CHAPTER 8
Everything around her was gray. She couldn’t believe what she had done. She’d seized the opportunity, taken the chance, and now she was—she didn’t know exactly where—on the byways of Dublin.
Nora imagined Sister Ruth’s shame, Sister Anne’s anger at her escape. The Mother Superior would be furious with Sister Ruth, who had drifted off reading a magazine when the hotel delivery van arrived. It was one of those Hollywood gossip magazines, filled with handsome movie stars and buxom starlets in glittering low-cut gowns. What I wouldn’t give to be there now—away from Dublin, away from me stupid ma and da, giving Pearse the two-finger salute across the Atlantic. Think of it! On the Pacific shore, drinking champagne and smoking cigarettes, having a date with an actor who was starring in a picture. There must be millions of them to choose from.
The van hit a pothole. The jolt knocked Nora’s head against a shelf. She stifled a cry, hoping to keep her presence a secret. She knew the driver didn’t see her sneak inside. The tablecloth she’d pulled over herself slipped, allowing her to see the road out the rear windows.
Nora gave herself a mental pat on the back. How kind she had been to step up and help when Sister Ruth was indisposed. The nun had been strict lately, but this mistake was going to cost her. Nora had put a finger to her lips and urged the driver not to wake the slumbering Sister Ruth. “She’s had a rough night,” she told the short man with thinning hair, who looked bored with everything around him, including the Magdalens. “Female trouble.” The man was unmoved. Perfect, Nora thought, he couldn’t care less about the goings-on at the laundry.
As Sister Ruth snoozed and the others went about their business, they ignored Nora when she helped the man pull the return laundry down the hall and onto the truck. He was happy for the hand. All she asked for in return was a cigarette, even though she had Lea’s stashed in her apron pocket. He gave her one at the delivery door, and when he climbed into the cab, she opened the back, crawled in, and hid under a clean tablecloth. The cab was separated from the rear of the van by a metal partition. He could neither see nor hear her.
From its movement, she knew the van had turned left from the gate. That was good, because it was headed north, toward her home. She’d heard Mr. Roche, the old caretaker, say good-bye. Now that she was a safe distance away, she planned to get out of the van, before it made any more stops. Sister Anne would have the Guards searching for her within minutes of the discovery of her escape.
The day was draped with rain and spits of snow. The gray cocoon formed by the tablecloth was oddly comforting, almost like being in a warm cave. She peered through the windows. Unfamiliar buildings swept by on both sides of the road. The van stopped. She heard the driver cough.
The vehicle began moving again, then turned right and swung Nora back toward the shelf. He was now headed east, toward the sea. Time to get out.
She stuffed the tablecloth in a bag, crawled to the rear, and waited for the van to stop.
When it did, she opened the doors and stepped out, much to the surprise of the driver behind, who honked his horn and smiled broadly. She closed the doors, ran to the nearest footpath, and, looking up, found a road sign mounted on a wall. She was in a residential tract on Northbrook Road, an area of older homes with wide stairs and arched doorways. Instinct told her to hurry back in the direction from which she had come. When she was a good distance from the van, she slowed down. The cold air bit at her, but it was good to breathe outside, away from the stifling atmosphere of the convent.
She reached Charlemont, a busy road with residences and some businesses. She peered in windows, trying to act nonchalant, but people were staring at her. Eyes. Eyes everywhere. Everyone was looking at her—a girl in a plain gray dress covered by a white muslin apron. And, my hair. What must everyone think of her prison-maid bob? The few women who had ventured out in the cold carried umbrellas and wore heavy coats to stave off the elements. Their hairdos were perfect. Pert cuts with tips curled behind the ears, or layers of hair piled upon their heads. She shivered and rubbed her palms over her arms. She hadn’t had time to grab a coat during her quick escape. A blast of wind flung rain against her body.
The realization of what she’d done hit her. She was without money, without a change of clothes, and a good distance from home. She darted into an alley, plastered herself against a damp wall, and took a few deep breaths.
Teagan. Teagan would hate her, as well, thinking that she had broken her promise. However, she’d made a vow and she would keep it. How and when that would happen she didn’t know.
