Lucia quickly donned an apron and took her place at the smooth marble counter where Sister Angela and Sister Devota were busy kneading dough. Angela glanced at Lucia and smiled, but Devota just kept at her work, her fingers digging deep into the elastic dough.

The two nuns were as opposite as day and night. Angela with her apple cheeks, blond hair, flour-smudged glasses, and quick smile always appeared happy, if a little spacey at times. She had a tendency to forget the rules and was often in trouble for humming while she was supposed to maintain her silence or for running through the gardens when she was supposed to walk. Discipline was difficult for her, and suppressing her natural ebullience was seemingly impossible, much to the frustration of the mother superior.

Devota, on the other hand, was a tall, quiet woman who continually fought self-esteem issues, at least in Lucia’s opinion. Although she possessed pretty features, thick, curling hair, and a rare smile, Devota was self-conscious of the fact that she limped, the result of some kind of accident in her youth, which she would never discuss. No wonder she offered up her time at the clinic at St. Elsinore’s. Devota had no trouble following the rules and was quick to remind others, including Sister Angela, of how to be obedient and pious.

“You’re late,” Regina snapped as she glanced up at the ancient clock mounted over the door. “Again.”

“Sorry,” Lucia said to the cook.

The corners of Regina’s mouth turned downward a little farther, indicating that no excuse was good enough. Her glare was positively withering, but Lucia couldn’t worry about it today.

“We need more flour,” Regina said curtly, then turned to a pot that bubbled upon the massive stove.

Both Angela and Devota glanced at Lucia. Angela rolled her expressive eyes and Devota shrugged, as there was still an unopened twenty-pound bag propped against the pantry door.

“Did you hear me?” Regina demanded, bringing tense silence to the kitchen.

Even Sister Irene stopped slicing berries to look over her shoulder. Tall and slim, Irene swore she’d been a ballet dancer before joining the convent, and she still knotted her straight hair into a tiny topknot, enhancing the sharp cheekbones of her pixielike face.

“Yes,” Lucia said, nodding to the cook. “I’ll get right on it.”

“We already have an extra sack,” Irene pointed out. She spoke with a small lisp but seemed fearless of everyone, including the reverend mother. She wasn’t concerned about arguing with the cook. “See . . . it’s over there.” With the blade of her knife, she pointed at the bag propped near the pantry door.

Regina colored slightly but set her jaw. “We need more,” she said, her lips moving over clenched teeth. “Guests are expected and I’m going to be baking all day!”