Chapter 2

Mother Cecily's glare silenced them for a beat, but Sister Rosa, one of the novices, raised her hand timidly. "What if he is a benefactor?" she asked. "What if he came to give us land, or money for the poor?"

Agnes snorted. "Benefactor? Did you see the way he carried himself? That's not a man who gives. That's a man who takes,"

Gasps rippled, and Rosa turned crimson, bowing her head.

"Agnes," Seraphine finally spoke, her voice soft but firm. She kept her eyes on the table, not daring to meet theirs. "You speak too boldly. Be careful. Words have weight."

Agnes leaned forward, studying Seraphine with a sly smile. "And you, Sister Seraphine, didn't you feel it? The air? The silence wasn't silence anymore when he entered."

Seraphine's lips parted, but no words came. It's not that she's afraid or something, she just can't find the right word to say. She have her own opinions too, but keeping quite in times like this make it better. 

One wrong word, she's going to be on the hot seat—being tease and such.

Miriam looked between them nervously. "Stop it, Agnes. You'll give us nightmares."

But Agnes only smirked, biting into her bread. "I think he's the kind of man who already lives in nightmares. His aura screams like one,"

Mother Cecily slammed her hand down again, making the bowls rattle. "Enough! Not another word of this devil talk. Keep your tongues pure, or I'll see each of you kneeling until your knees bleed. Am I understood?"

A heavy silence fell over the table. 

Still, Seraphine felt Agnes's words echo inside her like a forbidden prayer: the kind of man who lives in nightmares.

After the meal, the sisters spilled out into the gardens for their usual chores. The sun had risen fully now, warm and unforgiving, bathing the cloister in gold. Seraphine knelt among the herbs, her hands deep in soil, the scent of rosemary and damp earth clinging to her skin.

Agnes, of course, couldn't keep silent. 

"He didn't walk like a pilgrim," she said while tugging weeds with exaggerated force. "He walked like... like he could command the very stones to move for him."

Miriam gasped, dropping a handful of roots. "Agnes!"

"What? It's true." Agnes smirked. "Didn't you feel it? Even Mother Superior looked... unsettled."

"Unsettled isn't the word," another sister chimed in—Lucia, the youngest novice, cheeks flushed from the heat. "She looked... afraid."

The words hung heavy in the air. None of them liked to think of Mother Superior, unshakable as granite, afraid of anyone.

Seraphine pressed her fingers harder into the soil. Afraid. Yes. That word felt closer to truth.

"Maybe," Agnes went on, lowering her voice dramatically, "he's one of those men. The kind whispered about. With money, power, and sins blacker than night." She lifted a brow at Seraphine. "The kind you'd never dare look in the eye."

Miriam gave her a shove, scandalized. "Stop saying such things! You'll curse us all."

But the damage was done. The image hung there, vivid, forbidden, and Seraphine hated that she could see it so clearly in her mind—a man cloaked not in rags or robes, but in something heavier. A presence that didn't beg for mercy, but demanded silence.

That night, after Compline, the sisters retired to their dormitory. The long chamber was filled with rows of narrow beds, each draped with thin linen sheets. The room buzzed softly with whispered voices, though silence was expected.

Seraphine lay on her side, eyes half-shut, rosary coiled beneath her pillow.

But whispers carried.

"Do you think he's staying here?" Miriam murmured from the next bed, her voice trembling with both fear and fascination.

"He wouldn't dare," Sister Rosa whispered back. "Men aren't allowed within these walls."

Agnes snorted softly. "Men like him don't need permission."

A few giggles answered, quickly stifled under the weight of the vow of silence.

Then came the words Seraphine dreaded.

"Seraphine hasn't said much," Agnes teased in a hushed voice, stretching out the syllables. "Quiet as ever... Tell us, Sister, didn't your heart beat louder when you heard him?"

The others stifled their laughter with sheets pressed to their mouths.

Seraphine's eyes snapped open in the dark, her breath sharp. "Enough," she whispered, harsher than she intended. "This is not a game."

"Oh, but it is," Agnes replied slyly, turning over in her bed. "For men like him, everything is a game. Even God's house."

"Agnes!" Miriam hissed, scandalized, though her nervous giggle betrayed her.

Mother Cecily's voice cut across the darkness, stern as steel. "Sleep. Or tomorrow you will not."

The dormitory finally fell into quiet. One by one, the sisters surrendered to sleep, their breathing soft, the candlelight guttering out into shadows.

But Seraphine could not sleep.

She lay on her side, eyes open in the dark, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling above her. Each breath felt shallow, each beat of her heart too loud. The whispers of her sisters still clung to her ears. Didn't your heart beat louder when you heard him?

She shut her eyes tight, pressing her rosary to her lips as if the cold beads could banish the thought. But sleep refused her.

At last, unable to bear the weight of her own restlessness, she rose from her bed. Careful not to disturb the others, she slipped barefoot into the corridor, her veil drawn around her like a shield.

The halls of Saint Meridia were darker at night, lit only by the faint glow of oil lamps. Shadows stretched long across the walls, bending with the flicker of flame. The air smelled of old stone and smoke.

She walked slowly, telling herself it was only to clear her thoughts, to chase away the storm inside her chest.