Giradin knelt in the sanctuary, his hands clasped together as he prayed before the altar. Melcher Fitz had scheduled this part of Giradin's day to spend in prayer, but Giradin hardly knew what he should pray for.

For a moment, he considered praying for God's punishment on the people of Neuhausen for what they did to Father Hewlett, but he remembered the priest's condemnation of curses. "We all deserve God's wrath, my son. What we wish on others we may very well wish on ourselves."

And, indeed, the priest was right. Whenever Giradin thought back to that day, when the town of Neuhausen rioted and attacked the plague doctors, first he'd recall Father Hewlett's screams, then he'd remember that he took an old man hostage and killed a mother in front of her girls. The memory had made Giradin paranoid, and whenever he saw darkness or shadows in the corners of his eyes, he feared it was the Devil, come to claim his soul.

So, he settled on praying for mercy. For himself and for all mankind. He begged God to hold back the plague, and protect the people of Christendom from Hell.

"Ahem." The sound of a clearing throat snapped Giradin's attention back to the present. The abrasive collar on his robe roughly rubbed his neck when he turned to see his visitor. Shlomo stood behind him, clad in the same robe and wearing a black yarmulke in his dark, curly hair.

Shlomo's face was devoid of his usual amused smirk. The expression he wore was dire, and he wrung his hands. "I'm sorry to interrupt."

Giradin stood and brushed off his knees with his hands. "Not at all. I don't know if God really listens to cobblers' prayers anyway."

Shlomo twisted and twirled some of his beard around his left index finger. "I'm sorry, Giradin... it's Sir Bertran..."

Giradin's heart raced when he heard the knight hospitaller's name. "What happened?"

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"He has voluntarily secluded himself in one of the holding cells," said Shlomo. The Jew bit his lip, the words clearly as painful to speak as they were for Giradin to hear. Maybe worse. "He said he's having symptoms of the plague and wants to keep everyone safe."

"Oh, dear God..." Giradin gasped.

Shlomo rested a hand on Giradin's shoulder. "Fitz is making sure he gets all the medicine we can give him. Maybe something will work... Hey! Where are you going?"

Giradin had pushed past Shlomo and headed toward the sanctuary's exit. "I want to see him! I need to talk to him before he--"

"You can't get in to see him!" Shlomo interrupted. "He's in a lonely cell so no one else catches plague. No one's allowed to enter. No one's even allowed near the cell without Melcher Fitz's permission, and the only people he's allowing to get close are our those delivering his drugs. Even they only slide them through a slot in the door."

"I want to speak to him at least!" Giradin protested.

Shlomo nodded vigorously. "I know, and I understand. But you'll need Fitz's permission for that, and he's away right now. You can't go see him today."

"Then why did you bother telling me?" Giradin snapped.

Shlomo shrunk away from Giradin and raised his hands defensively.

Giradin sighed and hung his head. "I'm sorry... That was unworthy."

Shlomo's hands slowly lowered. "Would you rather not know these things? I can keep secrets from you in the future, if you prefer. You can find out about our friends getting sick when you show up for their funerals."

Giradin winced. "No... thank you for telling me, Shlomo."

Shlomo's hands returned to his sides. "Look at it this way, if you had any doubts before about what to pray for I'm sure they're gone now."

Giradin groaned. "How many plague doctors have fallen ill since you've been here?"

"Since I've been here?" Shlomo repeated. "I've only been a plague doctor for two years, so, I'd say about three. But since this chapter was founded? More like twenty."

Giradin nodded. "And... how often have prayer and medicine worked to save their lives?"

"Twice," said Shlomo.

"Only twice..."

Shlomo shook his head. "Not 'only twice,' Giradin. Twice! Since when are two miracles not enough? There's hope for Sir Bertran yet, just like there's hope for the rest of us. The prophet Isaiah said that in those days, 'the wolf will dwell with the lamb and the leopard will lie down with the young goat.'"

"So?" grunted Giradin.

"So, look at me!" Shlomo spread his arms wide. "I'm a Jew who's joined an order run by Christians, and one of my closest friends here is a Moor! This is a dark time, my friend, but in such times miracles can happen."