Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [24]
“I shall be happy to tell you that she is doing well, or not so well,” she replied.
“I don’t care about her skin!” Zoe snapped. “You can take care of that, I have no doubt. She is recently widowed. I am interested in her state of mind, the strength of her character.”
Anna hesitated on the brink of further restrictions on what she felt free to say, then decided it would be pointless. It would anger Zoe for no reason. She would decide how much to tell her later.
“I’ll go straight away,” she said graciously.
Zoe smiled. “Thank you.”
• • •
Euphrosane Dalassena was in her late twenties, but at first she seemed younger. Her features were excellent and she should have been lovely, but there was a certain insipidity about her, and Anna wondered if it were due to illness. She lay on a couch, her light brown hair unadorned, her skin a little waxy. Anna had been shown in by a serving woman, who remained in the unimaginatively ornamented room, standing by the doorway.
Anna introduced herself and asked all the usual questions about symptoms. Then she examined the painful rash that spread across Euphrosane’s back and lower abdomen. She seemed to have a slight temperature and was clearly both embarrassed and distressed by her condition. Her eyes never left Anna’s face, always waiting for the verdict, trying to interpret every expression.
Finally she could bear it no longer. “I go to confession every other day, and I know of no sin of which I have not repented,” she exclaimed. “I’ve fasted and prayed, but nothing comes to my mind. Please help me!”
“God does not punish you for what you can’t help,” Anna said quickly, then immediately wondered at her daring. That was her own conviction, but was it the doctrine of the Church? She felt the blood burn up her face.
Euphrosane’s logic was perfect. “Then I must be able to help it,” she said plaintively. “What haven’t I done? I have prayed to Saint George, who is the patron saint of skin diseases, but he is patron saint of a lot of things. So I have also prayed to Saint Anthony the Abbot, just in case I should be more specific. I attend Mass every day, I go to confession, I give alms to the poor and offerings to the Church. Where have I fallen so far short that this has happened to me? I don’t understand.” She lay back on the couch.
Anna drew in her breath to say that it was nothing to do with sin of any kind, omission or commission, but realized that that might be viewed as heresy.
Euphrosane was still watching her, the sweat dampening her skin and making her hair lank. Anna must answer or lose Euphrosane’s faith in her.
“Could it be that your sin lies in not trusting God’s love enough?” she said, shocked at her own words. “I will give you medicine to take, and ointment to have your maid put on the blisters. Each time you do so, pray, and believe that God loves you, personally.”
“How could He?” Euphrosane said wretchedly. “My husband died young, before he had achieved half the things he could have, and I did not even bear a child! Now I am afflicted with an illness so ugly no other man will want me. How could God love me? I am doing something terribly wrong, and I don’t even know what it is.”
“Yes, you are,” Anna said vehemently. “How dare you dismiss yourself as useless or ugly? God does not need you to get everything right, because nobody is going to do that, but He does expect you to try, and to trust Him.”
Euphrosane stared at her in wonder. “I understand,” she said, the confusion gone. “I shall repent, immediately.”
“And use the medicine as well,” Anna warned. “He gave us herbs and oils, and intelligence to understand their purpose. Don’t throw His gift back at Him. That would be ingratitude, which is also a very serious sin indeed.” And it would make the whole exercise pointless, but she could not tell her that.
“I will! I will!” Euphrosane promised.
A week later, Euphrosane was completely healed, which made