner."

"It doesn't seem very . . . welcoming . . . to tell them to go to city hall and get it over with."

"They want Ronnie's brother and Megan's sister as the attendants—witnesses. Garrett's still in high school. Allen says he's planning to join the army as soon as he graduates. It's all right legally as far as being a witness is concerned; he's over eighteen now. As a member of the wedding party, though . . . Neither of them is a member of the church. And Mariah went off to be an actress last summer. My father always thought . . ."

"That actresses are immoral. And I'm sure that some of them are. Anyone who ever stood in a grocery store line reading the tabloid headlines could figure that much out." Claudette paused. "But that doesn't mean that Mariah Collins is. I've never heard anything against her. Not that she's wild, I mean."

"What do you think, then?"

"Does Mildred insist on having it in the church sanctuary? Or would she be satisfied with the fellowship hall? Especially since they won't be having a lot of guests. Thirty or so people, maybe, including all the kids? That way . . ." Claudette paused. "You could think of yourself as just being an officiant, not a minister. After all, it's the state that licenses you to perform marriages, not the church. Well, it's West Virginia County now, but it will probably be the state again once they get new legislation covering matrimony in place. So . . ."

"Closer to fifty, probably," he said, picking up on the number of guests expected. "They don't plan to have a reception, so they won't need the fellowship hall to set one up."

"Even fifty people will look a little isolated up in the church. So suggest the fellowship hall. We—the Ladies Aid, I mean—can decorate it for them. Tell them that it will be a friendlier atmosphere downstairs, considering the number of guests they're inviting. After all, we want 'friendly.' Maybe they'll come back and actually start attending church if they see 'friendly.' I'll talk to Mildred—explain your reasoning."

"Soft-soap her, you mean." Al Green smiled. "That will work. We can do it that way."

****

"I feel really strange being here," Carly whispered. "In a church, I mean. Thanks for sitting next to me, or I'd have freaked out by now."

She hoped that the piano would drown out anything she said.

"Good grief, Carly. It's your brother's wedding. You're not in the church, anyway. This is just the basement."

"Even so, Anthony. I don't think I've ever been in a church before. I'm glad we're not upstairs. I'd feel even worse. I guess it never sunk in, quite, before, that your father really is a preacher."

Mildred Baumgardner turned around in her chair. "Hush, you two. Here come Garrett and Mariah. Ronnie and Megan will come in right after them."

****

"Thanks for everything," April Lafferty said. The rest of the family had gone. She'd stayed behind to gather up anything that needed to be carried back home. A couple of vases with bittersweet and cattail arrangements in them. A pine cone wreath that she'd put colored candles in. She looked around. She'd done her best, but she hadn't been able to find a lot of festive stuff in the middle of winter. "I'll write a note to your Ladies Aid thanking them for bringing the rest of the decorations. Ah, just in case . . ." She didn't want to say just in case that Ronnie and Megan didn't. It wasn't the sort of thing that was likely to occur to either of them.

"It's too bad that the rest of Ronnie's family couldn't be here." Claudette Green switched the subject of the conversation tactfully.

"Ray's in Wismar; so's Mom. Vance is with the army in Erfurt and couldn't get away. That's what he said, at least, and it would have been three days, I guess. One to get here, one for the wedding, and one to go back. Right in the middle of the week. Uh. I meant thanks for everything, Mr. and Mrs. Green. Not just for doing the wedding. For back in January and all. With the mine."

"You did very well," Al Green said. "Kept your head. Did everything you could have. Several people said how well you kept your cool."

"That was on the outside. Not the inside."

"If you ever feel like you need to talk about it," Claudette offered, "come and talk to me. Any time you need an ear."

April looked a little guilty. "I'd hate to use up your ear when I don't belong here at your church. You know, the three of us Lafferty kids are on the rolls at the Church of Christ. At least, Grandpa Dave put us there when we were little. Maybe Ray got himself taken off—Christina's a Lutheran and I'm pretty sure he joined that church up there in Wismar so they could get married. But I've hardly been to church since Grandpa Dave died, and that's when I was two years old. Ray was ten, then; Vance was four."

