The Wonder by Emma Donoghue

oval, no bigger than the top of her finger.
    â€œThat’s my Miraculous Medal,” said Anna, lifting it out of Lib’s hand.
    â€œWhat miracles has it done?”
    That came out too flippant, but the girl didn’t take offence. “Ever so many,” she assured Lib, rubbing it. “Not
this
one, I mean, but all the Miraculous Medals in Christendom together.”
    Lib didn’t comment. At the bottom of the box, in a glass case, she found a tiny disc. Not metal but white, this one, stamped with a lamb carrying a flag and a coat of arms. It couldn’t be the bread from Holy Communion, could it? Surely that would be sacrilege, to keep the Host in a toy box? “What’s this, Anna?”
    â€œMy Agnus Dei.”
    Lamb of God;
Lib knew that much Latin. She flipped up the lid of the case and grated the disc with her nail.
    â€œDon’t break it!”
    â€œI won’t.” It wasn’t bread, she realized, but wax. She laid the box in Anna’s cupped hand.
    â€œEach one’s been blessed by His Holiness,” the child assured her, clicking the lid shut. “Agnus Deis make floods go down and put out fires.”
    Lib puzzled over the origin of this legend. Considering how fast wax melted, who could imagine it any use against fire?
    Nothing left in the chest but a few books. She inspected the titles: all devotional.
A Missal for the Use of the Laity; The Imitation of Christ.
She plucked an ornamented rectangle about the size of a playing card out of the black Book of Psalms.
    â€œPut it back where it lives,” said Anna, agitated.
    Ah, could there be food hidden in the book? “Just a moment.” Lib riffled through the pages. Nothing but more little rectangles.
    â€œThose are my holy cards. Each one has its own place.”
    The one Lib held was a printed prayer with a fancy-cut border, like lace, and it had another of those tiny medals tied onto it with a ribbon. On the back, in saccharine pastels, a woman cuddled a sheep.
Divine Bergère,
it said at the top. Divine something?
    â€œSee, this one matches Psalm One Hundred and Eighteen:
I have gone astray like a sheep that is lost,
” Anna recited, tapping the page without needing to check what it said.
    Very “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” Lib thought. She saw now that all the books in the chest were studded with these rectangles. “Who gave you these cards?”
    â€œSome were prizes at school or at the mission. Or presents from visitors.”
    â€œWhere’s this mission?”
    â€œIt’s gone now. My brother left me some of the loveliest ones,” said Anna, kissing the sheep card before tucking it into its place and closing the book.
    What a curious child. “Do you have a favourite saint?”
    Anna shook her head. “They all have different things to teach us. Some of them were born good, but others were very wicked until God cleaned their hearts.”
    â€œOh yes?”
    â€œHe can pick anyone to be holy,” Anna assured her.
    When the door burst open, Lib jumped.
    Kitty, with the basin of hot water. “Sorry to keep you. I’m after bringing himself his meal,” the young woman said, panting.
    Malachy O’Donnell, presumably. Off cutting turf for a neighbour, wasn’t he—as a favour? Lib wondered. Or a job of work to supplement the pittance the farm made? It struck her that perhaps only the men got food at midday here.
    â€œWhat’ll I be scrubbing for you?” asked the slavey.
    â€œI’ll do that,” Lib told her, taking the basin. She couldn’t allow any of the family access to this room. Kitty might have food for the child tucked in her apron right now, for all Lib knew.
    The maid frowned; confusion or resentment?
    â€œYou must be busy,” said Lib. “Oh, and could I trouble you for another chair, as well as fresh bedding?”
    â€œA sheet?” asked Kitty.
    â€œA pair of them,” Lib corrected