Chapter 4

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.

By nightfall, the convent had quieted, though not as quickly as it should have. The dormitory buzzed with hushed voices, laughter slipping between beds like fireflies refusing to die. The nuns should have been asleep, but curiosity proved stronger than discipline.

Clara's whisper cut through the dark. "Do you think he's married?"

A scandalized gasp answered her. Agnes bolted upright in her cot, hair tumbling free from its braid. "Clara!" she hissed, hugging her blanket tight as though to shield herself from the sin of the question. "That's a wicked thing to wonder!"

Clara giggled, undeterred. "Oh, come on. You were staring harder than anyone yesterday."

"I was not!" Agnes's cheeks flushed red even in the dim glow of the oil lamp. "I was only—only watching Mother Superior. To make sure she wasn't fainting."

"You liar," Clara teased, muffling her laugh in her pillow. "You nearly dropped your prayer book when he spoke."

Agnes swatted her with a feather pillow, the light thump setting off a chain of giggles across the room. A few of the younger sisters peeked out from under their blankets, wide-eyed with amusement.

"Shh!" another hissed from the far end. "You'll wake Mother Cecily!"

But the warning only fueled the mischief. Clara sat up straighter, eyes gleaming with devilry. "Fine. Then let's imagine." She leaned forward, lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper. "If he's not married, what if he's here to... to steal a bride?"

Gasps rippled through the room, half shock, half delight.

Agnes clutched her pillow tighter, eyes wide. "Clara, that's blasphemy!"

"It's only a story," Clara defended, grinning. "Besides, didn't you feel it? The way the air changed when he entered? Like even God was listening."

"You're impossible," Agnes muttered, though her lips twitched as if hiding a smile.

Laughter bubbled up again, bright and dangerous, like children caught playing at the edge of a cliff.

From her cot, Seraphine lay utterly still. Her rosary twisted tight in her hand, beads digging into her palm. She kept her gaze on the ceiling, refusing to be drawn in. But their voices crawled through her ears, tugging at the corners of her restraint.

She wanted to scold them. To remind them of silence, vows, purity. She wanted to be the example.

But her lips did not move.

Because deep inside, beneath layers of devotion and restraint, Seraphine feared she was no different from them.

Perhaps worse.

For while they wondered in innocence, she remembered with precision.

His voice. The timbre of it. The weight it carried when it pressed into the room. The way even silence seemed to bend toward him, willing to be claimed.

She had not only wondered.

She had listened.

The rosary slipped between her fingers, sliding bead by bead, as if prayer could drown memory. But exhaustion gnawed at her resolve, softening the edges of discipline. Her body grew heavy, her breaths shallow.

The nuns' whispers carried on like a tide around her.

"I bet his hands are soft," Clara mused suddenly, wickedly.

Agnes nearly squealed, covering her ears. "Stop it! You'll curse us all!"

"I'm just saying," Clara insisted, giggling. "No farmer's calluses, no blacksmith's scars. The kind of hands that only ever hold... power."

The room erupted into muffled laughter, a few sisters burying their faces in pillows to hide it. They're like kids giggling talking about their crushes,  she was once like that too. Very loud, vocal, and able to express what she really feels and like.

Seraphine's chest tightened. Her nails dug into her palm. Enough.

Yet even as she begged herself to rise, to silence them, she stayed. Silent. Motionless. Unable to talk but keeps on listening, hoping that mother superior won't find out about this because they're all gonna be dead. They will surely face some sort of punishment that she doesn't like, after all, those nun's with bad records here vanished without a traced. They already asked about the missing. un's where about but, mother superior mouth is shut.

She is her because she wants peace, silence—not punishment and gossips.

And as her eyes drifted shut, sleep pulling her under, her final thought was not of prayer.

It was a question.

What if he does come back?

Of course he will. He is a benefactor after all.

And worse—

What if she wanted him to?