"Come anyway," Claudette said. "I don't care where you're officially enrolled, so to speak."

"I might then." April took a deep breath. "Sometimes, living with Mildred—sometimes I could bend your ear right off, I bet."

****

Zane Baumgardner opened one eye. "I'm not drunk, y'know," he said. "Just lazy. Haven't been drunk for months."

The down-timer standing next to his bed looked down at him. "Probably because you can't afford to be. You left your door unlocked again."

"Oh, damn. Somebody would probably rob me blind if I had anything worth stealing." He opened the other eye. "You're back. You're not going away, are you?"

"Not yet."

"Who the hell are you? I know, you told me the last time you showed up, but I managed to forget it. Tried real hard. Took a lot of doing, but I managed it."

"My name is Ludwig Kastenmayer."

"Don't mean a fucking thing to me."

"I am the Lutheran pastor at Saint Martin's in the Fields."

"Still don't mean a fucking thing to me."

"When did your ancestors cease to be Lutheran?"

Zane groaned, sat up, and threw his legs over the edge of the mattress.

"I don't know if they ever were. Why ask me? Ask my righteous dad. No, wait, he's dead." He rubbed a hand over the stubble on his chin. "Let me shave, will you?"

"Gladly. Shall I heat some water for you? I'm afraid that your electricity has been turned off for non-payment, but the gas stove appears to function still."

"Natural gas. Direct hookup. No point in paying for bottled gas if you don't need it." Zane stood up. "Ask the genealogy club."

"About what?"

"When my ancestors stopped being Lutheran. If they ever were."

"I did. They don't know."

"Oh, hell. Yeah. My grandpa was from up in Pennsylvania somewhere. Pennsylvania Dutch, they call them. Germans, though."

"That is obvious from your name."

"Then go look it up at the library. They probably stopped being Lutheran somewhere between when the Pennsylvania Dutch got to Pennsylvania and when my grandpa came down to West Virginia to work in the mines. And that's the best I can do for you." He grabbed for a shaving mug, brush, strop, and straight razor. "I have a safety razor, but I can't afford the new blades they're making down-time. This, I can just sharpen. He died when I was three—my grandpa. This is all I have that was his. We weren't exactly in the family heirloom category."

****

"I brought cheese sandwiches."

"You don't give up, do you? Pastor Klicketyklack or whatever you're called."

"Rarely."

"Why the hell do you care? Talk to Dad's sisters. Kit Fisher and Ila May Thornton. Maybe they remember something. They'll remember more than my mom. Ila May married one of those Mormons. She'll be your best bet. But her husband will try to convert you."

"I am prepared to do the same to him."

"Hell. Wish I could see it." Zane choked and laid his sandwich down. "That's the first time I've laughed for longer than I can remember."

"Why are you living without electricity? I have become very fond of it. Of the telephone, as well. Which you also no longer have because no one has paid the bill. Would you be interested in selling the telephone set? Or the remaining light bulbs? There are customers for such items, you know."

"I'm living without electricity and the telephone because Cheryl Ann isn't around any more to pay the bills. And to tell the truth, no, I don't really mind doing without them. I've rigged up a cistern on the roof, so unless we have a real drought, I'll still be able to flush. Now, that I would miss. Does that shock you, Pastor Klusterfucker or whatever you call yourself?"

"Not really."

"About those bills. I'm not going back into the mine. I'd rather live without than go back into the mine."

"I understand that you have other skills. Another trade."

"Because of the last few years—hell, it's getting closer to fifteen years than ten—nobody's likely to hire me. Chad Jenkins sure won't and he's pretty much got the small appliance business here in town cornered. Once he gets the idea that a guy's unreliable, it's in his head for good. I've been doing some stuff for Ted Moritz—reconditioning, repairing, when he manages to get hold of used stuff to put into his new construction."

****

"If you're willing to try to convert old Harold Thornton from being a Mormon, not that you're having any luck, why aren't you trying to convert me?" Zane asked.

Ludwig Kastenmayer smiled. "I am a patient man. Also, I was informed before my first visit that you are not the religious type."