Sirens sounded in the distance, and she kept out of sight in the alley. Perhaps they were already after her. She peered down the road and spotted two Guard cars weaving through traffic, blasting their way past her. She waited a few more minutes before stepping out of the alley and then walked on the footpath that led north.
People stared at her. A few snickered; most raised their eyebrows in derision as if they had seen a circus freak. Then she saw a man sitting next to an iron grate for warmth. His legs stuck out into the sidewalk, forcing passersby to step over them. He wasn’t old—probably in his twenties—but his face shone beet red from drink and the cold air. She wondered if he might be drunk and approached him tentatively.
“Pardon,” she said.
He pushed his wool cap back and stared at her with drowsy, bloodshot eyes.
“I’m in need of food and a change of clothes,” Nora said. “Is there a mission nearby?”
In a thick brogue, he answered, “Yer in luck, me lay-dee.” He pointed north, gave her a few simple directions, and then asked for money. Nora laughed, not in condescension, but at the irony of his request. She was as broke as he was.
She left him sitting there, his head lolling. A few blocks away she found the mission.
The printed sign over the door read HOME AND HEARTH in bright yellow letters, cheerful on the raw day. The building was narrow but long, and near the back, Nora saw a score of men and women eating at a table. She opened the door and a bell overhead tinkled.
A woman with an angular face and silver hair looked up from her tasks. She neither smiled nor gave a greeting. She looked at Nora as if she was expecting her next crop of indigents to walk in the door at any minute. The shelter was warm and smelled of damp coats curling by the steam pipes. The aromatic odors of a spicy beef stew also drifted through the air.
The woman sat stoically behind her desk. Something in her eyes gave Nora a chill. It was hard to tell what it was, but if she had to guess it was recognition. The woman knew, or suspected, where she came from. Only her need for a change of clothing kept her from running out the door.
The woman dropped her pencil on a pile of papers and eyed her with distrust. “May I help you?”
“I ran into a man down the road. We’re both homeless and he directed me here.”
“Really?” the woman countered. “How long have you been homeless?”
“Going on four months.”
The woman opened a card file on her desk. “What’s your name?”
Almost without thinking, Nora said, “Monica.” There was no reason to give her real name.
The woman tapped the file. “Last name?”
“Tiernan.” She said it straight-faced and with no hint of guilt.
“Monica Tiernan.” She flipped through the file, stopping at the “T” and inspected the cards behind the divider. “I have no record of a Monica Tiernan. I know every needy person in the neighborhood. We make it our business to know everyone, you understand. We don’t serve those of low moral character.”
Nora understood the implication. Home and Hearth was no sanctuary for drug dealers, drunks, pimps, prostitutes, or others of questionable morals like the Magdalens.
“Oh, believe me,” Nora said. “I’m of high moral character, just fallen on hard times. Me parents died and I lost me home.” The truth of her statement was enough to bring a teary glaze to her eyes. Nora hoped the woman would notice.
“Do you have identification?”
“None,” Nora replied. “Not even a bag to put anything in.”
“That’s an unusual dress you’re wearing,” the woman said.
“Found it and the apron in an alley not long ago. It was better than what I had on, and warmer, too, which is the reason I’m here. I need a change of clothes and I’d like to eat a bite.”
“Where did you find this clothing?”
“On Northbrook Road, not far from here.”
The woman pursed her lips and handed Nora a card. “Fill this out. We need some information for our mission. You’re welcome to food. I’ll look for clothes. I think we might have something in your size.”
As she filled out the card, Nora made up the answers to the questions as she went along, all the time keeping an eye on the woman. There was only one telephone in the room that she could see, and it was on the front desk. She feared the woman might call the Guards.
The woman returned with her arms piled with underthings, a plain blue dress, and a warm gabardine coat. Nothing about the outfit was fashionable, but she accepted it gratefully. Everything she wore could now be changed, except for her shoes, the black flats the Magdalens wore. They weren’t really suitable for the weather, but they would get her by until she could find a suitable pair.
“You can change in the ladies’ room in back,” the woman said, “then have something to eat.”
“Thank you,” Nora said, and exchanged her card for the clothes. The woman took it, sat again at her desk, and read the information.
