Devious - Lisa Jackson [146]
Lucia had thought about the voice in her ear and held her tongue, but silently she agreed with Dorothy and Angela.
“But I’m just saying,” Dorothy had said nervously, “that there could have been reasons Sister Camille was killed. . . .” She let her voice trail off and sketched the sign of the cross over her chest.
“Maybe we shouldn’t discuss it,” Sister Zita, ever the voice of reason, had said calmly, then flipped a stray piece of lint from her sleeve.
“She’s right,” Devota had agreed. “We can’t begin to understand God’s punishment.”
“God’s punishment?” Maura had repeated as two crows started squawking from the roof of the chapel. “You think that’s it?”
Dorothy had said, “Well, she was . . . you know.” She blushed, probably to the roots of her hair, though her short brown locks were completely covered by her veil. “With Father O’Toole.”
“But no one’s struck him down,” Louise had said emphatically, her cheeks flushing, her hands sketching a frantic cross over her chest.
“Yet.” Angela’s voice had been hushed and worried, and the word echoed through Lucia’s brain.
“Never!” Louise had shaken her head. “He’s . . . he’s . . .”
“He was involved with Sister Camille.”
“I know, but . . .”
“But what?” Sister Maura had demanded. “It was all Camille’s fault? Really? I know we live in some kind of throwback, archaic world here, but Sister Camille was no more to blame than Father Frank. He’s a priest, Louise!”
“Shhh,” Sister Irene had said with her slight lisp. She had to crook her neck to meet Louise’s upturned gaze. “This isn’t helping.” She placed her long fingers on Louise’s shoulder.
“That’s right,” Devota had said. “It’s best we not gossip. We should take our concerns to the Holy Father in prayer. He’ll advise us and help us to see what’s right, what we should do.”
Maura had rolled her eyes and rubbed the spine of her prayer book in agitation. “Step into the twenty-first century,” she had advised.
“Remember your vows,” Devota had rebuked, her pale lips turning down. “We all chose this profession, this life. We need to honor it.”
“And atone if we have sinful thoughts,” Sister Edwina had agreed somberly. “There are ways to seek atonement.”
Sister Lucia remembered that this woman, so graceful and beautiful, was rumored to believe in self-flagellation. At least that’s what Sister Camille had admitted, and hadn’t Lucia herself witnessed Edwina walking the halls late at night, red stains on the back of her nightgown?
Sister Louise, rebuked, had let out a long sigh. It was obvious that she, like so many of the others, fancied herself in love with Frank O’Toole. Did he pursue them? Was he aware of his charm and just let it flow? Or was it subconscious and the thoughts in the heads of some of the nuns all just fantasies?
Not that it mattered now, she’d thought. It was horrid how what was happening at the convent was tearing them all apart.
For a second, Lucia had thought she should tell the others about the evil presence she felt, about how she sensed that the demon wasn’t finished with his deadly work, when she looked up and met Sister Devota’s troubled gaze.
Better not to worry them all.
Better not to let them think you’re crazy.
“I don’t think we should speculate,” Lucia had said.
Zita had said, “Sister Lucia’s right. We can’t begin to understand the Holy Father’s ways.” Her dark gaze had moved to each of the nuns gathered in the courtyard. “Maybe we should just pray.”
“And pray hard,” Dorothy had said earnestly, “because we don’t know who’ll be next.”
“Or if there will be another.” Angela had adjusted her narrow glasses under the band of her wimple, a bead of sweat running down her face.
“Let’s hope so,” Louise had agreed, and for the first time Lucia had missed her soft humming throughout the hallways of St. Marguerite’s. For the better part of a week, the corridors had been silent, quiet and as dark as tombs.
Everyone at St. Marguerite’s had been affected by the terror.
Now, Sister Angela’s cheeks were pale