“No, stay,” Zechariah said ‘kindly’, putting a firm hand on Uriel’s shoulder. “Stay a while, I insist. It is Shabbat, a time for gathering.”

If Uriel thought he was leaving Zechariah with this soaked … orphan? It was hard to tell his age, and there was something about the pathetic state that took off a few years. Well, Uriel had another thing coming. The suspiciousness of Uriel’s sudden attack of conscience eluded him, for now.

He looked to Crane, and then the seemingly shipwrecked young man. His brows furrowed, and then raised in exasperation.

“No work on Shabbat,” Zechariah excused himself with a raise of his free hand.

He cleared his throat.

“Let us start on dinner,” he said.

And woe befall whoever found themselves in a seat facing the door. Zechariah staked claim on the first seat with its back to it. Four plates were set, and one sat at the head of the table – overlooking the parlor. There was food set out in the middle of the table, including two distinctive loaves with a knife by them, brisket, and a large bowl of summer salad with a jar of seasoned oil beside it. There was a bottle of local wine for Zechariah had not been expecting guests to see his not-kosher wine with cups by it, and a glass of lemonade by each plate.