Clairecouldn’tsleep.Shelay awake on her narrow cot staring at the cracked ceiling. Around her, the other nuns breathed softly. There were five of them, and the chorus of snores assured her that everyone was asleep.
She had tried for hours to fall asleep, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else in the cathedral, something that wasn’t supposed to be there, and the fact that Sister Margaret dismissed it so casually didn’t sit well with her.
Claire was very observant of her surroundings, and if she said she saw something then, damn it, she sawsomething. But of course, she had no way of knowing that unless she sneaked out of the convent and headed back to Notre-Dame. She wasn’t sure she could do that, not when there were eyes everywhere. Although… the eyes were sleeping now. If she wanted to leave, this would be the perfect moment to do so.
She pushed back the thin blanket, careful not to wake Sister Camille beside her. The younger woman stirred, grunted, and turned to the wall, pulling the sheets over her head. Good. Claire didn’t need witnesses.
She reached for the worn, oversized coat her father had given her—his last gift before sending her away—and wrapped it tightly around her nightgown. It smelled faintly of hay and smoke, and for a fraction of a second, it reminded her of home. Her fingers trembled as she laced her boots. She shouldn’t be doing this; she shouldn’t be sneaking out, but her curiosity was too much to hold in.
She told herself she wouldn’t take long. She would just take a quick glance at what was by the stairs, maybe in the towers, and go back. If there was nothing to worry about, she would be out in less than an hour. Knowing how heavily the other nuns slept, it would be plenty of time.
She left the room quietly, closing the door as slowly as she could before heading to the exit. The convent door groaned when she opened it, but the cold air swallowed the sound. The streets of Paris were restless, and thecobblestones were slick with rain. Claire kept her head down, her steps quiet and swift. She could make it to the cathedral in twenty minutes, maybe less if she hurried.
Notre-Dame rose before her and, to her surprise, the doors were ajar. Candlelight flickered faintly within, and her heart raced as she stepped inside, lowering her hood.
The cathedral was transformed by night. The candelabras glowed dimly with gold against the shadows, their light reflected in the eyes of marble saints. Claire’s breath came in shallow bursts, the echo of her footsteps spoken by the immensity of the hall.
No priests, no guards, no sisters. She was alone.
The nave stretched before her, and the altar gleamed slightly under the moonlight filtering through stained glass, casting fractured colors across the floor. Perhaps it was foolish to wander here. But shehadto know. Someone was living in this church, someone who was always watching.
Her fingers brushed against the pews as she moved forward. The polished wood was cold to the touch. At one column, she paused. The placement of the benches made it climbable, barely. Her pulse quickened. If she was caught here all alone… if she hurt herself doing this…
Claire pressed her hand to her chest, trying to steady her breath. “For curiosity,” she whispered. “Only curiosity.”
Then she climbed.
It was awkward and graceless, her coat catching on the edge, her boots slipping. But she managed to pull herself up onto the narrow ledge overlooking the nave. The air was cooler here, filled with dust and the faint cooing of pigeons.
If she’d been thinking clearly, she might have gone back. But she was dying to prove to herself that she wasn’t insane.
She walked along the shadowed corridor, her steps echoing faintly. Ahead, a narrow staircase spiraled upward into darkness. The smell of feathers and incense grew heavier as she climbed.
At last, she reached the chamber beneath the great bell. She leaned against the wall, catching her breath and taking in the eerily quiet place. There was a pulse in the air. Someone lived in this space; there was no doubt in her mind.
Her eyes adjusted to the dimness. A straw bed covered by a patchwork quilt. Folded clothes stacked neatly in a corner. Books, sketches glued to the walls, bits of color scattered like offerings. Candles burned low; their wax pooled into tiny rivers.
It was disarray, but anintimatedisarray.
Claire knelt when her foot brushed against a notebook. It was mostly shut, but the pages peeked out. She hesitated, then opened it.
Herbreath caught.
The sketches were beautiful. There were gargoyles, angels, and the ribs of the cathedral ceiling. Whoever drew these had a sharp eye for detail. Turning the page, she found drawings of the congregation below. She saw faces she recognized: the old widow who prayed for her dead husband, the merchant’s wife with her red shawl, the child who left flowers by the Virgin’s feet.
And then she saw herself.
Claire froze.
There she was, rendered in graphite. There was her veil, her lips, the tilt of her head as she sang. It was unmistakable. Whoever lived here had not only seen her butstudiedher.
She turned another page, and there were birds this time. Pigeons, crows, sparrows, all caught in flight. As if summoned, a gray pigeon fluttered through the rafters, scattering dust and loose papers.
Claire gasped, falling on her bottom.
“God Almighty,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her racing heart. The bird ignored her, waddling across the floor as if it too lived here.
And then there was a sound behind her.
