All well and good, Emma thought, but hope, joy and love hadn’t prompted Sister Joan’s call early that morning. Fear had.

“It’s a personal favor,” she had told Emma. “It’s not FBI business. Please come alone.”

Emma felt the cold mist gather on her hair, which she wore long now, and sighed at Saint Francis, the beloved early-thirteenth-century friar who had given up his wealth to follow a life of poverty. “What do you think, my friend?” She peered through the gate and made out a corner of the stone tower in the gray. “I know.”

Sister Joan was afraid, and she was in trouble.

Two

Sister Joan reached the meditation garden and took a breath as she entered the labyrinth of mulched paths, fountains and native plants. Bright purple New England asters brushed against her calves as she shivered in the damp air and tried to let go of her fear, pride and resentment. She envisioned Mother Linden out here as a very old woman, the hem of her traditional habit wet and muddy and her contentment complete. She’d understood and accepted that each sister brought her own gifts and frailties to their small community.

Lately, Sister Joan was more aware of her frailties. She often pushed herself and others too hard, and she had a tendency to probe and question when standing back and letting events unfold would have been better.

Too late to stand back now, she thought as she veered past a weathered brass sundial onto a narrow path that would take her through dwarf apple and pear trees, back to the fence. A large garden and a dozen full-size fruit trees were on the other side of the convent grounds, away from the worst of the ocean wind and salt. With the long New England winter ahead, the sisters had been canning and freezing, making jams and sauces, since the first spring peas had ripened. They were as self-sufficient as possible. Nothing went to waste.

Sister Joan was acutely aware she hadn’t been pulling her weight recently in her community’s day-to-day work. Art conservation was her particular area of expertise, but every sister participated in cooking, gardening and cleaning. No one was exempt. Every task was God’s work. She hoped, with Emma’s help, she would soon resume her normal routines. She was accustomed to sharing everything with the other sisters and regretted not being open with them, but what choice did she have?

It was for their sake that she was being circumspect to the point of sneaking an FBI agent onto the grounds.

Sister Joan picked up her pace. She had to learn the truth. Then she would know what to do.