She had to be strong, she’d told herself, and had slept so very little since the horror of finding another one of her flock, the women she sincerely considered her charges—no, her children—had been murdered.

Her muscles ached as she pushed back her desk chair and walked through the back door of her office and through the halls she’d loved so deeply. This, St. Marguerite’s, was as much a part of her as the family home she’d never had.

Few people knew that she was an orphan, that she had grown up at St. Elsinore’s, never adopted out. She found her calling into the service of the Holy Father. The nuns at St. Elsinore’s had both frightened and inspired her, and she’d never thought twice about taking her vows.

Until now.

The halls of the convent were quiet now. The police had once again created chaos here, but, for the moment, it had passed, most of the police officers having left but the cemetery was still cordoned off.

Most of the nuns were spending the day in contemplation, the rigidity of their daily routine interrupted until this evening when they would all gather together in the chapel and Father Paul and Father Frank would conduct a special Mass.

Charity should rest—her body was reminding her of that very painful fact—but she couldn’t, not yet. She walked through the doors to the garden and the fountain she loved so dearly. In the shimmering water, she caught a glimpse of her reflection distorted by her own shadow, rippled by the water’s movement and the glints of gold when the fish darted through the pool’s tiled depths.

She was a relic in her habit and veil. Archaic. Clinging to the old order that was becoming a distant memory. And yet she knew deep in her heart that she was following her true destiny, that she had helped so many like herself, those abandoned, for reasons both good and evil, by their families.

“Sister?” A male voice brought her up short, and she nearly gasped, so deep was she in her reverie. On the other side of the fountain stood that incorrigible Detective Montoya. She didn’t trust him for a second. “May I have a word?”

At least he was being respectful.

“I’m sorry, Reverend Mother,” Sister Devota said, and looked truly rueful. “We”—she indicated her companion, Sister Irene—“were returning from the orphanage, and he was waiting at the gate.”

“It’s all right,” she said to the worried novice. Devota bit her lip, then hurried off, her gait slightly unsteady. She was a difficult woman, full of impassioned faith that concealed her own doubts about herself. Irene’s faith was just as solid, and she was the antithesis of Devota. Tall and lithe, with an almost regal possession of her body. Her fluid movements made Devota’s awkwardness more pronounced.