On the day of the miracle, Isabel was kneeling at the cliff ’s edge, tending the small, newly made driftwood cross. A single fat cloud snailed across the late-April sky, which stretched above the island in a mirror of the ocean below. Isabel sprinkled more water and patted down the soil around the rosemary bush she had just planted.
“. . . and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” she whispered.
