too dangerous. What if Rosa cannot answer Lady Margaret's questions, or recognize in Little Eleanor a close friend? No, it can't be done."
"Rosa can refuse to speak to those who've abused you," I said. "Everyone would understand this. She need only appear."
This hadn't occurred to Fluria obviously.
She began to pace the floor and to wring her hands. All my life, I'd heard that expression: to wring one's hands. But I'd never seen anyone do it until now.
It struck me that I knew this woman better now than I knew anyone in the world. It was an odd and chilling thought, not because I loved her any less, but because I couldn't bear to think of my own life.
"But if it could be done, for Rosa to come here," I asked, "how many in the Jewry know that you had twins? How many know your father, and knew you in Oxford?"
"Too many, but none will speak of it," she insisted. "Remember, to my people, a child who converts is dead and gone, and no one even mentions her name. We never made mention of it when we came here. And no one spoke of Rosa to us. And I would say it is the best-kept secret in the Jewry right now."
She went on speaking as if she needed to reason through it.
"Under the law, Rosa might have lost all her own property, inherited from her first stepfather, simply for converting. No, there are those who know here, but they know in silence and our physician and our elders can see that they remain quiet."
"And what of your father? Have you written to tell him that Lea is dead?" "No, and even if I did he would burn the letter unopened. He promised me that he would do this if ever I wrote to him.
"And as for Meir, in his sorrow and misery, he blames himself for Lea's taking sick because he brought us here. He imagines that, snug and safe in Oxford, she might never have taken ill. He has not written to my father. But that does not mean that my father does not know. He has too many friends here for him not to know."
She began to cry again.
"He will see it as God's punishment," she whispered through her tears, "of that I'm sure."
"What do you want me to do?" I asked. I wasn't at all sure we would be in agreement, but she was obviously clever and reflective and the hour was late.
"Go to Godwin," she said, and her face softened as she spoke his name. "Go to him and ask him to come here and calm the Dominican brethren. Have him insist upon our innocence. Godwin is greatly admired within the order. He studied with Thomas and Albert before they left to begin their preaching and teaching in Italy. Surely Godwin's writings on Maimonides and Aristotle are known even here. Godwin will come on my account, I know that he will, and because ... because Lea was his child."
Again her tears flowed. She looked frail standing there in the candlelight with her back to the cold window, and I could hardly bear it.
For a moment I thought I heard voices in the distance and some other errant sound in the wind. But as she did not appear to hear it, I didn't say anything about it. I wanted so to hold her as my sister, if only I could.
"Maybe Godwin can reveal the entire truth and be done with it," she said, "and make the Black Friars understand that we did not kill our daughter. He is a witness to my character and my soul."
This obviously gave her hope. It gave me hope too.
"Oh, would it be a great thing to be rid of this terrible lie," she said. "And as we speak, you and I, Meir is writing for sums of money to be donated. Debts will be remitted. Why, I would face utter ruin, all my property gone, if only I could take Meir with me away from this terrible place. If only I knew I had brought no harm to the Jews of Norwich, who have in other times suffered so much."
"That would be the best solution, no doubt of it," I said, "because an imposture would carry dreadful risks. Even your Jewish friends might say or do something to undo it. But what if the town won't accept the truth? Not even from Godwin? It will be too late to insist upon the