On her way to the ladies’, the powerful smell of the stew called to her stomach. She opened the door to the toilet, and kept it slightly ajar as she changed. She left her old clothes in the corner. Through the crack, Nora saw another woman, who looked as if she worked at the mission, approach the desk. The two looked over the card and conferred.
Nora took a few minutes to change, making sure to take the cigarettes from her apron. Unsure when her next meal would come, she scooped up a large bowl of stew and a piece of bread. She sat with other men and women, but said nothing as she ate, positioning herself so she could watch the two women.
As Nora gobbled up her meal, the second woman left the desk, seemingly satisfied by her conversation with the woman in charge. An old man in a shabby coat sat next to Nora, slurping his soup and chomping bread with dentures, which slipped in and out of his mouth. Two one-pound notes stuck out of his coat pocket. They would be so easy to lift, she thought.
She eyed the notes and then moved her hand toward the man, making sure no one was watching. The woman at the desk fiddled with her pencil, never giving her a look.
She touched the top of the notes, feeling the woven texture of the money. The man shifted and she withdrew her hand. Seconds later, she pulled the money out in a quick move and transferred it to her gabardine coat. This will get me a taxi home. Forgive me, but I need this more than you do. She knew that might be a lie; however, considering the hand that her parents and God had dealt her lately, petty theft and guilt were the least of her concerns.
The woman at the desk dialed the telephone.
Nora spooned the remainder of the soup into her mouth and finished her bread. Instead of feeling warm satisfaction, she froze in fear at what the woman might be doing. Was she calling the Guards? Did she suspect Nora was a Magdalen? Rather than risk being taken back to the convent, she decided to get out. Her stomach was full enough.
She stood up, leaving her bowl behind, and rushed to the woman. “Excuse me, can I use the phone before you make that call?” She thrust out her arms, seeking pity. “I need to call my aunt. She might take me in!”
The woman put her palm over the mouthpiece. “Can’t you see I’m using it? You’ll have to wait a few minutes. Sit down. Are you sure you’ve had enough to eat?”
“More than enough,” Nora said and then bolted for the door.
“Stop!” The woman dropped the telephone and rushed after her.
Nora turned north toward the city, running as fast she could. The woman screamed at her to come back. “I know what you are! You’re a dirty, filthy Magdalen! I’ve called the Guards on you. They’ll get you!”
The woman’s voice faded away as Nora ran. She turned a corner to flee from Charlemont and, panting, collapsed on the stairs of a brick home. The day was growing darker, an ashen sky shifting from slate to black. Behind her, the warm glow of lights filled the windows. How wonderful it would be to have a home again, to feel the true warmth of a family—to experience the love she never felt she had—to be together on St. Stephen’s Day. To be secure.
She clutched her coat and wrapped it tightly around her neck. Tears gathered, but she was determined not to let them fall. Rather, she pushed them back and let the anger swell within her to drive her forward. She would return home, face her parents, and make them take her back. She hadn’t been the best child growing up, but she didn’t deserve this. If they’d only listen to reason and not brand her as a whore, she’d repent and live like a good girl.
She walked on, staying close to the footpaths in case she was spotted by the Guards, but the greater the distance she traveled from the mission, the less she feared being captured. Soon, she was close to Charlemont again and headed north toward the River Liffey. A taxi sat on a corner, exhaust smoke billowing in gray clouds from the pipe. She fingered the notes in her pocket and then opened the back door. She crawled inside and said, “Ballybough.”
The driver nodded and pulled away from the curb. She leaned back in the seat, enjoying the warmth, watching the buildings flow past her.
I am so alone. And no one cares whether I live or die.
* * *
Sister Anne fought against the rage building inside her. How many times would she have to kneel in prayer to expiate the sins of the Magdalens? How would God punish them? He would not be as magnanimous as she. Kneeling, she placed her elbows on the bed. They sank into the soft coverlet her mother had given her years before she entered the convent. It always reminded her of home and the beautiful things her mother and sister could craft with their hands. She hadn’t been as gifted.
Jesus, on the Cross, looked down on her with His wooden eyes. Oh Lord, hear my prayer. The silence in her head also reminded her of home, of the father who had deserted them after her sister was born, the mother who scraped, saved, and struggled to keep the family clothed and fed. Winters were often harsh, sometimes with little to eat and no heat to keep the family warm.
