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The sacrificial fire had burned down to embers. The screams of the victims were silent, though Oroveso could still hear them echoing in his ears. Once the fire cooled, the ashes and bones of the faithless priestess and her Roman lover would be scattered outside the village; a priestess who broke her vows was not worthy of a grave. It was sacred law and could not be broken, even for the chief druid of the tribes. Even for his own blood. He sat alone in his hut, his head bowed, while the sky darkened outside.

Eventually, one of his attendants came in to light the lamps and ask if he wanted dinner.

“No,” he said heavily. After a moment, “Bring Clotilde to me.”

When she arrived, Clotilde faced him without overt defiance, but without fear. Oroveso had thought himself prepared for this conversation. Clotilde had every reason to bow her head before him; was she too not shamefully guilty, complicit in concealing Norma’s secrets? If her part were known, Clotilde would likely be cast out into exile.

But as Clotilde stood before him in silence, Oroveso found that too many questions clamored on his tongue. First of all, Why? How could his daughter, the high priestess of their tribe, break her vows for so long and so shamelessly? How was it even possible to conceal a pregnancy, the very existence of children? How could she have chosen to betray her people over and over again for a Roman? Could she truly have loved him, and was it even possible that he had loved her? In the end, the two of them had entered the fire smiling, hand in hand. And perhaps worst of all: had Norma never intended to tell him?

Oroveso heaved a deep sigh. “I wish to see the children,” he said.

“Which children do you mean?” Clotilde’s face revealed nothing. Of course, she had helped Norma to hide the truth all these years—!

He sighed again. “Norma told me, before—She told me. I have promised to protect them.” He shook his head slowly. “You need fear nothing from me. Where are the children now?”

Clotilde hesitated a moment, then gave in. “In Norma’s house,” she said softly. “Adalgisa is watching them.”

“Adalgisa?” His indignation reawakened. “Was she part of this too?” If Norma had entangled a young maiden of the temple in her guilt . . .

“Adalgisa knew nothing of the children, until yesterday,” Clotilde said sharply. “She is innocent. She found out . . .” Clotilde hesitated. “Her part in this was only ill-fortune,” she continued more quietly. “Do not blame her, Oroveso.”

Oroveso shook his head, resigned. “I will not ask,” he said wearily. “Let it all be forgotten.” Though in truth, the secrets and so much left unknown, the doubt that he had ever truly known his daughter, would continue to sting for some time. “Bring me to the children.”

Adalgisa gasped when they came in, jumping to her feet. She looked as fearful and guilty as if she expected to be hauled off to the fire herself. Oroveso could see that her eyes were red with weeping. At that, any remaining anger drained away. The girl wept for Norma, her beloved priestess and mentor, and he felt his own grief heavy inside him.

Clotilde drew Adalgisa aside, murmuring words of reassurance.

“Be at ease, Adalgisa,” Oroveso said stiffly. “I have come to see the children.” His gaze moved to the alcove draped with furs, where two young boys lay drowsily curled together. One was playing with the frayed edge of a bearskin, the other idly poking his brother’s foot.

Oroveso slowly walked across to them. He found words did not come to him, so he stooped and gathered one of the boys into his arms. The child made a sleepy protest, but then let his head settle against Oroveso’s chest.

Oroveso swallowed. It was a moment before he could speak. “I will arrange something,” he said. “A trustworthy man, to bring them in as if found on a journey . . . They are orphans—that much is true. They can be raised here in this village.” He looked at Clotilde. “They already know you, it seems. Will you continue to care for them?”

“I will,” Clotilde said at once. “Norma was dear to me.” Beside her, Adalgisa was weeping silently.

Oroveso put the boy back next to his brother and laid his hand gently on the second boy’s head. He had to clear his throat again. “They will be provided for,” he said. “I swear by Irminsul’s holy altar, they will lack for nothing while I live.”

And then he went out into the night, where the full moon shone bright and clear above him, to be alone with his grief.