She came to the fence again and followed it a few yards to where it ended at the edge of a rock ledge that dropped almost straight down to the water. She could see the outline of at least a dozen sailboats and yachts that had taken refuge in the cove and wondered if anyone was looking up at the one-time estate and imagining what life was like in the secluded convent.

She had as a child, sailing with her family. Her parents hadn’t been particularly religious, but even as girl, she’d felt the call to a religious life stir within her. Only years later, after much study, contemplation, prayer and hard work, had she fully embraced her vocation and become a member of the Sisters of the Joyful Heart.

Holding on to a wet, cold cross-member for balance, Sister Joan eased around to the other side of the tall fence. She was mindful of her footing on the ledge, especially in the wet conditions, but she’d taken this route from the meditation garden to the tower countless times and had never come close to falling.

She ducked past the sweeping branches of a white pine and sloshed through a puddle of mud and browned pine needles, emerging onto the expanse of lawn in the middle of which stood the squat, rather unattractive, if impressive, tower. Why it was fenced off was just one of the many mysteries and eccentricities of the sprawling property the order had purchased in a dilapidated state sixty years ago. As near as anyone could figure, the tower had been modeled after a lighthouse and served as a place where the owners and their visitors could observe the ocean, passing boats and marine life. Now it was the center of the convent’s work in the conservation, restoration and preservation of art.

I’ve dedicated my life to this work, Sister Joan thought, then shook her head, amending herself. For the past thirty years, she’d dedicated her life not to herself and art conservation but to the charism—the unique spirit—and mission of her community. She’d freely chosen to enter the convent and commit herself to the rigorous process of discerning her calling before professing her final vows. She’d done her best to live according to the example and the teachings of Mother Linden.

It was in that spirit that she’d called Emma Sharpe.

Her wet shoes squishing with every step, Sister Joan circled to the front of the tower. The entrance overlooked the ocean, barely visible now in the fog. Even so, she could feel the freshening of the breeze, signaling that the promised cold front was moving in. The fog would blow out quickly now and be gone by evening vespers.