“This is not universally true.”Sister Josephine clearly didn’t approve, though I could tell from her eyes she understood.“Many men who struggle with the flesh also know they should be better.For a Sister to speak with them openly, well, it challenges them.In a way, it gives them hope.We are a symbol of the Church, dear Alice, a sign of the coming Kingdom when the Bride of Christ will be adorned for Her Bridegroom in perfect splendor.”
“I understand,” I admitted.“But these men are not accustomed to thinkingtheologically.I must also admit, appearing as a woman of note might help protect Ruth and Rebecca.There are men who might not think twice about confronting a group of nuns on the street, but would think twice if they’re accompanied by a women who appears to have influence.”
“Are you sure that’s the reason?”Sister Josephine asked.“You are a fine mentor to the Sisters, Alice, but there’s always been a part of you that’s resisted the rigor of our Rule.”
I rubbed my brow.“I intend no disobedience.I simply recognize that the Bishop gave me another mission.There may be a time when I will have to leave this place.I will never be able to make a perpetual vow.”
Sister Josephine chuckled.“I suppose aperpetualvow for one of your condition means something else than it might for a Sister whose days on this world are more… limited.”
“I’d gladly make these vows until Christ’s return if it were my choice.But my commitment to the Bishop conflicts with a perpetual vow.I recognize my situation is atypical.”
Sister Josephine stared at me a moment, something like pity in her eyes.She understood my situation, but she also knew the anxiety it produced.It was the truth.If I could endure the rest of my indeterminate existence in prayer, in a habit, fed by the daily Eucharist, without ever needing to engage the Order of the Morning Dawn, I’d do it.But this was not my calling; my vocation would never lend itself to a perpetual vow.Eventually, her expression softened.“I must admit, these are unusual times.”
I nodded.“Well, I’m nothing if not unconventional, wouldn’t you agree?”
Sister Josephine nodded, satisfaction in the set of her shoulders.“Indeed, I would.It is a regrettable fact of our station, but our convent’s work requires financial support.And the connection to the Italian community may prove valuable should our situation here grow more precarious.”
“I’ll speak with Ruth and Rebecca tonight,” I said, already anticipating Ruth’s excited response and Rebecca’s careful consideration.“We’ll need to prepare them thoroughly.”
“I’ll pray for your success,” Sister Josephine said, one hand overlapping the other on her desk.“And for discernment.These are treacherous times for all God’s children, but especially for those who walk between worlds as you do.”
I stood, my decision made.“If the Order or some new incarnation of it truly watches us, then let them see that our faith is not merely words.That we live our beliefs even among those who would fear us if they knew our nature.”
“Faith without works is dead,” Sister Josephine quoted softly.“But take care, child.The line between courage and pride is a difficult wire to walk.”
I touched my locket once more, feeling the weight of Bishop Harkins’ mandate within.“I know the difference,” I assured her, though doubt whispered in the corners of my mind.“Whatever the future holds, we need allies beyond these walls.”
Chapter 4
Igazedupatthe Metropolitan Opera House, magnificent against the night sky, its grand façade now illuminated by the harsh brilliance of electric bulbs where once the softer flicker of gaslamps had danced across the marble.Smoothing the ruffled cuffs at my wrists, I felt the heavy silk of my peacock-blue gown brush against my ankles.Beside me, Ruth and Rebecca waited in their stark white habits, the simplicity of their garments a visible testament that they answered to something far beyond the frivolities that filled this gilded hall.The dichotomy of our appearances suited me: I had long ago perfected the role of society maiden, while they wore the truth of their commitment for all to see.Together, we ascended the marble steps toward the grand entrance.
As the doormen’s white-gloved hands reached for the brass handles, I leaned closer to my companions, my voice barely a breath.“The true performance tonight isn’t on that stage,” I whispered, “but in how you conduct yourselves among so many beating hearts.Every moment is both prayer and practice.”
Ruth’s eyes sparkled with barely contained excitement.“I won’t disappoint you.”Her voice carried the faintest tremor of anticipation.
Rebecca merely nodded.Over the last decade, Rebecca and Ruth had progressed remarkably.I couldn’t remember the last time they’d lost control, but then again, it wasn’t often we attended events that for our kind more closely resembled a meat market than the theater.
The opulence of the lobby was impressive—polished marble floors reflecting the crystal chandeliers that hung like frozen waterfalls from the vaulted ceiling.Gaslight still illuminated much of the interior, creating a warm, golden atmosphere that electric bulbs could not yet replicate.The air was thick with perfume—French lilacs, Bulgarian roses, jasmine from distant India—all barely masking the underlying scent of humanity that called to our baser instincts.
I felt Ruth stiffen beside me as a particularly well-fed gentleman brushed past, the robust thrum of his heartbeat pulsing in our ears.I placed a gentle hand on her arm, a reminder of our purpose, and felt the tension gradually release beneath my fingers.Rebecca, meanwhile, had begun to silently mouth what I recognized as the Prayer of St.Francis—Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
We found our seats in a private box overlooking the stage—an extravagance I justified as necessary distance from the crush of humanity below.The theater filled steadily, a sea of silk and satin, top hats and tiaras, each person a beacon of life and warmth to our preternaturally sensitive senses.The throbbing of so many hearts blurred into a single, persistent hum.
The lights dimmed, and the orchestra began the opening notes of Puccini’s “Suor Angelica.”The story of a nun seeking redemption seemed fitting for our unusual trio.As Sister Angelica’s tale unfolded on stage, I studied my companions in the half-light.Ruth leaned forward, her pupils slightly dilated, her breathing deliberately measured as she absorbed both the music and the proximity of so many humans.Rebecca sat rigidly upright, her knuckles white around her rosary beads.
The soprano’s voice soared through the cavernous space, Mimì‘s delicate aria filling every corner with fragile beauty.As she sang of simple pleasures—the first sunshine of April, the scent of roses—I found my thoughts drifting to my time with the Order.How utterly convinced I had been that my actions served a higher purpose, that my murders were sanctified by divine will.Like Rodolfo clinging to illusions of artistic nobility while freezing in his garret, I had wrapped myself in righteousness while starving for truth.
Yet here we sat, neither fully damned nor fully saved, like Bohemians existing on society’s margins.The music swelled around us as Mim“‘s life ebbed away; her love story cut short by consumption’s merciless grip.My throat tightened with emotion I could no longer physically express through tears, recognizing in her mortal frailty something precious I had lost forever.Recognizing all the people I’d known and lost during my former existence to the same condition.
When the final, transcendent notes faded, and the audience erupted in applause, I noticed a single blood-tinged tear tracking down Ruth’s cheek.She wiped it away quickly, before any human eyes could notice.
“It was beautiful,” she whispered.
“Are you well?”I asked quietly, concerned that the emotional response might trigger a more dangerous hunger.
She nodded.“The music...it reached something in me I thought had died with my humanity.”
Rebecca remained silent, but I noted her grip on her rosary beads had loosened slightly.
