I would imagine the rector greeting the pair at the church door, probably looking at Rebekha with a thoroughly uncomfortable, disparaging look and a hundred thousand vicious tuts. She would enter the church, trying not to pay attention to the scandal spread liberally by the local gossips. This day, she prayed for naught but the silence of her tiny daughter. Drawing her shawl, tightly around herself and the baby, she listened to the rector’s sermon, probably one that mentioned the sin of fallen women, Hell and damnation. At the end of the service, after liberally anointing the baby’s head, just to make sure, he’d write an entry into the parish records.

Rebekha made no sense of the words that Rector Grant scribed with his long quill pen. Had she been able to read, his words would indeed, have cut her to the core.