Of course.
“I—“ Claire began, but her throat closed. A mixture of anger and fear blocked her airways. She could barely breathe.
Mother Beatrice’s gaze was calm, unflinching. “Do you deny it?”
Claire shook her head slowly. “No, Mother.”
“Then perhaps you would like to explain where you were at such an hour.”
The air felt heavier now. Claire stared down at her folded hands, searching for a lie. “I had a nightmare,” she said softly. “I woke in a fright and walked the halls to clear my mind. I must have drifted longer than I thought.”
Mother Beatrice said nothing. The silence between them grew unbearable. Somewhere in the convent, a bell tolled the hour. With every toll, Claire’s chest tightened to the point of suffocation. She wasn’t good at lying but hoped it would be enough.
Finally, Mother Beatrice leaned back in her chair. “You have not been here long, Sister Claire, yet already I sense unrest in you. Tell me, was it truly a nightmare that led you from your bed, or the weight of doubt?”
Claire frowned and raised her gaze from her hands to Mother Beatrice. “I have no doubt in my faith, Mother,” Claire said.
“No?” Mother Beatrice’s eyes softened, but only slightly. “You were not raised in the cloth. Your parents, as I recall, were…poor people. Unfortunate. It is not uncommon for such families to offer a daughter to the convent when there is no dowry for marriage.”
Claire’s stomach twisted. The words were true but hearing them aloud hurt more than it should. She didn’t nod or agree, she simply stared at the older woman.
Mother Beatrice continued, “Many girls come here lost, angry, and aimless. But I must know that you are not among them. That you are not—“ she paused, as if searching for the word.“Wandering.”
Claire forced herself to raise her chin. “I am not lost.”
Mother Beatrice studied her for a long, heavy moment. “Then tell me, Sister. What is it you find in Notre-Dame that makes your heart so restless?”
Claire hesitated. She could almost hear Mirela’s rough voice in her mind. She saw the drawing again; her own face rendered through someone else’s eyes. She turned just slightly at the door, wondering if Mirela’s gift was safe.
Turning back to Mother Beatrice, she studied the older woman, wondering what her reaction would be if she spoke the truth. If she told her that what was keeping her heart restless was another woman who seemed as in dire need of rescue from her solitude as Claire was.
“I love serving the Lord there,” she said finally, steadying her voice. “I love the way my voice sounds in His house. I feel close to Him when I sing.”
Mother Beatrice tilted her head, skeptical. “You sing for the Lord.”
Claire’s lips parted before she could stop herself. “Yes…and for those who listen.”
Mother Beatrice’s brows drew together. “Those who listen?”
Claire’s pulse raced. “The bells,” she lied quickly. “Their echo carries my songs into the city. I imagine even they must like to hear a little music other than their own.”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then Mother Beatrice sighed, long and slow.
“Sister Margaret worries you may be…distracted.”
“I assure you, Mother, I am not.”
Mother Beatrice seemed to search for cracks in her composure. “Good. But you will forgive me if I trust Sister Margaret’s instincts more than your reassurances. I have seen many women falter when temptation whispers.”
Claire’s upper lip twitched. Her eyes trailed away from Mother Beatrice to the woman behind her, whose grin widened as they locked eyes. “I wouldn’t trust someone who likes to hurt others with their words.‘It is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but what comes out of the mouth; this defiles a person’,”Claire said, turning one last time to Mother Beatrice. “I will not falter, Mother.”
Mother Beatrice narrowed her gaze on her, and as much as Claire wanted to look away, she stood her ground. Sighing, Mother Beatrice waved her hand dismissively. “You may go.”
Relief flooded her chest. She rose, murmuring a polite farewell. She eyed Margaret from head to toe before she stepped into the corridor. When the door closed softly behind her, she exhaled, pressing a hand to her throat.
Temptation. Mother Beatrice had said the word so casually, but Claire felt it settle in her chest. Because shewastempted. Not by sin, but by an aching and longing she couldn’t shake off.
Chapter seven
