Was this madness? What was she doing, sneaking through the night to bring food and wine to a woman she hardly knew?
And yet she knew she would do it again.
She lingered, staring at the statue until the silence around her began to hum. She imagined Mirela waking up, finding the basket, even smiling. The thought filled her chest with warmth she hadn’t felt in years.
Then came the sound of soft footsteps above her.
Claire turned her head, and there she was. Mirela descending, hair unbound, cascading around her shoulders like a red halo.
Their eyes met, and Claire forgot howto breathe…
To have her sit so close, to see her smile and talk next to her, although she held back. Claire didn’t blame her for doing so. She was holding back, too. But their conversation was pleasant; until, of course, Mirela pushed her away again.
Now Claire was running through the streets of Paris.
The fog clung to her cloak, the wind cold against her flushed cheeks. The air was colder now, the night heavier. Paris slept beneath a pale moon, but the streets were not empty.
Halfway to the convent, Claire felt the weight of footsteps behind her. A shadow moved when she moved. The scrape of a boot too close to her own. She quickened her pace, and the footsteps followed.
Her pulse thundered as she turned the corner toward the convent gates. She didn’t dare look back. She stumbled up the steps, wrenched open the door, and slammed it shut behind her.
Safe.For now, at least.
Claire stood there, panting, listening, but there was nothing but silence. Swallowing hard, trying her hardest to calm her hammering heart, she peered through the small slit of the window.
She thought she saw a shape retreating into the mist. She pressed her back to the door, closing her eyes and for the first time, allowing herself to say a soft prayer of gratitude.
It was nothing.
At least she hoped it was nothing.
***
Morning came cloaked in rain. The sound of it against the convent’s old windows was soft. Although to anyone else the sound would be enough to lull them back to sleep, Claire could barely relax.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Mirela’s angry, and incredibly sad face. She didn’t know why her sadness bothered her so much, why the fact that she was locked up would affect her in such a way, but it did. She didn’t want to think that whoever kept her there did so because of her appearance.
There was nothing to hide. Mirela was attractive in a way that Claire wasn’t quite able to explain. In her eyes Mirela was a woman. A young woman with a talent for drawing and a sadness so deep that it needed to be erased. But how? Other than offering her friendship and companionship, what could make a woman such as Mirela happy?
Sighing, she willed herself to sleep. She would worry about Mirela tomorrow, not now.
As she was about to fall asleep, the door opened.
“Sister Claire.”
Mother Beatrice stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable, a wisp of gray hair escaping her veil. Behind her, Sister Margaret lingered like a shadow, her eyes full of satisfaction.
“Come with me,” Mother Beatrice said.
Claire’s blood ran cold. She rose silently and followed down the hall. They reached Mother Beatrice’s office, a small chamber that smelled of candle smoke and rain-soaked parchment. A single crucifix loomed over the desk.
“Sit,” Mother Beatrice said.
Claire stood still. Of course, she knew why she was there, but she needed to think of an excuse. A lie .Something. It wasn’t until Mother Beatrice’s brow arched that she snapped back to what was happening in front of her. She obeyed and sat down, the chair creaking beneath her weight.
Sister Margaret closed the door behind them, and a brewing anger formed in the pit of Claire’s stomach. Whatever the reason for being called up by Mother Beatrice, Claire was sure it was because Margaret had something to do with it…
Mother Beatrice folded her hands atop the desk. “Sister Margaret tells me she found your bed empty last night.”
