The kettle clicked, having boiled. Tilly cleared her throat. “Declan lost his wife last December to ovarian cancer.”

Kate stiffened as her fingers wrapped around the handle of the kettle. Last year? And Tilly already had a ring on her finger?

“She was only thirty-five,” Tilly whispered.

Christ Almighty, Kate thought as she listened to the sisters mumble a blessing for the vicar’s wife. He likes them young. She’d heard from Sister Ellie that he was in his late fifties—maybe even early sixties. As she dunked tea bags in their cups, Kate stared out the kitchen window to the east, to St. Joan of Arc on her horse. Tilly was engaged to a man thirty years her senior. Kate’s mind reeled. Thirty years. Tilly. Engaged. A man.

“That’s just awful,” Sister Ellie said.

Sure is, Kate thought.

“Those poor children,” Sister Mary Monica added. “Losing a mother so young. The vicar must have appreciated having you around to help make the move.”

Ahh. Complete understanding dawned. And there it is, Kate thought—Tilly’s penchant for seeing herself in every child who had ever known the loss of a parent.

“And you’re good friends?” Sister Mary Monica pressed. “You and Declan?”

A long silence settled upon the convent kitchen. Kate guessed she wasn’t the only one who had spotted the sapphire on Tilly’s finger.

“We’re engaged,” Tilly said breathily, and Kate’s hand faltered as she splashed milk into two cups.

“Oh, Tilly! Congratulations!” Sister Ruth exclaimed. As Kate turned and carried two mugs to the table, she watched Tilly smile bashfully.

Sister Tessie grasped Kate’s elbow as she placed her tea down on the table for her. “What did she say?” she asked loudly, her Papua New Guinean accent still as strong as it had been the day Kate had started as a boarder.

Kate bent to speak into her ear. “She’s getting married.”

Tilly looked across the table at the exchange.

Sister Tessie pulled back. She squinted at Kate. “Engaged? To whom?”

Kate dropped her gaze. “To the new vicar at St. Vincent’s.”

As Tilly stood to hug Sister Ruth, their eyes locked over the Reverend Mother’s shoulder. “Congratulations,” Kate said as she placed the other cups down on the kitchen table for the sisters.

Tilly’s gaze was unfaltering. “Thanks,” she said breathily. There was something there in her stare, Kate thought, something that wasn’t quite right.

“He’s a very pleasant man, Matilda,” Sister Mary Monica spoke up. “He’ll make a wonderful husband to you. Most of us met him last week when he popped over after mass at St. Gerard’s, and when he told us the story of how you were introduced to each other at mass at St. Matthew’s, he spoke very highly of you.”

Kate remained quiet. At the time of the vicar’s visit, she’d been on the mainland at her mother’s, skipping out on Sunday mass at the school’s local church, St. Gerard’s in Mornington—as always—under the guise that she attended Sunday mass with her mum closer to the city in Dandenong. In reality, her mum hadn’t seen the inside of a church in over a decade, and if her unwed, pregnant sister dared step foot inside one, Kate was certain the entire establishment would burn to the ground. Kate had a feeling the nuns were well aware that mass didn’t occupy a slot in her weekend itinerary, but they never pressed the issue or enquired as to which parish it was that Kate claimed to attend further up the peninsula.