Kira peered at the wall closest to her. “I’m not clear on the terminology of medieval religious garb,” she said, “but those look like nun outfits.”

“These,” said Isa, gesturing toward the nun wall, “are the Virgin Saints. And these”—she gestured toward the opposite wall—“are the Mother Saints. You can select on which side you would like to stand, and I will take your photo.”

Georgia let out a sacrilegious snort, prompting the Serious Russian ahead of her to turn and glare again. She ignored this, grinning broadly. “I’m not going to get into the whole virgin/whore dichotomy perpetuated by centuries of patriarchal hypocrisy,” she said, “but allow me to stipulate: none of us are on Team Virgin Saints.”

Hannah fixed her gaze on the gold-etched mothers on the wall, forever frozen in postures of feminine impassivity in this windowless stretch of stairs, hidden and dormant, indistinguishable from their virginal counterparts. It rang true: throughout much of history, women had been judged not on their accomplishments or their characters or their worth as human beings, but on the simple dichotomy of their purity or their fertility, or, sometimes, their beauty. Where did that leave her? Her eyes filled and the figures blurred; for a moment all she could do was concentrate on swallowing her tears before anyone noticed.

“Yay, Mother Saints!” said Vani. “We’ll do our picture there, please.”

Everyone scrambled for the Mother Saints wall. Normally during a group photo, they all fought not to be on the end, ever since one of them figured out that whichever people bookended the line in a group photo appeared bizarrely wide compared to the others. But now Hannah slid soundlessly onto one end, hoping not to draw attention to the fact that of all of them, she alone did not belong on Team Mother Saints.

7

Respira Profundo

COMPTON

BARCELONA, SPAIN

As she woke for her fourth day in Spain, Compton reflected that separation seemed to be helping her process the seismic shift in her reality. They’d been so busy over the last few days—first Montserrat and then a tour of a vineyard and winery, followed by a series of boozy, boisterous meals in Barcelona and various museums, cathedrals, and walking tours—that she hadn’t even had a chance to return most of Ellis’s texts. The time difference and their deranged schedule made a video call impossible. Ordinarily, she’d have nurtured a tender, sentimental ache at the experience of departing on a transcontinental journey and not seeing Ellis and the children for a week while at the same time rejoicing in the decadent void of separation from Ellis and the children for a week. She could not, she mused, be friends with any woman who would be judgmental about this.