Chapter 11 - The Convent of the Shadows
By three in the morning, the rain had ceased, leaving behind a dense, bone-chilling ground fog that blanketed the valley floor. Limping heavily, her left arm hanging limp to ease the agony in her side, Nora guided Mia through the back orchards of the St. Jude Convent.
The property was surrounded by a ten-foot stone wall, but near the old irrigation sluice, an iron gate hung slightly ajar, secured only by an unlatched chain just as Sister Beatrice had promised.
They slipped through the overgrown garden, past rows of dormant tomato stakes and withered squash vines, until they reached the carriage house. The wooden cellar doors were flush with the ground, covered in wet burlap. Nora knelt, hooked her fingers under the iron ring, and lifted.
Warm air smelling of beeswax, dried lavender, and old paper drifted up from the stone steps.
“Down here, Mia. Carefully,” Nora whispered.
They descended into the darkness. As soon as Nora pulled the heavy oak doors shut and dropped the timber bar into place, a lantern clicked on in the corner of the cellar.
Sister Beatrice stood there, holding a hurricane lamp. She wore the traditional dark habit of her order, her face etched with deep lines of worry and sorrow, but her grey eyes were clear, fierce, and entirely lucid.
Without a word, Beatrice set the lamp on a workbench and stepped forward, wrapping both Nora and Mia into a warm, woolen embrace that felt like the first true safety Nora had known in weeks.
“You made it, child,” Beatrice murmured, her voice steady and soothing. “Praise be. You made it.”
May you like
“They’re right behind us, Bea,” Nora breathed, trembling against her aunt’s shoulder.
“Let them come,” Beatrice said, stepping back and studying Nora’s battered face with a mixture of grief and anger. “They may own the courts and the cruisers, but they do not own this ground. Come. Up the back stairs. I have hot broth, dry clothes, and someone you need to meet.”