The sleeves of her habit slipped down her arms, the red scars revealing a history of painful suffering inscribed in flesh. How easy it would be to walk across the room to the bureau, open the top drawer, and withdraw the blades that had been her friends for so long. It had been several months since she had cut herself; she thought she had conquered the obsession that thrilled her, and at the same time, robbed her body of will. She deserved to be cut. The feeling, she suspected, was much like that of heroin addicts, who slipped into an endless lethargic maze of highs and lows, knowing they couldn’t escape the drug.
She clenched her hands and prayed harder, hoping for an answer. The question of what God would do sat like a boulder upon her soul. But this time, after a few minutes, a confident voice in her head told her what to do. How did Satan tempt Jesus in the wilderness? You must offer them something and then take it away. He offered our Lord all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor. That was the answer. They must refuse the offer, but still they would pay. I must teach them a lesson about the consequences of sin and its effect on their salvation. The wages of sin is death.
A sudden fury raged inside her about Monica’s escape. She rushed from her bedroom and called for Sisters Mary-Elizabeth and Ruth. They would aid her. She found them eating with the other nuns in the private room apart from the Magdalens. The anger in her face must have shocked them, for the nuns both jumped from their seats and ran to her.
“Gather the girls and take them upstairs,” Sister Anne commanded.
“They’ve not finished eating,” Sister Mary-Elizabeth said, wiping a few crumbs from her mouth with her napkin.
“Just do as I say. Bring a plate of warm biscuits from the kitchen, a candle, and matches. See if Sister Constance has baked any of her gingersnaps.”
Sister Mary-Elizabeth wrinkled her pudgy face.
She was shocked, Sister Anne thought. Well, they’ll be more shocked when they find out what I have in mind.
The nuns wasted no time. Habits billowing behind them, they flew to the room where the Magdalens were eating. Sister Mary-Elizabeth shouted, “Everyone out. Follow the Mother Superior.”
Sister Anne stood near the door, gauging the girls’ expressions. Teresa has the look of a hunted animal. Good.
The others dropped their utensils and, eyeing the Mother Superior, got up without speaking and filed into a single row.
“Upstairs,” Sister Anne ordered and led the way. “Now!”
The Magdalens sprinted up the steps to the third floor with Sister Ruth following behind. The Mother Superior raised her hand, and the girls stopped in the hall between their sleeping quarters and the toilet. This lesson would be brilliant, a living parable of good and evil. She instructed them to stand single file and then walked down the line, judging, hoping to ascertain who might have participated in Monica’s escape. The girls were mum. There were no expressions of remorse or guilt, only anxiety manifested in their clenched fists and tight faces.
The Mother Superior spoke in a measured tone to reinforce the punishment they were about to receive. “Monica has left The Sisters of the Holy Redemption without permission. Did any of you have a hand in this?” A gasp rose from the group. Most of the Magdalens looked down at their feet. She gazed down the line. No one raised a hand.
Sister Mary-Elizabeth arrived carrying a full plate of warm ginger biscuits, the candle, and matches. The nun took her place by Sister Ruth, who also stared at the floor. Under Sister Ruth’s watch, Monica had escaped. Sister Anne would deal with her later.
“I hope for your sake you are telling the truth,” Sister Anne said, “in the name of our Lord, because if I find any of you’ve helped this penitent in her escape, your punishment will be strict and severe.” She opened her arms as if to welcome them back to the flock. “But even if none of you helped Monica, there is a lesson to be learned.” They look like lost dogs. The voice prodded her. Get on with it. Let them know how sinners are punished.
“Our Lord’s followers were ostracized, punished for their loyalty and devotion. Many of you may think your life unfair, your trials as a penitent undeserved. Nothing could be further from the truth. The Lord died, with love on His lips, for your sins. I want you to know that love.”
She took the biscuits from Sister Mary-Elizabeth and walked down the line, holding the plate under each girl’s nose. Some of them groaned as the warm odor of baked ginger entered their nostrils.
“Who among you would rather have one of these than listen to me talk about love and the graces of our Lord?”
