Remember Sister Camille, the voice warned from somewhere in the nether-reaches of her mind. But she ignored it, concentrated on staying upright as she shoved open the doors and burst into the night. Here the moon was bright, the night close, the scent of gardenias mingling with the heavy smell of the earth. The pebbles of the path were rough under her bare feet, but she didn’t care, couldn’t really feel pain. It was almost as if she were floating as she proceeded through a gate that was open, as if someone had been waiting for her.

Her groom. Of course.

Joseph!

She conjured up his handsome face, imagined what it would be like to kiss him again . . .

No, wait. Not Joseph. That wasn’t right. Or was it? She was confused for a second, the moonlight suddenly off-kilter. Why wasn’t she in the church? And if she wasn’t marrying Joseph, who would be waiting for her at the altar?

Christ! You’re marrying Jesus, the Son of God. You’re a nun!

Of course.

She tried to reclaim the feeling of well-being that had captivated her earlier, but it was fast escaping, leaving a sudden dawning realization that she’d been duped, probably drugged, in its wake.

But how?

“This way.” The disembodied voice nudged her around a corner and through another gate that was also ajar. When it creaked on rusted hinges, she realized she had entered the cemetery, where tombs, stone sepulchers that rose from the ground, loomed around her. A sinister breeze skittered through the whitewashed tombs, tugging at her dress and rattling the branches of the surrounding trees. Spanish moss danced ghostlike from the gnarled branches, and she heard a voice hiss against her ear, “Your sins have come to bear . . . all your sins, Sister Asteria.”

“No!” She tried to scream but made no sound.

Terror raked its claws across her soul.

“You’ve made a mockery of your vows.”

Oh, dear God.

“Wait,” she tried to say, but her voice was hushed, mute.

“Move.”

Stumbling forward, Sister Asteria prayed for mercy as fear consumed her. The blood in her veins was like ice. Frigid. Congealing. Reminding her that she deserved this punishment.

The memory of poor Sister Camille’s fate seared through her brain as a crow cawed his plaintive, mocking cry before flapping off to the dark heavens.

Asteria trembled, her skin scratching against the tattered fabric of the bridal gown, her fate sealed. Tears streamed from her eyes, and she thought of escape, of turning around and dashing through the tombs, of screaming out for help.

But she couldn’t.

Her voice was silenced.

By her sins.

This was what she deserved.

She knew about Sister Camille, had heard that she had died wearing the same kind of dress. Camille’s death had been a warning, one she hadn’t heeded.