12

Upstate New York

ELLE REMOVED A load of sheets from the dryer as soon as the cycle ended. As quickly as she could, she folded them before a single wrinkle could set in. Ten sheets in three minutes. If folding laundry had been a sport, Elle would be on a box of Wheaties by now.

How had it come to this? Elle wondered, as she stacked the sheets in a neat pile on the counter. Once upon a time she’d been the most well-known submissive in Kingsley’s grand and infamous court of Manhattan kinksters. If she wasn’t tied to Søren’s bed, she was on Kingsley’s arm somewhere—at a club, at a party, at his home where he hosted the rich and the infamous. On a regular basis she’d enjoyed erotic beatings, threesomes with Søren and Kingsley and enough notoriety to get her into any club in town.

And now here she was, spending her days doing laundry for a convent. And the most excitement she had was timing herself every day to see if she could beat her previous record. She reminded herself the lack of excitement was exactly why she’d come here. No men allowed. No men meant no Kingsley and no Søren and no temptation to misbehave. Of course she couldn’t avoid misbehaving entirely. With so many rules it was impossible to not break one or two. But her sins were venial—she stayed up after everyone was supposed to go to bed, went to the library after lights-out, stole the occasional extra dessert from the fridge when no one was looking. She masturbated too, which was considered a sin here. Elle didn’t consider it a sin. She considered it an act of self-preservation.

The buzzer on the washer sounded and Elle removed the wet sheets and threw them in the dryer. She’d washed the sheets, she’d dry the sheets, she’d fold the sheets. And in a week, she’d do it again. She’d wash habits, dry habits, hang up the habits on their fancy wooden hangers. And in a week, she’d do it again. Fifty women under one roof made laundry an endless eternal chore.

“Sisyphus, Sisyphus.” Elle sighed after starting the dryer. “I feel your pain.”

“Who’s Sisyphus?”

Elle looked toward the door and saw a nun standing there, one she hadn’t seen before. But no, she had seen her before.

“It’s you,” Elle said.

“Is it?” The nun looked down at herself. “You’re right. It is me.”

“Sorry. You’re the girl I saw entering the order last week. Right?”

“Yes, and you’re the ghost.”

“I’m the what?”

“I saw you standing in the window. They said the only people in the abbey were nuns and you obviously weren’t a nun so I assumed you were a ghost. And you work in the laundry room with all these white sheets, which are very ghostly. So...are you a ghost?”

“No, I’m not a ghost,” Elle said slowly, as if talking to someone very young or slightly off her rocker, and this girl seemed to be both.

“Which is exactly what a ghost would say, isn’t it?”

The young nun looked at Elle expectantly. She batted her eyelashes and Elle noticed the girl’s baby blue eyes.

“I don’t know,” Elle said with a sigh. “Maybe I am a ghost.”

“Thought so,” she said.

“Can I help you with something?” Elle asked, ready to end this conversation as soon as possible so she could get back to work, back to being a ghost.

“You can tell me more about Sisyphus. Is he also a ghost?”

“Sisyphus, the mythological figure. The guy who had to roll a stone up a hill for eternity. Laundry is the ultimate Sisyphean task—clean, dirty, wash, rinse, dry, repeat ad infinitum.”

“You know what would help?” the young nun said in her light and airy tone. “Nudism.”

Elle stared at her.

“You are a weird nun,” Elle said.

“I know. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’ll fit right in with all the other weird nuns here.”

“You think we’re all weird?”

“If you met a homeless person on the street who claimed to be the bride of Jesus Christ, what would you say to her?”

“I’d ask her if her husband was a good kisser.”

Elle did something she hadn’t done in so long she couldn’t remember the last time she’d done it.

She laughed.

“Wow,” the nun said. “Good laugh. Do it again.”

“I can’t laugh on command.”

“I’ll have to keep saying crazy stuff then and hope for the best. I’m Kyrie, by the way. What’s your name?”

“It’s Elle. And you’re not Kyrie. You’re Sister Mary Whatever.”

“Sister Mary George.”

“George?”

“He slayed a dragon. How cool is that?”

“Can I call you Sister George?” Elle asked.

“Call me Kyrie.”

“I’m not supposed to,” Elle said.

“I won’t tell.”

“Okay then, Kyrie. What can I do for you?”

“Sister Agnes told me to come see you. I have a boo-boo.”

“A boo-boo?” Elle repeated. “Are we talking about a small injury or a tiny bear?”

“Neither.” Kyrie held up her arm. “I spilled candle wax on my habit. Can you get it out?”

Elle examined the stain. It was about the size of a half-dollar and right in the middle of her sleeve.

“Hold still,” she ordered Kyrie, and pulled a knife out of the utility drawer.