****

"Our family doesn't really do church," Mariah explained. "Um, I know you go to Pastor Kastenmayer's. The one out on the Rudolstadt road. Like Eddie Junker does. April said so. I, uh, well, I asked her. It's not that I have anything against it, you understand."

"Aren't you glad that Pastor Kastenmayer is helping Ronnie's dad," Hans-Fritz Zuehlke asked.

Mariah and Megan both looked . . . a little doubtful.

"Zane needed help," Megan offered. Tentatively. "It's not that we didn't know that. Everybody in town knew that. He's needed it for a long time. It's just . . ."

"We're not church ladies," Mariah said. "Maybe Megan can explain it better than I can."

"On our mom's side, the Baxters, our aunts and uncle got converted at some point, at a big revival meeting at the Church of Christ that Aunt Della's husband went to. Still goes to."

"Yes."

"After that, they hassled our mom to get converted, too. Mom didn't take well to being hassled. So after that, we didn't see much of them. I was actually surprised that they came to the wedding when Ronnie and me invited them. And the Collinses don't go to church at all, except for Samantha. She joined Steve Jennings' church when they got married. That's Presbyterian, but not the Reverend Wiley's church. They went to someplace in Fairmont before the Ring of Fire." Megan giggled. "Actually, there were probably more Collinses in the basement of the Baptist church for our wedding than had been in any church in the last ten years, all put together."

"So," Mariah said a little anxiously. "It's not that we aren't grateful to Pastor Kastenmayer. I know that Ronnie is—isn't he, Megan?"

Megan nodded.

"It's just that it's all a little strange to us."

****

"I'm not really sure that I am courting her," Hans-Fritz said to Jonas Justinus Muselius. "I am escorting her. Which is a fascinating word play in English—escorting, courting. How are they connected? Linguistically, I mean. Perhaps not at all. But if I were courting her. No, that is in the present tense, although subjunctive. If I were to be courting her, at some time in the future . . ." His voice trailed off.

"Saint Martin's is delighted to welcome new members. As with the weddings we are preparing to celebrate in April."

"Yeah, sure. But. As far as I know, from what I've heard around town, none of those guys actually resisted being turned into Lutherans."

"No. They proved to be quite cooperative. Of course, they were all heathen to start with."

"So is Mariah Collins. But I am not sure that she would be that . . . compliant. That is, I'm not sure that conversion-by-matrimony would work with her."

"Then, perhaps, she is not the wife you are looking for. If you are just considering that it is time that you get married, which it probably is, it would be simpler for you to fix your attentions on someone who is already a Lutheran. With your advantages, government position, salary—you shouldn't have any difficulty in attracting an appropriate wife."

Hans-Fritz picked a pen out of his shirt pocket and started playing with it. Looked down and noticed what he was doing.

"I like many up-time things," he said abruptly. "Shirt pockets, among them. And a world in which one can keep the things one needs openly available, on the outside of one's shirt, in view of others, rather than hidden inside one's doublet."

Jonas nodded.

"You're marrying Ronella Koch, aren't you? An up-timer?"

"Yes."

"If she hadn't been a Lutheran already—didn't want to be one—would you have given up the idea that easily?"

Jonas frowned. "It wasn't an issue, of course, so I hadn't really thought about it."

Hans-Fritz waited.

"I don't know." Jonas paused. "That isn't the truth. No, I would not have been dissuaded. This new world in which we are living can be very complex."

"So?"

"The first thing, I suppose—you will need to ascertain if Mariah would object to having your children baptized."

"That's not the easiest topic to bring up when a man's not even sure if he's courting a woman."

Jonas smiled. "You're not dumb. You'll figure something out, if it's important enough to you. Or when it becomes important enough to you."

Ohrdruf, early March 1635

"Damn, but these roofs have a steep pitch." Harley Thomas switched his grip from one rope to another. "I'm too old to be climbing around up here."

"Snow load." Fred Jordan shook his head. "You should have seen this place during the winter. It's a little basin, right at the foot of the Thüringerwald. The weather comes over the mountains and dumps on it."

"Who's the guy with the bullhorn today? I thought Pankratz Holz was gone."

