“Come with us,” the younger nun demands.

“What—” I look between them and the boys, baffled at what I’ve just witnessed.

“Come along, Frances and Finn,” she says once more. Because I fear we have no choice, we do.

We follow them through the corridors, their bright lights leading the way. I turn to Finn, concern in my eyes. He doesn’t look scared; he just looks bruised from the fight. There’s a nasty cut on his forearm where the dagger got him, the source of the blood all over my shoes. He holds his arm aloft to try to stanch the bleeding, but we’ll have to get him bandaged soon.

I flit my eyes to the nuns in a silent question: Should we fight them, too?

Finn shakes his head. “Sister Evangeline is a friend,” he whispers.

The nuns lead us up and out of the catacombs, through the back halls of the church, and up another rickety staircase behind the sanctuary.

The staircase lets out into an airy loft space. It must be the attic space of the cathedral. The flying buttresses on the ceiling go right into the line of the roof. The front wall is one massive stained-glass rosette. In the center of the room is a large gathering table, and a few worn sofas are set around a stone fireplace. There’s a narrow hallway that must lead to the living quarters.

There are a few other women, some young, some old, all in nun’s habits, milling around the space, reading Bibles or taking notes or with their eyes closed in prayer.

The odd thing is the complete and utter silence.

“What is this place?” I ask. I’m ready to cry, to fall apart, but I need to hold it together, at least for the next few minutes. “Who are you?”

The younger nun guides us to the table. She crosses the room and rifles through a cabinet producing medical supplies. “We’re the Sisters of Saint Joan,” she says. “I’m Sister Marguerite, a novitiate.”

The rest of the nuns don’t pay us much mind.

Sister Marguerite pulls up the bloody sleeve of Finn’s shirt and pours alcohol on his cut. He gasps at the sting.

Sister Marguerite carries on. “We are a sisterhood of witches dedicated to Our Lord and the protection of His Kingdom. We’ve guarded the veil for thousands of years.”

“How’d you meet her?” I ask Finn. I think back to the community at the lakeside, to the Brothers of Morte d’Arthur. Finn’s ability to make friends and make others trust him is unmatched.

“Sister Marguerite lived with Les Selectionnes last summer before returning to the city to take her vows.”

She nods in confirmation.

“What about the Brothers of Morte d’Arthur?” I ask. The nuns know where the veil is, they clearly possess powerful magic, they know of the murders. Why aren’t they stopping them?