Chapter 1
The Cold Infant
In 1914 Limerick, Angela visits Saint Joseph's church. She notices the little Infant Jesus statue feels cold to the touch, its arms outstretched. She feels a deep sorrow for the seemingly frozen baby.
The wind, a keen, biting thing, whipped Angela’s skirt around her ankles as she scurried along the cobblestone path towards Saint Joseph’s. It was 1914, a year that felt already old and weary, much like the damp grey skies that perpetually hung over Limerick. Inside the church, the air was usually a balm, a hushed sanctuary from the blustering world outside. But today, the chill seemed to have seeped even into the sacred stone walls.
Angela, all of eight years and a heart too big for her small frame, was on a mission of utmost importance. Her mother had sent her for a loaf of bread, a task usually shared with her younger sister Aggie, but Aggie was home with a sniffle, tucked under a patchwork quilt by the fire. So, Angela, with a coin clutched tight in her fist, made her solitary pilgrimage.
She bypassed the towering stained-glass windows, their colours muted by the gloom, and headed straight for the side altar. There, bathed in the weak glow of a single votive candle, stood the Infant Jesus. It was a small statue, no bigger than her two hands cupped together, carved from wood so old it looked like polished bone. His arms were outstretched, a perpetual invitation, and a thin, white swaddling cloth was draped over his tiny, naked bottom.
Angela tiptoed closer, her breath catching in her throat. She’d always felt a peculiar connection to this particular Infant. While other children marvelled at the grand statues of saints or the gleaming brass of the altar, Angela’s gaze always found its way back to the little wooden baby. Today, though, something was different. Something was terribly wrong.
She reached out a hesitant finger, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She touched the smooth, cool wood of His outstretched hand. It was icy. Not just cool, but truly, deeply cold. A shiver, unrelated to the church’s chill, traced its way down her spine. The Infant Jesus, He looked so helpless, so small, and He was freezing. His little wooden body, stripped of any warmth, seemed to cry out in silent agony. The white swaddling cloth, usually a source of comfort, now looked stark and inadequate against the biting air.
A pang of sorrow, sharp and unexpected, pierced Angela’s chest. How could anyone let Him be so cold? He was the Infant Jesus, the Son of God, and He was shivering. It wasn’t right. It was a terrible, terrible wrong. The church, with its high ceilings and echoing emptiness, suddenly felt like a vast, uncaring place.
“Oh, you poor little thing,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. She looked around. No one. The priest was in the vestry, Father Michael, and old Mrs. O’Malley was probably praying her rosary in the back pew, her head bowed so low she wouldn’t see a thing.
Her mind, a whirl of childish logic and fervent faith, began to race. If He was cold, He needed to be warmed. Just like Aggie needed her quilt and the fire. And He couldn’t get up and fetch a blanket for Himself, could He? No, He was just a baby, a little wooden baby, all alone in this big, cold church.
A daring thought, sparked by a fierce protectiveness, began to take root. She could take Him. She could take Him home, where it was warm. Where the fire crackled merrily in the hearth, and her mother’s shawl was soft and woolly. She could wrap Him up, keep Him safe and snug.
Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. It was a sin, wasn’t it? To take something from church? Even if it was for Him? But then, wasn’t it a bigger sin to leave Him to freeze? Her fingers trembled as she reached out again, this time to His tiny, wooden shoulder. It was colder than the stone floor.
“Don’t worry,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I’ll keep you warm.”
With a surge of adrenaline, she scooped the statue into her arms. It was lighter than she expected, a solid, smooth weight against her chest. The outstretched arms felt strangely fragile, as if they might snap if she wasn’t careful. She tucked Him gently into the folds of her worn woollen skirt, the rough fabric a poor substitute for a blanket, but the best she had.
She glanced around again, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. Had anyone seen? The shadows in the church seemed to deepen, to watch her. She imagined the Infant Jesus nestled against her, His tiny wooden heart beating in time with hers.
Leaving the church felt like stepping out of a dream and into a dangerous reality. The wind howled with renewed ferocity, snatching at her skirt and whipping her hair across her face. It felt like a scolding wind, a disapproving wind. Had she done a terrible thing?
She hurried home, the weight of the Infant Jesus a comforting, yet terrifying, presence against her. The familiar lane, usually a cheerful stretch of houses with smoke curling from their chimneys, seemed to loom and frown. Each gust of wind sounded like a whispered accusation.
When she finally reached her own small cottage, the warmth of the hearth enveloped her like a hug. Her mother was busy at the table, kneading dough with flour dusting her apron. Pat and Tom were squabbling over a wooden soldier by the fire, their usual boisterous energy filling the room. Aggie, thankfully, was still asleep in her small cot, her breathing soft and regular.
Angela’s hands shook as she carefully pulled the Infant Jesus from her skirt. She had to find a safe place for Him. Somewhere warm, somewhere secret. Her eyes landed on a small, empty wooden box that had once held her mother’s sewing needles, tucked away on a high shelf in their small pantry.
“Angela, is that you?” her mother called, her voice kind but tired. “Did you get the bread?”
“Yes, Mama,” Angela called back, her voice a little too high. She darted into the pantry, her heart still racing. She placed the Infant