"He is. Back to his little storefront church in Grantville. He just came over here, stirred the pot for a bit, and went back to making his other mischief."

"Then why isn't this tapering off?" Harley looked down from his perch on the roof of Countess Erdmuthe Juliana's section of Schloss Ehrenstein, peering around the false gables.

"Sometimes, once something starts, it just keeps its own momentum." Fred Jordan looked around. "We've got everyone in place. The countess and her ladies are on deposit in the mayor's house, and I've made pretty clear to him that any harm that he lets come to them there . . . Well, the guards I have on duty will let it come to the women in his own family, too. Okay, that's harsh, but I didn't see any other way, short of getting them out of town, and I don't have enough men to manage that. Meth and his men are out in back, in the courtyard. Even the old men, Joachim Rosenbusch and Lämmerhirt, the steward, insisted on staying. I've got to say that they're loyal to her. Fanatical. The windows are boarded up. The building is as secure as we can make it."

Harley beckoned. "Corporal Rempel, do you have the walkie-talkie?"

"Yes."

"Then you take my place. Benisch, you take Jordan's."

They started creeping across the steep roof with its slick slate shingles toward the ladder. One of Harley's feet skidded. "This blasted mist isn't helping."

"Do you suppose that 'secure' is the operative word?" Fred said as he crawled. A wind gust blew the next rope he was supposed to catch just out of his reach. "Damn."

"What do you mean?"

"These guys . . ." Fred grabbed onto a slightly projecting shingle with one hand and waved the other in the general direction of the mob gathered in the street. "They've had a lot of changes to deal with the past few years. Their job security is all broken down, a lot of them. Tailors, shoemakers, people like that. People talk about all the new opportunities, but how many are there, really, for a man up in his fifties with a family to support and the only job he knows is the trade he learned when he was a teenager. What's he supposed to do? Go be an unskilled laborer? These are the people who survived the war, weren't killed off by mercenaries, didn't die of disease. Now we're digging the foundations right out from under a lot of them."

"Which doesn't mean they can come in here and riot against people because they don't like their religious ideas. It's not as if the freaking countess and her oddballs have anything to do with economic changes."

"They're familiar," Fred said. "They're a familiar enemy. And they're here. Ohrdruf's not exactly on the frontier of economic progress. If there was a shoe factory here, they could riot against that. But the factory shoes are coming in from somewhere else. If there was a clothing factory here, they could riot against that. But the sewing machines are in Badenburg and Arnstadt and Rudolstadt. It's just the clothes that are coming in here. Mostly through the Wish Book. How can you riot against a mail order catalog? All they’ve got is that hammer mill, the Tobiashammer, and it can’t employ them all." He pushed himself up on his knees to look down at the street again, groping for the rope. "Oh, hell."

That was when the shingle he was using as his handhold came loose.

****

"I hate doing this," Preston Richards said. "I really, really, hate it. I did it for Ralph and the others last week. Not that one of the Hansens had anyone to notify. Now I'm doing it again."

Bitsy Jordan opened the door. Saw that there were two of them. In uniform. "Press? Harley?"

"Can we come in?"

"Sure. We're back in the music room."

They followed her. Daniel and Leah, her and Fred’s kids, were both sprawled on the floor, doing homework. A man was seated at the piano.

"You know Signor Carissimi. He . . ."

". . . wrote the song about Hans Richter's death." Press reached out his hand. "I haven't had the pleasure, before. Pleased to meet you. Um . . ." He looked at the children.

"Whatever it is," Bitsy said, "they'll need to know. Bad or the worst?"

"The worst," Press admitted. "They're bringing him back."

She sat down on the end of the piano bench. "What goes around, comes around, I guess. Last week . . . Last week I was actually feeling—sort of good, maybe even a little bit smug—that Fred was over there in Ohrdruf. Safely away from what happened at the hospital and the synagogue. As safe as a man could ever be, in his line of work."

She gestured vaguely with her hand. "I'll need to call Jenny Maddox at the funeral home, I guess. To be expecting him. I don't know who else, really, since Reverend Wiley is dead."