Without hesitation, Patricia, the girl who had stolen the rolls, grabbed one of the biscuits. The others recoiled, astonished by her action. Lea grabbed Patricia’s wrist and tried to force the prize back on the plate.
“No, I’m starving,” Patricia said. “I didn’t get to finish me meal.”
Sister Anne squeezed Patricia’s fist until the biscuit crumbled in her palm and fell in pieces to the floor. She tilted the plate and, one by one, crushed them under her feet.
Patricia’s chest heaved. “It’s not right, to make us suffer.”
“You have no willpower,” Sister Anne said. “All will be punished because one has sinned. Our Lord knew He must give up all temptations from Satan to attain heaven. You have failed.” The girls watched her as they stood in line in the hall.
“Do you know how hell has been depicted over the centuries?” She directed the question at Patricia, but she wanted all of the Magdalens to learn the answer. The girls watched her every move and stood like statues in the hall. Patricia wiped tears away and shook her head. “By fire and by ice,” she continued. “You’ll experience it tonight because of my love for your salvation.” She pointed to the candle that Sister Mary-Elizabeth held. “Hell is either eternal fire or deathly cold. There will be no prayers tonight, only penance, because one of us has lost her way. Sister Mary-Elizabeth, light your candle and hold it out.” The nun did as she was told. “Each of you will place your hand over the flame until you feel the tortures of hell. Then you will strip off your clothes and plunge into icy waters.” She pointed to the showers. “Sister Ruth, make sure the water is cold and the penitents are cleansed.”
Betty, the older woman, was the first to hold her hand over the flame. With a faint sneer on her lips, she looked stoically at the Mother Superior. Sister Anne knocked her hand away when the woman’s eyes closed in pain. Betty took off her clothes, left them in a pile on the floor, covered her genitals with her hands, and ran to the shower. She screamed as the icy water hit her.
Patricia took her turn next, placing her hand over the flame until she winced and cried out. The Mother Superior was tempted to pull the girl’s hand back, but was satisfied she had learned her lesson. Patricia took her plunge into the cold water.
Sister Anne studied Teresa as she approached. What was she thinking? The girl’s eyes showed little emotion except for a brief flash—what was it? Hatred? Resentment? Fear? No, resolve. She hasn’t been broken. By the grace of God, I will break her, make her pay. She is a friend of Monica’s.
Teresa stood firm as the candle seared her flesh. Sister Mary-Elizabeth’s eyes widened as the penitent, unblinking, took the punishment. The nun moved the candle away from Teresa’s palm, but Sister Anne stopped her.
The flesh bubbled and Teresa’s eyes rolled back in her head. She stumbled and Lea caught her in her arms.
“Enough,” Sister Anne said. “Get to the shower.”
Teresa coddled her reddened palm, and then stripped off her clothes.
Sister Anne said to Sister Mary-Elizabeth, “Make sure her hand is bandaged. I don’t want infection. She needs to work. Continue until all have been punished.”
She left Sisters Mary-Elizabeth and Ruth in charge. As she walked away, some of the girls screamed as the punishment continued. The sounds died as she retreated to the silence of her room. The Magdalens continued their penance. She took solace in that thought as she kneeled at the foot of her bed for more prayers. After a few minutes, she received another message from God. You have done well. Through you they have learned the meaning of salvation. What further trials would she have to endure for their sakes? Tears came to her eyes as she bowed her head and pressed her folded hands against her face. Thank You, Lord.
* * *
Teagan’s palm burned as if she had placed it on a hot stove. The only time she had suffered a similar burn was when, as a curious child, an ember had landed on her foot. A friend of her father’s was clearing the ashes from a stove and she had gotten too close.
Even Sister Mary-Elizabeth seemed taken aback by Sister Anne’s punishment. She had carefully cleansed Teagan’s palm, run cool water over it, slathered a healing salve on the blistered skin, and wrapped it in a gauze bandage. With that she sighed, patted her on the shoulder, and sent her off to bed.
