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strength to go among the girls in the dining hall beyond?
    All was silent, as Sister Claire had decreed. Marie-Edith and, as best she was able, Sister Brigid, had just laid out collation. Mother Marie led me on.
    There we stood, in the service doorway. At first unseen, hisses and whispers built within the Silence till all turned; none stood, as they ought to have in the presence of the Mother Superior, but I made nothing of this, so distracted was I by my own discomfort. There I stood before the assembled girls, bedraggled and scared, yet trying to act as though nothing untoward had taken place. What a sight I must have been! Like some creation of the Shelley girl, sister to her sad, sad monster.
    â€œPerhaps this is not a good idea,” said I to Mother Marie, as I tried to circle behind her, back into the kitchen.
    Mother Marie held fast behind me. “Go,” said she, shoving me forward. And I’d not taken two steps into the hall when I heard behind me the door’s rusted hinge: Mother Marie had gone, and I was alone. This I had not anticipated.
    As I walked between the tables, the girls on their benches spoke curses, and prayers that sounded like curses. Someone invoked the Prince of Peace. Others—much to my astonishment—railed against the Prince of This World. Sister Paulien, wordlessly, with the rapping of a wooden spoon, reminded the girls of the Silence. A group of younger girls sat before their chilling stew, reading their rosaries so fast it seemed the small wooden beads might burst into flame. I moved as though deaf and blind, guided to my seat by something unseen. It was as though I walked through water: every step slow, deliberate, difficult.
    A small medallion of hammered gold was thrown; it landed at my feet and skidded across the smooth floor. Of course, this—the sacred thing’s revulsion, its sliding away—was proof of the devils resident within me. At this there were audible gasps; and someone begged Salvation in nearly unintelligible Latin.
    Nearing my usual seat, I noticed two things: no one, not even the old mumbling nuns with whom I usually dined—and certainly not Peronette—was seated at the table; and a book—a black leather-bound tome, its pages yellow with age—had been spread open on my seat. The Silence then was deafening! Every eye was upon me. What to do? I swallowed my tears. And then…and then I did something quite…regrettable. Irresolute, confused, I simply sat down at my usual place as though the book weren’t there. Why I did this I have no idea—I might have closed it and set it aside, swept it onto the floor—but no. It was as though Satan Himself had appeared at my side.
    One girl—beautiful, quite tall, whose grace I’d always admired—stood on her bench, pointed down at me, and asked of all present what further proof was needed of the pact I’d signed with Satan. Hadn’t I sat upon the sacred text? (It was the writings of an obscure theologian, opened to a passage on tribadism.) And hadn’t every eye seen me shamelessly kiss the sacred text with my nether mouth?
    This girl’s witnessing was met with fearsome cries and prayer. The nuns, with pinches and pulled hair and rapping rods, succeeded in restoring a modicum of calm.
    I dared not move, dared not slide the book out from under me. Shaking, shivering, I tried to choke back my tears. I even tried to eat the bowl of now-cold stew that was slid before me by…I don’t know who. The stew—rabbit? venison?—was gamey and slick, a heartier collation than usual. I could not eat, even if I’d wanted to: my hands shook too badly to use a spoon.
    I did not look up. I stared down into the enameled bowl. Tears fell onto the skin of fat covering the stew like a caul.
    I prayed. Prayed for release, for something—god or demon—to deliver me. I would do anything. Sign any blood pact, agree to anything.
    Just then the