Carissimi stood up. "Orval McIntire," he said. "The man who preached the state funeral. Admirable eulogies—the ones he delivered for the mayor and your minister. Stay with Daniel and Leah. I will call them both. That much of the burden, Elizabeth, I can take from your shoulders."

****

"I have decided," Countess Erdmuthe Juliana said.

"The household is leaving Ohrdruf?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps the countess should reconsider. The rural castles are even less safe from attack than we are in town. Think of what the farmers did in Franconia last year, even to strongholds that were in good repair, and defended. Most of the old Gleichen castles are decaying, in poor repair. For decades, there has been no maintenance at all except to the bailiffs' quarters. No staff except one bailiff in each to collect the dues." The steward paused.

"We are moving inside the Ring of Fire. To West Virginia County, where the authorities feel obliged to protect our religious rights. As they have now proved to us. Amply—more than amply, by sacrificing one of their own men."

"Into Grantville?"

"Not into the town itself. Some distance outside of it. The real estate broker to whom their chief of police sent me described it as a 'big, huge, ugly house, out off the highway.' The owners did not reside there permanently. They were from a nearby imperial city, I understand, called 'Washington D.C.' It escheated to the government after the Ring of Fire. There have been different tenants several times in the last few years, but has not been truly convenient for any of the residents." She looked at the paper in her hands. "This Mr. Colburn has assurances from one of the officials, a Mrs. Trout, that they will be delighted to sell it. To 'get it back on the tax rolls,' he said. Hohenlohe will be delighted to have us out of Schloss Ehrenstein. We're ruining the value of his real estate with all these unpleasant events. He's paying me enough to vacate that I can afford to buy the house outright."

"Is it suitable for Your Ladyship?" her elderly lady-in-waiting asked anxiously.

The countess smiled ironically. "For a time, there was consideration of locating Princess Kristina's household there if she came to live in Grantville permanently, so I believe it should be adequate for the needs of a widow and her small retinue."

"Yes."

"It needs repairs, however. Not the repairs that it would need after decades of neglect, like the Drei Gleichen castles. A few years, only. There will be new requirements. I do not want to rely upon outsiders who are not of my household." She looked at the only man in the room. "Let our steward find and employ a man who knows how to repair and maintain the up-time 'appliances' as the real estate broker calls them."

April 1635

"The man we need bargained," Lämmerhirt said. "Bargained very well. Very shrewdly. He has a great deal to offer us and knows it. Not just the necessary training and experience. Also several of these 'light bulbs' that are necessary for the lamps. The former tenants stole all the ones that were originally in the house, it appears, if they had not 'burned out.' I need to ascertain the meaning of that term. Also, a telephone set that can be fastened into this 'jack.'" He walked across the room, bent over, and pointed to a small box affixed to the wall near the baseboard.

"So the household has a new majordomo?"

"Assistant steward. I will not live forever. Perhaps, not even for long. Long enough, I hope, to train this Zane Baumgardner in the necessary duties." The old man paused. "There should be a certain . . . prestige . . . for the countess in having an up-timer in her employ."

"If he does not start drinking to excess again," Margaretha Effler said. "Once he is receiving sufficient wages for him to pay for it."

"Where did you hear that?"

She smiled. "From a friend of a friend who has a cook who knows a cook who works in the household of the pastor of a heterodox church in Grantville." The old woman smiled. "As heterodox as we are, I am sure, from the perspective of Superintendent Tilesius or Pastor Holz. But much more securely placed."

"As we hope to be."

"Baptists," they call themselves.

"This man, though. He is not one of us. Not a believer. I ascertained that."

"No," the lady-in-waiting said. "But his parents were—his mother still is, she is still living—among these 'Baptists.' So perhaps he will have some understanding of our problems. Or can learn, if he cares to." She paused. "What is he like? In person? What does he look like? Short, tall, fat, thin?"

The steward paused. "Tall, like most of the up-timers. Thin. Otherwise? Weathered. Not unattractive, but well-worn."

****

"The great mistake of Martin Luther," Ezechiel Meth said, "was his attachment to the literal word of the written scriptures."

Zane Baumgardner raised an eyebrow. "You folks don't believe in the Bible? I can sort of ...