“Maybe we shouldn’t discuss it,” Sister Zita, ever the voice of reason, had said calmly, then flipped a stray piece of lint from her sleeve.

“She’s right,” Devota had agreed. “We can’t begin to understand God’s punishment.”

“God’s punishment?” Maura had repeated as two crows started squawking from the roof of the chapel. “You think that’s it?”

Dorothy had said, “Well, she was . . . you know.” She blushed, probably to the roots of her hair, though her short brown locks were completely covered by her veil. “With Father O’Toole.”

“But no one’s struck him down,” Louise had said emphatically, her cheeks flushing, her hands sketching a frantic cross over her chest.

“Yet.” Angela’s voice had been hushed and worried, and the word echoed through Lucia’s brain.

“Never!” Louise had shaken her head. “He’s . . . he’s . . .”

“He was involved with Sister Camille.”

“I know, but . . .”

“But what?” Sister Maura had demanded. “It was all Camille’s fault? Really? I know we live in some kind of throwback, archaic world here, but Sister Camille was no more to blame than Father Frank. He’s a priest, Louise!”

“Shhh,” Sister Irene had said with her slight lisp. She had to crook her neck to meet Louise’s upturned gaze. “This isn’t helping.” She placed her long fingers on Louise’s shoulder.

“That’s right,” Devota had said. “It’s best we not gossip. We should take our concerns to the Holy Father in prayer. He’ll advise us and help us to see what’s right, what we should do.”

Maura had rolled her eyes and rubbed the spine of her prayer book in agitation. “Step into the twenty-first century,” she had advised.

“Remember your vows,” Devota had rebuked, her pale lips turning down. “We all chose this profession, this life. We need to honor it.”

“And atone if we have sinful thoughts,” Sister Edwina had agreed somberly. “There are ways to seek atonement.”

Sister Lucia remembered that this woman, so graceful and beautiful, was rumored to believe in self-flagellation. At least that’s what Sister Camille had admitted, and hadn’t Lucia herself witnessed Edwina walking the halls late at night, red stains on the back of her nightgown?

Sister Louise, rebuked, had let out a long sigh. It was obvious that she, like so many of the others, fancied herself in love with Frank O’Toole. Did he pursue them? Was he aware of his charm and just let it flow? Or was it subconscious and the thoughts in the heads of some of the nuns all just fantasies?

Not that it mattered now, she’d thought. It was horrid how what was happening at the convent was tearing them all apart.