Not only had she stolen from the convent, but she had done it forher.And for what? To be told to leave. Again.
The day she met Mirela had shaken her to her core. Never in her life would she have imagined someone living inside the bell tower, much less a woman. Yet despite the tremor that ran through her, it wasn’t fear that made her body quake. It was something tender, dangerous, and holy in its defiance.
She could not stop seeingher.
Mirela.
Even her name was music. Beautiful. Not only that, the woman had a talent for art that Claire hadn’t seen in anyone. The way she captured the soul of those she drew was…mesmerizing.
Claire remembered the burn scars along her arm, neck, and cheek. But she had not looked away. The marks told a story, and Claire found herself aching to know every word of it.
She had wanted to stay, to ask why she lived there, how long she’d been trapped in that cold tower, how she survived such solitude? Claire could barely stand the quiet of the convent, though she was surrounded by other women. She could not imagine what it meant to be truly, utterly alone.
That night, Claire couldn’t help but slip her fingers into the pocket of her habit. She took out the folded sketch of herself.
The faint candlelight from the corridor brushed over the parchment revealing every reverent stroke. Claire’s breath hitched. Mirela had drawn her with precision. Her emerald eyes were captured mid-song, dark hair spilling from beneath her veil, lips parted in the shape of the song. The likeness was too perfect. It was as though Mirela had studied her for hours, memorized every small imperfection, every breath, and Claire found that to be amazing.
“For your voice,”Mirela had said.
Claire traced the lines of her own likeness with trembling fingers. To beseenlike this, made her chest ache.
Claire decided right there and then she would help her. She would give her something, anything. But being stuck in the convent, Claire didn’t have much she could give Mirela. She had little to her name. Her habit, her coat, a couple of coins she had managed to keep. What could she ever give Mirela that would help her open up to her? She wouldn’t mind having a friend. Someone from outside the convent, someone she could trust not to tell her off if she talked about whatever was ailing her in that moment.
Food would do. Food always brought people together. They could share a meal, or Claire could give her some as a gift.
There was plenty of food in the convent. Too much if she was being truthful. Enough to go around Paris and give around to those in need, but they never did…
That was it. She would give Mirela a basket with some goods she could enjoy. But Claire wanted to make sure that she knew it wasshewho gave her gift.
It took her several nights to learn Sister Margaret’s routine. She learned the hour she made her final inspection of the halls, and the moment her candlelight vanished beneath the dormitory door. Claire waited patiently, counting each breath until the convent fell silent. Then, when the world slept, she slipped from her bed and crept toward the pantry.
She wasn’t stealing. She washelping.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she filled a small basket with fresh bread, a wedge of cheese, a piece of fruit, and, on impulse, a bottle of red wine she knew was used during Eucharist. She tied the cloth carefully, hands shaking.
Pulling her hood over her head, Claire whispered a silent prayer for forgiveness, though she wasn’t sure if she wanted it. Then, she slipped into the sleeping streets of Paris.
The city was cloaked in fog. The scent of rain lingered in the air. Notre-Dame rose before her once more, just like the first time she had stood before it.
The doors were unlocked. They always were for those seeking sanctuary. Pushing them open, she stepped into the cathedral’s vast silence. The candles had long burned down to stubs, their faint light flickering against the walls. The air was thick with incense, dust, and moisture.
She crossed the nave quietly, her steps echoing between the pews, and climbed the narrow stairway to the tower. Her breath came fast, her pulse thrumming in her throat. When she reached Mirela’s chamber, she stopped.
Mirela was asleep.
She lay curled on her side; one arm draped across her chest, her face half illuminated by moonlight streaming through the slit of a window. The scars across her cheekand neck shimmered faintly. Her lips were parted slightly, her breaths soft and even.
Claire froze, basket in hand, her heart twisting.
She should not be here. She should not be staring. But she could not help herself. Mirela looked sohuman,breakable, and yet so beautiful.
Maybe they could survive this world together.
Maybe.
After a long moment, Claire tore her gaze away, placed the basket near Mirela, and descended the steps, her pulse still fluttering. She sat on a pew far away from the altar, her thoughts spiraling.
The Virgin above the altar looked down on her, serene and unbothered. Claire’s hands clenched in her lap.
