ravenous. She knew that she could find something to eat in the kitchen if she chose to look—the
industrial-size refrigerators were always filled with trays of leftovers—but the thought of food made
her feel ill. Ignoring her hunger, she walked past the stairway leading to the cafeteria and continued
toward the library.
When she opened the library door and turned on the lights, she saw that the room had been cleaned
in her absence: the leather registry (left open on the wooden table that afternoon) had been closed; the
books piled on the couch had been returned; a meticulous hand had vacuumed the rugs plush.
Obviously one of the sisters had covered for her. Feeling guilty, she vowed to do twice as much
cleaning the next afternoon, perhaps volunteer for laundry duty, even though, with the abundance of
veils to hand-wash, it was a much-hated chore. It had been wrong to leave her work to the others.
When one is absent, the rest must carry the load.
Evangeline placed her bag on the couch and squatted before the hearth to kindle a fire. Soon a
diffuse light folded over the floor. Evangeline sank into the soft cushions of the couch, crossed one
leg over the other, and tried to arrange the cluttered pieces of her day. It was such an extraordinary
tangle of information that she struggled to keep it orderly in her mind. The fire was so comforting and
the day had been so trying that Evangeline stretched out on the couch and soon fell asleep.
A hand on her shoulder startled her awake. Sitting upright, she found Sister Philomena standing
over her, looking at her with some severity. “Sister Evangeline,” Philomena said, still touching
Evangeline’s shoulder. “Whatever are you doing?”
Evangeline blinked. She had been so soundly asleep that she could hardly gain her bearings. It
seemed to her as though she were seeing the library—with its shelves of books and flickering
fireplace—from deep underwater. Quickly, she shifted her feet to the floor and sat.
“As I’m sure you are aware,” Philomena said, sitting on the couch next to Evangeline, “Sister
Celestine is one of our community’s oldest members.
I do not know what happened this afternoon but she is quite upset. I have spent the entire afternoon
with her. It has not been easy to calm her.”
“I’m very sorry,” Evangeline said, feeling her senses click into focus at the mention of Celestine. “I
went to see her to ask her about something I found in the archives.”
“She was in quite a state when I found her this evening,” Philomena said. “Exactly what did you
say to her?”
“It was never my intention to distress her,” Evangeline said. The folly of attempting to speak to
Celestine about the letters struck her. It had been naive to think that she could keep such a volatile
conversation secret.
Sister Philomena gazed at Evangeline as if gauging her willingness to cooperate. “I am here to tell
you that Celestine would like to speak with you again,” she said finally. “And to ask that you report
back to me about all that transpires in Celestine’s cell.”
Evangeline found her manner odd and could not discern what Philomena’s motives might be, but
she nodded in assent.
“We must not allow her to become so overwrought again. Please be cautious in what you say to
her.”
“Very well,” Evangeline replied, standing and brushing lint from the couch off her turtleneck and
skirt. “I’ll go immediately.”
“Give me your word,” Philomena said severely as she led Evangeline to the library door, “that you
will inform me of everything Celestine tells you.”
“But why?” Evangeline asked, startled by Philomena’s brusque manner.
At this, Philomena paused, as if chastened. “Celestine is not as strong as she appears, my child. We
do not want to put her in danger.”
In the hours since Evangeline’s last visit, Sister Celestine had been moved into her bed. Her dinner—
chicken broth, crackers, and water—sat untouched on a tray by the bedside table. A humidifier
spewed steam into the air, blanketing the room in a moist haze. The wheelchair had been rolled into
the corner of the room, near the window, and abandoned. The drawn curtains gave the chamber the
aspect of a sanitary, somber hospital room, an effect that heightened as Evangeline closed the door
softly behind her, shutting out the sound of the sisters gathering in the hallways.
“Come in, come in,” Celestine said, gesturing for Evangeline to approach the bed.
Celestine folded her hands upon her chest. Evangeline felt a sudden urge to cover the old woman’s
white, fragile fingers with her hand, to protect them—although from what, she could not say.