Even now, when I see a puddle in my path, my mind half-halts— though my feet do not— then hurries on, with only the echo of the thought left behind.
What if, this time, you fall?
requested by @notevenjokingrightnow
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“What’s that little candle for?” Willie asked. “Grannie says only stinking Papists burn candles in front of heathen images.“
“Well, I am a stinking Papist,” Jamie said, with a wry twist of his mouth. “It’s no a heathen image, though; it’s a statue of the Blessed Mother.”
“You are?” Clearly this revelation only added to the boy’s fascination. “Why do Papists burn candles before statues, then?”
Jamie rubbed a hand through his hair. “Aye, well. It’s…maybe a way of praying—and remembering. Ye light the candle, and say a prayer and think of people ye care for. And while it burns, the flame remembers them for ye.”
“Who do you remember?” Willie glanced up at him. His hair was standing on end, rumpled by his earlier distress, but his blue eyes were clear with interest.
“Oh, a good many people. My family in the Highlands—my sister and her family. Friends. My wife.” And sometimes the candle burned in memory of a young and reckless girl named Geneva, but he did not say that.
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