The young sister gasped. “In danger?”

“Your instincts drove you to run. Trust them. I’m not leaving you here, but I want to make sure the other sisters are safe.”

“They’re at the motherhouse. Only Sister Joan…” Sister Cecilia trailed off, her panic spiking again. “You have to find her. I’ll wait here.”

“I can’t leave you alone.” Emma softened her voice. “‘Fill us at daybreak with your love, that all our days we may sing for joy.’”

“Psalm 90:14. That’s our motto.”

“I know. It’ll be okay, Sister. Half a second, and you’ll be off that rock.”

Her teeth chattering now, Sister Cecilia nonetheless managed to stand straight and lift the hem of her skirt above her knees. “Ready?”

Emma gave her an encouraging smile. “Ready.”

With a quick breath, Sister Cecilia leaped from her boulder, grabbing hold of a rosebush, thorns scratching her hand and drawing blood as she steadied herself. She yelped in pain and let go, sucking blood from a finger.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Emma reminded her.

The young novice raised her chin. Her skin was ashen, her blue eyes standing out against the gray surroundings. “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”

“I don’t know yet. Right now I need to find Sister Joan. Stay with me.”

They headed back through the rosebushes and across the lawn to the tower, Sister Cecilia keeping up and not saying a word. The wind picked up, bringing with it more cold drizzle.

When they reached the steps, Emma turned to the novice, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two. “Stay close to me.”

Sister Cecilia nodded, and they mounted the steps. Emma pushed open the heavy door. It barely missed Sister Joan’s sturdy black shoe. She was sprawled on her side, her head twisted in such a position that there was no hope she was still alive.

Her black headband was half off, her graying hair covering most of her face.

Sister Cecilia screamed. “Sister Joan!”

In a smooth motion, Emma drew her .38 and held it firmly in her right hand. She glanced at the young novice. “Do exactly as I say.”

“I will,” she said, her voice just a breath. “Could she have fallen—”

“No.”

Emma didn’t point out the obvious blow Sister Joan had taken to the back of her head and instead bent down and quickly checked for a pulse. There was none, and as she stood up again, she pushed back her emotions.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Sister Cecilia asked.

“I’m afraid so. There’ll be time for mourning later,” Emma said, not harshly. “You’re doing fine, Sister. Just remember to stay close to me.”