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bad—her sighting of Satan—as ardently as she believed in the good, perhaps more so.
    â€œWhat do you, Claire, make of this? Surely—”
    â€œNo untaught child lies, Mother.”
    â€œDo you mean to affirm this child’s vision?”
    â€œDo you mean to deny it?” Sister Claire must have turned to the girls, for it was then that one asked of Mother Marie:
    â€œIs she lying, Mother? Or was it Dark Work that she witnessed?”
    â€œI do not say she is lying, no.”
    â€œWhat then? If it was not—”
    That the girls would question the Mother Superior so, that they would shout out in her presence…these were peculiar circumstances indeed. And all the while Sister Claire stood silently, ominously by.
    â€œI say only that this child, after some orange water and rum, will rest through the night and wake in fine shape, no worse for her…her ‘ vision .’” Clearly, to use the word pained the Mother Superior. “And you, especially the senior among you, will apply your faith and maturity and conclude that certainly no such thing has occurred.”
    â€œShe is lying then!”
    â€œBut I saw the fire-haired fiddler, too. I swear it!” And all eyes were thus directed to the violin case, empty now atop the table.
    â€œGirls, girls,” began the Mother Superior; but she was interrupted by Sister Claire, who said simply:
    â€œWe must pray. We must pray against this.” And tens of voices set to rumbling in fervid prayer. That the Head would interrupt the Mother Superior, and to direct the girls to action no less: this did not bode well. Sister Claire, in leading these prayers, invoked the “Darkness”; and at this a second girl fainted away. Now the prayers grew more fervid; and I was distressed to recognize the voices of several of the most senior girls. In the confusion a vial of holy water slipped from its holder near the door, cracking on the floor: proof positive of Satan’s presence. And it was this shattering glass that set the flock of girls to rising up, noisily, and flying from the room—no doubt to spread their devilish stories. It seemed the room was suddenly empty, save for Sister Claire, the lifeless Elizaveta, and Mother Marie; and yes, my coconspirator.
    Sister Claire came dangerously near the drape. I could feel her heat. “Are those not scuff marks upon the sill?” she asked of Mother Marie. “And what, among your worldly goods, is missing, if not your violin?”
    â€œTake that child to the infirmarian,” replied Mother Marie. “And put a stop to this madness.”
    â€œMadness, is it?” asked the Head. “Madness is your ruling over a House of one hundred girls when you cannot control that one, your pet.”
    â€œDo you threaten me, Sister?”
    â€œI do, yes…. Indeed, I have long been attendant upon your ruin.” With these words—and a whispered “Adieu, ma mère” —Sister Claire turned to leave, Elizaveta in her arms; and in so doing, the girl’s slippered foot—like a hook at the end of her lifeless, lank leg—caught the drape and pulled it back just enough to show the very end of the bow I held.
    Sister Claire, fast handing off the unconscious child to Mother Marie, pulled back the dark folds of fabric, its rings screeching along their iron rod. There I stood, bow and violin in hand.
    â€œOf course,” said Sister Claire, snatching the instrument from me. “I should have known. The accomplice.” She slammed the violin down on the table. She brandished the bow. I raised my hands to my face as a shield: she would slash me as though the bow were a riding crop and I the slow or stubborn beast.
    â€œStop!” shouted Mother Marie; and she stepped between the Head and myself. “Go from here, you…you animal! …Go from my sight.”
    There was silence. In the Mother Superior’s arms the girl