Ikneltinmyquarters, beside I bed I didn’t require.Apparently, given what I’d learned, I could use the chapel after all.Gallow didn’t understand everything, but he believed our religious devotion served a purpose—even if it was Vladislav’s rather than the Lord’s.
Catherine slumbered beside me, asleep more by choice than need.A part of me envied her, the ability to detach, to forget about the troubles that befell us.Such detachment was a quality that even some of the most advanced sisters in the convent never achieved.I was under to illusion that Catherine had reached the point by devotion—she’d detached herself out of necessity.She’d seen too much to handle.The only option that remained wasacceptance.Surrender.
“Lord who walks with us in darkness,” I prayed, “receive the souls of those lost in this night of nights.Guide them toward Your light though they perished in shadow.”I paused, finding my next words with care.“And grant me strength for the darker journey that lies ahead—not for glory or vengeance, but because the path to redemption requires us to tread through the very heart of darkness.”
As I spoke the final words, Catherine shifted again, her eyes opening briefly despite the daylight hour that should have rendered her unconscious.“Sister Alice?”she murmured, her voice thick with torpor.
“I’m here,” I assured her.
“Are we...are we still on the right path?”she asked, the question piercing in its innocent directness.“Can I still become a sister?”
I smoothed her hair back from her forehead, a gesture of comfort that belonged to my human life, to the days when I had nursed the sick and dying in my father’s parish.“There is no map for the wilderness we now traverse,” I told her softly.“But we have a guiding light.We are not alone.”
Her eyes closed again as she forfeited her consciousness, but the question lingered in the crypt’s hushed atmosphere.I remained on my knees, my prayer now giving way to a solemn vow.
“God, though I must become what they need me to be, I will never forfeit who you created me to be.Though wolves surround me, I will trust in You.Though my enemies encompass me, my hands and feet remain pierced in your stigmata.The wounds have not shown in many years, but the pain remains.Let me die in You, whatever I might be, that I might live in You all the more.I am yours.”
Chapter 32
WefoundtheGoodShepherd mission waiting in darkness—not a single lamp burning behind its windows, its wooden door hanging open just enough to suggest either welcome or ambush.The journey had cost us nearly everything.The only hope I had was that the convent would be intact, that Sister Josephine and the rest would be well.
“Something’s wrong,” Catherine whispered.
I nodded, scanning the mission’s façade for signs of violence or forced entry.Finding none did little, though, to relieve my unease.
“We should proceed with caution,” Desiderius advised.
The journey back from Europe had been a series of desperate gambles—stowing away on a cargo vessel, feeding on what little remained of the Blood of Christ that the Bishop had given me before our departure, burying ourselves in the ship’s ballast during daylight hours.We had arrived in New York only an hour earlier, weak and half-mad with hunger.The city had changed little in our absence, oblivious to the hell that ranged across the Atlantic.
I pushed open the door.The mission’s interior lay in darkness.The pews stood in orderly rows; the altar remained undisturbed, the silver cross above it gleaming in what little moonlight filtered through stained glass windows.Nothing appeared damaged or desecrated, yet everything felt wrong—like a stage set abandoned by its actors.
“They’re gone,” I whispered.“All of them.”
“Perhaps they fled,” Catherine suggested.“If the Order—“
“No,” a familiar voice interrupted from the shadows near the confessional.“They were relocated.For their protection.”
My dead heart seized in my chest.I knew that voice, had replayed it in my mind throughout the horrors of Europe, every prayer he’d written echoing through my mind in his distinct tenor.
“Bishop Harkins,” I breathed.
He stepped into a shaft of moonlight.His wrinkles seemed deeper after only a few months away, but the steady compassion in his gaze remained unaltered.
“Alice,” he replied simply.“Desiderius.And this must be Catherine.”
I don’t know what overcame me in that moment—whether it was a relief after months of danger, gratitude for his survival, or simply the weight of all I had witnessed finally breaking through my carefully maintained composure.Without thought for propriety or protocol, I crossed the space between us and embraced him, clinging to Bishop Harkins with a squeeze that I had to consciously weaken for fear of crushing him.
He laughed softly, his arms closing around me with paternal warmth, accepting my impulsive gesture without judgment.
“Apologies, Your Excellency,” I said, regaining control and stepping back.“I don’t know what came over me.”
“I believe I do.”His tone held understanding.“You have walked through hell itself, child, and emerged bearing wounds in your soul, wounds that will not heal so easily as those that you might suffer in the flesh.Such journeys change a person—even those such as yourself.”
Desiderius approached, bowing with the formal respect due.“Your Excellency, I am grateful you are well.I must go to confession.”
The Bishop laughed again, the sound rich with genuine amusement.“Very well, but I already know what you intend to confess.”
Desiderius stiffened, his composure momentarily cracking.“You do?”
