CHAPTER 4

The rest of Wednesday drags like slow honey every bell, every chore, every whispered prayer stretching the hours until compline. I move through the convent in a haze, hands busy but mind elsewhere. The garden roses seem to mock me with their open petals. The kitchen steam clings to my skin like guilt. Even the children in catechism class notice; little Anna tugs my sleeve and asks if I’m sick. I smile, tell her I’m only tired. It’s the closest thing to truth I can manage.

Compline ends. The sisters file out in their soft shuffle of habits and sandals. I linger in the last pew until the...