Chapter 3

Morning broke with the toll of the bells. The sound rang heavy through the monastery, echoing over stone and wood, pulling the sisters out of slumber.

Seraphine opened her eyes slowly, her lashes brushing against the cold pillow. Her body ached with exhaustion, though she had barely slept at all. Each time she drifted close to rest, the memory of that voice seeped back into her mind, smooth and unyielding.

She rose, forcing her bones to obey the rhythm of ritual. The veil over her head, the habit snug around her body—armor against thoughts that had no right to linger.

By the time she entered the refectory, the air was alive with chatter. The younger nuns were gathered at the long table, their plates lined with simple bread and cheese. Laughter bubbled in the corners, scandalous whispers hidden beneath lowered voices.

"Seraphine!" one of them, Sister Agnes, called brightly, waving her over with crumbs at the edge of her mouth. She was barely twenty, with cheeks that flushed pink at every teasing word. "You look pale. Didn't you sleep?"

Seraphine managed a small smile, sliding onto the bench. "Not well. Perhaps the bells rang louder than usual."

"Oh, not the bells," another nun, Sister Clara, interrupted with a mischievous grin. She leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "It was him, wasn't it? You couldn't sleep thinking about the man who came yesterday."

"Clara!" Agnes swatted her arm, scandalized but grinning. "Don't tease."

"I'm not teasing," Clara sang, resting her chin on her palm. "Did you not hear the way he spoke? As if even the walls listened. My ears are still ringing."

Seraphine's heart thudded. She tore her bread carefully, keeping her face composed. "You should not speak of men in that way," she said, though her voice was softer than her intention.

Clara pouted. "We speak of angels in songs. How different is it, really?"

"That man is no angel," Seraphine replied before she could stop herself. The words slipped out sharp, edged with something almost... personal.

Clara blinked, caught off guard. Then, slowly, a grin crept across her lips. "Sister Seraphine," she whispered dramatically, "you did notice him."

Heat prickled at Seraphine's cheeks, though she kept her gaze on the bread in her hands. "I noticed only that he does not belong here."

Agnes giggled, covering her mouth. "And yet you speak with such conviction, as if you've studied him."

The table rippled with muffled laughter, though quickly stifled when one of the older nuns hushed them from across the hall. Still, the playful energy lingered, and Seraphine found herself both relieved and unsettled by it.

Because while they joked freely, her own thoughts carried weight. Their laughter was light, but hers was heavy silence.

By mid-morning, the sisters gathered in the garden for chores. The air was cool, scented with lavender and damp earth. Birds darted overhead, their wings flashing white in the sunlight.

Seraphine knelt near the rose bushes, pruning carefully, her hands steady though her mind was not. Each snip of the shears sounded louder than it should.

"Careful," Agnes whispered beside her, fumbling with the thorns. "You'll cut too much."

"I know what I'm doing," Seraphine said, though gently, glancing at her.

Agnes smiled sheepishly, then leaned closer. "Do you think he'll come back today?"

Seraphine stiffened. "Why would he?"

Agnes shrugged. "Because men like him never leave after only one visit. My father used to say that about traders who came into the village. If their boots were polished and their words were smooth, it meant they had unfinished business."

Clara, on the other side of the hedge, snorted. "Or it means they like to stir trouble. Did you see how Mother Superior's mouth tightened when she spoke with him? I thought she would faint."

"Clara!"

"What? I'm only saying."

Their voices faded into giggles, rising and falling like the wind through the garden leaves.

Seraphine exhaled slowly, steadying her breath. She wanted to believe their talk was childish. Harmless. But she had heard what they had not—the bargain disguised as a threat, the promise hidden in that low laugh.

She pressed her palm against the rough stem of the rose, letting the thorn bite into her skin. A sting bloomed in her hand, sharp and grounding.

The rest of the day passed in ritual. Scripture readings echoed through the chapel until her lips moved from memory rather than meaning. Chores blurred into one another—laundry in cold water, sweeping endless corridors, mending habits worn thin by years of use. The rhythm should have been grounding. Familiar. Holy.

But everywhere she turned, the shadow of that man lingered.

In the chapel, the stained glass poured crimson and gold across the pews, yet Seraphine felt only the heat of remembered words pressed low into her ear. Smooth. Commanding. As though they had been spoken just for her.

During vespers, she caught herself stumbling, the syllables faltering on her tongue. Her voice, meant for God alone, betrayed her. Her mind wandered back to the stranger, back to the cadence of his tone. It clung to her like incense smoke, thick and sweet, seeping beneath her skin no matter how tightly she folded her hands.

Her head bowed deeper, breath uneven. "Lord, cleanse me," she whispered, the words nearly swallowed by the hymn around her. "Make me steadfast."

But her chest betrayed her. Her heartbeat quickened—not with devotion, but with something perilously close to temptation.