“That’s no reason to snap at Sister Lucia,” Irene insisted. “We’re all on edge today. Upset. Worried. Heartsick over poor Sister Camille. Things might not go as smoothly as usual,” Irene said, her lisp more pronounced, her head bobbing as if agreeing with herself.

Surprised that her authority was being challenged, Regina said, “No matter what happened last night, there’s still work to do. The Lord’s work.”

“Then let’s do it together. Amicably. Spiritually,” Irene suggested, lowering her knife.

Angela had trouble swallowing her smile, and even Devota arched her eyebrows at the confrontation.

“No problem. I’ll get it.” Lucia was already stepping toward the door leading outside as Irene turned back to her bowl of strawberries. Regina, tending her stew, looked as if she wanted to spit nails. Angela and Devota turned their attention back to punching the dough for the next day’s bread.

You don’t belong here; you know you don’t. That nagging voice in her head kept reminding Lucia that her commitment was less than most of the other nuns, that her devotion flagged by comparison. Angela, Devota, Irene, Louise, and Dorothy seemed much more devout, their faith so strong it could never be shaken. Even Regina, the sourpuss of a cook, a layperson, appeared to have an unwavering dedication and trust in God.

Not so Lucia.

“Forgive me,” she whispered, making the sign of the cross as she stepped along the gravel path through the herb garden to a storage building. The scents of lavender and rosemary wafted on the warm air, and sunlight caught in a few rapidly drying puddles that had collected on the path.

It was a good day. A warm day. A day filled with God’s promise.

And yet the darkness in her soul wouldn’t disappear.

The door to the storage pantry creaked as she opened it. Inside, the air was cooler. Jars and cans lined the shelves while sacks of sugar and flour were kept in tightly sealed bins. Lucia opened the flour bin and hauled out a twenty-pound sack. She slung it over her shoulder and headed outside again.

Steeling herself for another round with the dour cook, she heard the crow before she saw it, a shiny black bird eyeing her speculatively from the roof of the chapel.

“Sister Lucia?” a male voice asked.

She nearly stumbled and stepped into a puddle as she rounded to find Father Frank standing at the garden gate.

“Oh . . . Father . . . ,” she whispered. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t see you.” In her mind’s eye, she saw him as he had been last night: his hair wet with the rain, his face twisted in a dark scowl, blood running from the hem of his cassock.