The garret was so chilly Teagan could see her breath. After the lights had been turned out, she, along with many of the other girls, crawled into each other’s beds for warmth. Lea, shivering from the cold water, threw back the blanket and invited her to snuggle as they struggled to get warm. She settled next to Lea, side by side, taking care not to brush her burned hand against anything. The slightest touch brought the fire back to her palm.
“Sister Anne is a witch,” Teagan whispered. She wanted to use another word, but didn’t out of deference to Lea. Nora, wherever she was, would have had no qualm about using the word. Maybe that was why Nora was free and she was still imprisoned in the convent.
Lea turned and faced her. The shadows made Lea’s wide eyes appear even broader than in daylight. Teagan felt as if she were sharing a bed with an alien, a Venusian perhaps, with a long neck, and eyes that could see through you.
“She’s only trying to teach us to be good,” Lea said.
Anger surged through her. “Stop defending Sister Anne! Nora was right to escape. I’d leave in a flash if I had the chance.”
Coughs and sneezes echoed through the room.
Lea frowned and stroked Teagan’s arm. “I didn’t mean to upset you. The Mother Superior only wants to make sure we get into heaven—she wants what’s best for us.”
“By burning us and sending us to frigid showers? We’re likely to catch cold, or get pneumonia. Sister Mary-Elizabeth was even shocked at Sister Anne’s tricks.”
“Sister Mary-Elizabeth does what she is told. What choice does she have? I want everyone to be friends—happy here and in heaven.”
Teagan groaned. Lea’s naïveté made it impossible to reason with her. She knew Lea was far from normal and couldn’t grasp the severity of their situation. In fact, many of the girls shared a mentality that Teagan didn’t understand. They were like lambs being led to slaughter. Didn’t they know they had a choice?
“Speaking of tricks, do you want to play a game?” Lea said. “It’ll take your mind off your troubles.”
“A game?” She wondered what crazy idea her friend would come up with next.
“Yes, get your blanket. I don’t want to disturb the others.”
Tegan crawled out of bed, still nursing her burned hand. She looked back to see Lea leaning over the bed, her head thrust under the frame. Only her backside was visible underneath the covers.
“What are you doing?” Teagan whispered when she returned. Lea lifted her head and put a finger to her lips. Fortunately, the girl next to them had buried herself under her blanket.
She watched in amazement as Lea silently lifted three wooden planks and placed them on top of each other. Her friend dug around with her right hand, her arm disappearing into the darkness underneath her bed. A few moments later, she withdrew her hand. Teagan couldn’t see what was in it, but she knew one thing. This would be the perfect hiding place for her Christmas gifts, which were still concealed on the lace table downstairs. She would smuggle them up tomorrow.
“Crawl in,” Lea whispered.
Teagan got in bed beside her, both sitting with crossed legs. They arranged the sheet and the two blankets over them as if they were playing like children, building a fort in the bed. Lea switched on a black penlight and their cozy space lit up with a flash. The brilliance blinded her for a moment, and she closed her eyes until her pupils adjusted. When she opened them, she saw a deck of cards by her knees.
“Tarot cards,” Lea said.
Teagan’s jaw dropped. “You’re totally mad, Lea. If we’re caught using these cards, our previous punishments will seem like a Saturday night dance. Sister Anne will view this as witchcraft.” She remembered the time Father Matthew, the parish priest, had lectured some of her school friends about the evils of witchcraft and Satanism when they were caught playing with a Ouija board. She had refused to join them because she held a slim belief that the board might work. The thought frightened her.
“That’s silly,” Lea said. “This is fun—only a game. I used to play with the cards at home.” She took out the deck from its package and shuffled. Some of the large cards were split and torn from use.
“How did you get them?”
“They were my mother’s. I rescued them after she died. My stepfather was going to throw them away.”
Lea shifted the penlight so the beam fell on the space between their legs. She placed seven cards, facedown, on the bed, and pointed to them. “You draw first.”
A thrill raced over Teagan, raising the hair on the nape of her neck. “I don’t want to.” She shook her head. “It’s bad—wrong.”
“The spirits are never bad or wrong—only if you allow them to be. And we don’t want that.” Lea ran her fingers over the cards.
The small voice inside told her not to touch them, but she couldn’t help but wonder how her life might turn out. She brushed her fingers over the cards and a charge of static electricity sparked from one of them. She jumped as the jolt shocked the end of her finger.
