Sister Carrie’s reassuring presence sat beside me, her breathing even and calm.
The smell of Sister Mary’s arthritis cream—menthol and lavender—choked the air and I tried not to breathe too deeply.
I shifted in the wooden seat and put my hands in my lap, listening to the ticking of a clock somewhere in the corner of her office. Warmth landed on my cheek from the sunshine that must have been streaming through an open window.
“What about this school, Anna? It’s called Newcastle University. This brochure says they specialize in working with the deaf and blind.”
I picked at my nails, focusing on the rattling of the paper as she flipped through pages.
“Um, it sounds nice.” My voice broke, and I cleared my throat.Here goes nothing.“But I’d really like to go to a school for the arts, for my painting, you know.” I smiled, hoping it would soften my words.
Sister Mary had been against this idea all year, and this was the last time to plead my case before the deadline to get my application in.Please, God. I want to be an artist.
Ever since that night years ago, when Lucian had taken me to the museum and let me experience art by the masters, I couldn’t stop dreaming about painting for a living, perfecting my art, and showing people the things I saw inside my head.
“Stop being foolish, girl.” Mary’s voice, a bit raspy and sharp, snapped me out of my daydream. “Evenifthey accepted your application, you can’t make a living as an artist. Use your brain, child. You can’tsee, and no amount of teaching is going to change that.”
I ran my hands along my upper arms and bit my lip, hoping to hide the pain her words caused.Does she think I’m so stupid I don’t know I’m blind?
“Sister.” Carrie laid a hand on my leg. “Anna has been blessed with a gift. Her work is unique. She—”
“No. She should decide on a future that’ll help others in need, just as we helped her. We’ve given her everything since she was a babe.”
“But it’s her choice,” said Sister Carrie with a hint of ice in her tone. “And if—”
“No, it’s okay.” I moved my hand until I found hers and gave it a squeeze, then faced Sister Mary’s direction. “I know my work is not very good. Sister Mary is right. I’m being selfish by wanting to do this for myself.” Swallowing a hard lump of pain, I stood and lifted my chin. “Send the Newcastle app. If they accept me, I’ll go there.”
“You most certainly will not,” said a low, rich voice.
My heart flipped in my chest, and I fought an urge to run straight in his direction. Unable to hide a huge grin, I turned toward his voice.
Both women gasped at the same time.
“How did you get in here?” Sister Mary’s no-nonsense tone cut the silence. “These are private offices. You must leave.”
“I don’t believe I will.” Footsteps fell on the floor, even and heavy, growing louder as they approached. “I’ve come to visit a friend.”
“It’s…it’syou,” Carrie whispered. “The man who pays—”
“No need for everyone to get worked up.”
“Lucian?” I knew I was still beaming at him, and I could almost feel the sisters’ burning gazes on my skin.
“Yes.” A warm hand found mine and he gave it a squeeze. “Don’t listen to a word from the old one. She is a petty, jealous old crone.”
A snicker wanted to escape my mouth, so I clamped my lips shut.
For once, God, just once, let me see him.Over the past year or so, my fascination with the fallen angel had grown from childlike wonder to something deeper, something stronger.
Though his visits weren’t often, I relished every one. For some reason, it seemed as if my life improved every time we spoke. Over the past two years, he dropped in every four or five months just to chat with me for a little while, making sure I had everything I needed.
He always asked about my paintings and demanded to see each one, as if he cared and enjoyed my work.
“You will leave this instant, you blasphemous—”
“Shut up.” Lucian released my hand, the air stirring near my face, telling me he turned to face Sister Mary. “Is this the woman who denied you field trips, who hit your knuckles, and who is determined to let you be nothing but a blind woman always in need of the church’s charity?” The timbre of this voice dipped to a dangerous low. “The one who would love nothing more than to see you fail?”
He spoke the truth, yet I hesitated to answer. Sister Mary had been harsh while I grew up under her and the church’s tutelage, yet there were moments when she could be kind, too. Several times I’d been sick with fever from the flu or some other virus, and she’d wordlessly prepared a hot cup of tea or given me a cool rag to put on my forehead.
