Abbot Osbert dismissed Marin. Told him to return to his room and to pray for guidance. If he had sinned, then Marin must cleanse his conscience and confess. If he were to deny Jocelyn's accusation, he'd need proof of his innocence.

There was no mention of consequences, but Marin could guess. If he confessed his sins, he'd be stripped of all his privileges, that was obvious. But sinners could earn forgiveness. Redemption was possible, as long as he repented. And suffered, at least for a bit. The Abbot would likely assign him to do grunt work–scrubbing kitchen pots, emptying bed chambers. Hopefully, he could stay living with his father. If he worked hard and didn't complain, maybe he'd be able to work his way back up to being a healer.

If he revealed the evidence of his innocence, who knows what would happen. He'd be stripped not just of his privileges, but of his identity.

When Marin re-entered his room with tears still streaking down his cheeks and his eyes swollen from crying, his father immediately knew that something was wrong. "Why were you called to speak with Abbot Osbert?"

Marin wiped at his nose. "Did you eat breakfast, father?"

"What? No. I was too concerned about you. Can you tell me what happened?" The creases in his wrinkled brow deepened as Hobard reached for his child's hand. "Please? Let me help you."

"It's-it's..." Marin was too embarrassed to get the words out. Love, lust, sex: these were not topics they spoke about. So, instead, he gave a simplified response. "A girl in town is pregnant."

Hobard knitted his eyebrows together in confusion. "And?"

"And," Marin took a deep breath, "she has named me as the father."

His father laughed. Laughed! One loud, exclamatory exhale of laughter. "Why, that's absurd."

Was it absurd only because his body could never father a child? Or was it the idea of him being desired that was so ridiculous?

"Obviously it's not true," Marin almost shouted, more defensive than he had meant.

"Yes, I am aware." Hobard was still chuckling. "But pray, how..." He waved his hand, using the gesture to finish his thought.

Marin tilted his head down, ashamed to speak the answer out loud. "She told her father I–I forced myself upon her."

Hobard's expression turned sour. "How does she think she could get away with such slander?" An edge of anger invaded his normally calm voice.

"Well... he sort of saw me leaving her room recently with my clothes somewhat askew," Marin sputtered out, a lump forming in his throat.

There was a pause. His father's face was unreadable. "Marin, do you have something to tell me?"

And Marin told him. Mostly. He explained that Blanche had asked him to examine Jocelyn, and that he had expected her to stay in the room. He left out the part about his long-standing infatuation with Jocelyn. And maybe he slightly exaggerated how quickly he fled the scene. He certainly didn't mention how he had kissed her back. But he told his father the important bits.

When he finished filling his father in on all the details he'd kept hidden, Marin felt no relief. His stomach still churned. His mind was numb.

"You were set up," Hobard stated, no hint of doubt in his voice. "Is there any chance she knows about..." His fingers fluttered in the air, not pointing at anything in particular, yet indicating everything all at once.

Marin thought back to the night. How her hands had glided down over his chest. The way her fingers had brushed against his thighs as she reached to untie his britches. If she had known about his past, how would exposing him have made it possible to frame him in this way?

Because that's exactly what she'd done. Frame him.

Unless she had no intention of seducing him. Did she want him in a compromised position when her father walked in? Or did she know he would run away? And right into Greggory. The timing was too perfect to be a coincidence.

The unfairness of it all crashed over him like a tidal wave. "No, I don't think she knows."

"Well, then there is a simple way to prove your innocence."

"How so?" Now it was Marin's turn to be confused.

"You can tell the truth to Abbot Osbert. No one in town will be the wiser."

"He would never let me stay if he knew," Marin argued.

"Worse comes to worst, if he doesn't let you stay here with me, there is no reason he wouldn't let you move into the convent. You've proved yourself a skilled and valuable healer."

The way his father said it, making it sound so easy, stoked long-cooling coals back into a raging fire. Didn't his father remember how impossible it was for him before? The sacrifices they'd both made so that life could be bearable? Growing up, all he wanted to do was to follow his brother, Hobson, around. He wanted his hair cut like his. He wanted to dress like him. And play like him. And Hobson didn't mind. The two would run through the woods swinging sticks at tree trunks, pretending to be knights on a quest. They'd dig in the mud and fill buckets with worms to scare the girls who lived down the road. Oh, how their mother would howl when they'd come trotting through the door covered in dirt, leaves sticking out from their hair, nails grimy with muck.

At first his parents chastised him. His mother would comb out his long hair for what seemed like hours each night. Forced him to learn to sew and cook. Instructed him to behave more appropriate: gentle, submissive, obedient.

But Marin's soul had suffered. He stopped eating. His mother, the wise woman of his village, forced him to eat flax seeds to increase his appetite. When that didn't work, she made him sleep with rosemary under his pillow to ward off negative thoughts. Finally, she made him drink tea made of Saint John's wort to help eliminate his depression.

When none of her remedies made Marin any more willing to put on skirts and play with dolls–or whatever she had hoped–she'd relented. She didn't call him Marin–not like his brother and father did in private–but she stopped pressuring him to be something that he could never be. She turned her attention, instead, to teaching him about plants, herbs, the way of healing. A wise woman was allowed to be a tad eccentric, she'd reasoned with him. At least her odd little girl would have a skill to fall back on, being that marriage and motherhood seemed out of the question.

And then, the winter after his sixteenth birthday, his mother had died. She became ill quickly. A cancer that must have been brewing for some time erupted and spread like wildfire. Hobson had recently married his childhood sweetheart, and Marin was left alone with his father.

They decided to make start fresh. A new life. So, they traveled out of their tiny village and over the hills and joined The Order that looked over the town of Curander. They joined as Hobard, widower of a wise woman, and his youngest son, Marin.

So, for the past eight years, no one except his father had known Marin as anything but a young man. And now his father expected him to give that up?

No. He wouldn't. Not just like that. Not without a fight.

"I won't leave you," Marin finally answered. "And, I won't move to the convent. That's not where I belong."

Hobard looked at his child. Sadness filled his eyes. "You're right. You don't belong in the convent. If you had, that's where you would have been living for the past eight years."

"So, what is there for me to do?" Marin asked, helpless, and knowing his father couldn't possibly have an answer.

Hobard pondered for a moment, stroking his freshly shaven chin. "Have any idea who the actual father is?"

"Yes. Quite sure, in fact."

"Well, why isn't she naming him the father, then?"

Marin did not have an answer. He could make some wild guesses, but that was all that they would be. Wild guesses. "I have no idea," he said.

"Then, my child, maybe that is one place where you could start," Hobard suggested.

Marin had been avoiding Jocelyn for weeks. Thinking about seeing her–especially now–made him light-headed. But his father was right. He wouldn't know how to respond to the accusations until he better understood why he had been accused in the first place.