In the morning, Chris read the line but did not give the letter back. He folded it and put it in his own small bag.
“I ate a little bread that morning,” he said. “Later, I lost a shoe in the marsh.”
Christiana’s hand stopped on the water jug. She nearly said, “How could you be so careless?” Instead, she asked, “What happened after that?”
Chris told her about Help, and about thinking he would never get out. He spoke slowly. His mother poured him some water and stayed to hear the whole story.
They were getting ready to see Goodwill when someone called from outside. The last wagon bringing travelers had arrived. Several people from villages near the City of Destruction were on it, and Watchful was driving. A young woman followed behind, with mud on her skirt and a bundle of sewing things and old clothes in her arms.
Christiana knew her. Her name was Mercy. She often mended clothes for people in the southern part of the city. She had once made Christiana an apron. Christiana had complained about the color of the thread and made her unpick it, but had forgotten to pay for the second piece of work.
Mercy stood outside and would not come in with the others. “I was only helping an old woman,” she said. “Her family are inside. Once I know she has arrived, I can go.”
“Go where?” Christiana asked.
Mercy looked at her shoes. “I haven’t decided.”
Watchful explained that they had met her at the village entrance. She had helped the old woman onto the wagon. When she heard that it was going past the narrow gate, she had followed all the way. She had heard of the King, but unlike Chris’s family, she had no son who had brought the news home himself.
“Perhaps I haven’t been invited,” Mercy said.
Christiana wanted to say, “Of course you have.” Then she remembered asking almost the same question the night before. Instead of pushing Mercy through the gate, she went with her to the wooden board and read Goodwill’s words again.
“Do you want to ask the Savior for help?” she asked.
Mercy nodded. “But most of the things I’ve brought belong to other people. I have nothing to give the King.”
“Neither have I,” Christiana said. Her hand touched her purse, and she remembered the apron. “There is something else. I owe you some wages.”
She explained which work she meant, handed over the money, and asked whether it was enough. Mercy looked at her as though she had never known this lady to wait for an answer.
“That money is yours,” Christiana added. “Taking it doesn’t mean you have to do what I say.”
The old woman’s family came out to meet her. Mercy tucked the blanket around her, then returned to the gate. At last she raised her hand.