The nun tries to tug the door anyway, but I’m stronger than she is. I hold my ground. “Her favorite color is green, and she loves the way dirt smells just after it rains.”

The nun’s eyes narrow. “Why are you telling me this?”

“When she was a little girl, she dreamed of marrying a prince. She would draw pictures on the floorboards beneath her bed with bits of charcoal she took from the fire. She made up whole stories about wondrous lands, full of good things happening to good people, just so I would stop crying at night when I was scared. She would hold me when I cried and taught me how to throw a punch when boys got fresh.”

Something in the nun’s face begins to thaw.

“Rosalita is a good person.” That is inadequate, but it is true. “She prays to the Virgin every night, not for herself but for all the girls like her who were born into a world that shows them only unkindness and cruelty. If I were missing, she would knock down every door looking for me. And I can do no less for her. Please.” Slowly, I let go of the door. The nun does not try to pull it closed. “I’m begging you. Let us in. Talk to us. You’re not helping us. You’re helping her.”

After a long, silent moment, the nun sighs. “Fine. Come inside. But knock the dust off your boots. We try to keep things clean here.”

The nun, as it turns out, is the prioress of this entire establishment. After directing a young nun to lead our horses to the stables for water and feed, she leads us to what I assume is her office. It is more of a cell really. The tiny space can barely be called a room. A modest closet, is what I would call it. The Lord craves not the comfort of nuns.

The prioress bustles to a small table in the corner of the room. A silver pitcher stands on a tray, flanked by two glass cups. Glancing over her shoulder, she asks, “You girls must have had a long ride to reach us. Are you thirsty?”

“Parched,” Kiki says.

The prioress nods. She pours water from the pitcher into the two cups.

The water is like a blessing from God himself. I close my eyes, savoring the cool slide of it down my throat. The waterskins we’d packed ran dry about an hour before we reached the convent.

“Now,” the prioress’s penetrating gaze rests on us. “How did you know to come here?”

Kiki and I share a look.

“Sister…”

“Mother,” the prioress says. “Mother Ines.”

“Of course.” Kiki ducks her head. “My apologies.”

“Don’t try to sweet-talk me, girl. I will ask again and not once more: How did you know to come here?”