“See! What did I tell you!”
Lea giggled and pointed again.
“Oh, all right.” Her eyes were drawn to the fourth card on her right. She picked it up and turned it over. Lea shone the light on the card. It showed a regal woman sitting on a throne. In one hand, she held a gold scepter.
“The Empress,” Lea said solemnly. “A trump card in the Major Arcana.”
“What does it mean?”
“You’re going to get pregnant.”
Teagan resisted the urge to scream. “Pregnant?” she asked in a voice as soft as she could make it. A sudden heaviness wrapped around her legs and groin.
“The Empress is the nurturer, the mother of all creation.”
“I suppose that means I’m getting out of here. That’s the only good thing.”
“It’s a good card,” Lea said. “It means you will have a long and fruitful life.”
Teagan took the card and studied it. The woman looked royal, a Mona Lisa smile on her face. “Lea, this is silly. I don’t believe in this stuff.”
Lea held the light up to her face and blinked. “Then don’t. But the cards never lie. I’ll draw a card for Nora.”
The mention of the Nora’s name made Teagan shudder.
Lea took the seven cards, shuffled them, and placed them on the bed. She rubbed her long fingers in circles over them and picked one. It was The Empress again. “How odd,” she said. “Nora will have a family, too.”
“I’m happy for that,” Teagan said. “It means Nora and I will both escape this horrid place.” She wondered where Nora was and hoped that her friend would remember their promise to help each other escape. How glorious it would be to live out their lives free from the Sisters.
Lea returned the card to the six others, shuffled them again, and hesitated. “Now I’ll draw.” She placed the cards on the bed, spread her fingers wide across them, and mouthed a few words Teagan couldn’t understand. She picked the card at the right end and lifted it so only she could see it.
“Well?” Teagan asked, eager to find out what Lea had picked.
Lea dropped the card between them and shone the light on it. It was The Hanged Man, a figure suspended upside down by his feet from a tree branch.
“It looks frightful,” Teagan said. “I hope it’s nothing bad.”
“It’s not the death card.” The sparkle disappeared from her large eyes. “You can interpret it two ways. It may mean I’m happy just where I am, my life is ‘suspended.’ Or it could be a card of . . .” She turned it over and returned it to the deck.
“What?”
A frown spread across Lea’s face, its darkness settling upon her like a weight.
“Sacrifice . . . martyrdom.” Lea gathered the cards and placed them in the pack. “I think you should go back to your bed.”
Teagan wanted to soothe her. “I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that. Anyway, I don’t believe in these cards. It’s silly stuff for children.”
Lea turned off the penlight and their makeshift cavern went black. She lifted the blanket and cold air rushed in. Teagan shivered and made her way out of Lea’s bed.
She lay in her own for a long time, cocooning the blanket around her. She was too cold and then too hot. The images on the tarot cards lingered in her head, especially The Hanged Man. She wondered what it meant for Lea, and then she shook her head, thinking how silly it was to believe that a card could predict your life.
She wondered how Nora had escaped. Had she climbed over the wall? That would have been too dangerous, and surely someone would have seen her. How had she done it? Had she slipped out a door or hidden in a laundry bag? She clutched the side of the bed until her burnt palm hurt. Damn. Damn her to hell. She rarely used curse words, because her mother had told her that only the “lower classes” used them, but she found herself berating the Mother Superior and Nora. Her friend had deserted her like a traitor, and not only she, but all the Magdalens had paid the price. However, when she considered what her friend had gone through to escape, she admired her courage. Nora had taken a chance and succeeded. Most likely, she would have done the same.
She dabbed at her eyes with her sheet. She couldn’t beat her fists against the wall or slam a pillow on the bed because she would wake up the others. There would be hell to pay.
She remembered her vow to write to Father Matthew, or maybe even the Pope, to tell her side of the story. What sin, what transgression had she committed? Someone in the Church had to believe her. She would make them believe it! She forced herself to relax and released her grip from the bed. Her respite was short-lived, however, and her body soon succumbed to tension.
She pondered a question: What good will it do to mail any letters?
And then a more disturbing thought struck her. Who would mail them for me?