“It’s only a stain. I don’t think you have to kill me for it,” Kyrie said.

“I have no choice. Stain on the habit is punishable by death. Now don’t move.”

Kyrie closed her eyes and braced herself dramatically. Elle shook her head, sighed and scraped the candle wax off her sleeve.

“Is it over?” Kyrie asked, popping one eye open. “Am I dead? Is this Heaven?”

“This is Purgatory.”

“I’m in Purgatory? Well, crap.” Kyrie sighed. “Mom told me this would happen if I didn’t stop touching myself.”

Elle stared at her.

“Go on,” Kyrie said. “You know you want to laugh. And I know I want to hear you laugh.”

“I’m not going to laugh. I’m going to iron your sleeve. Come here.”

“Iron my sleeve? But I’m wearing my sleeve.”

“Don’t panic. I’ve done this before.” Elle heated up the iron and pulled out a few sheets of white blotting paper. She pointed to the ironing board and Kyrie rested her arm on it.

“This doesn’t seem safe,” Kyrie said. “Maybe I should take the habit off.”

“There’s enough fabric in your sleeve to make a mini-dress. I won’t get near your skin, I promise.”

Elle placed the blotting paper on the red stain the candle wax had left behind. She pressed the tip of her iron over the stain, replaced the blotting paper and did it again. While she ironed she studied Kyrie out of the corner of her eye. Her novice’s white habit covered every inch of her but her face and her hands. But she was still undeniably beautiful with her wide eyes and long lashes, her delicate lips and suntanned skin. Elle forced herself to focus on her task.

“Voilà,” Elle said, lifting the iron. “Though your sleeves are like scarlet, they shall be white as snow.”

Kyrie held up her sleeve, now devoid of any sign of a stain.

“Rad. How did you do that?”

“The blotting paper sucks up the dye,” Elle said.

“Do they teach you tricks like this in laundry school?”

“I didn’t go to laundry school.”

“Where did you learn how to get candle wax stains off fabric?” Kyrie asked, touching the now-pristine sleeve.

“Little skill I picked up a few years ago,” she said. “I’ve had more than my fair share of candle wax accidents.”

“Did you work at a church? I’m guessing candle wax accidents are an occupational hazard there.”

“No.” Elle shook her head. “I suppose you could say my candle wax stains were a recreational hazard.”

“What sort of recreation uses candles?”

“Nothing,” Elle said. “I was joking. You’re done. Boo-boo is healed.”

“You’re trying to get rid of me,” Kyrie said.

“Don’t take it personally. I’m not allowed to distract you sisters from your prayer and your work.”

“You aren’t bothering me by talking to me,” Kyrie said with a smile. “I promise. I don’t need to be anywhere for a while. We can talk. I’d like to talk.”

Elle looked up at the ceiling and sighed.

“Someone told you about me, didn’t they?” she asked.

Kyrie blushed—guilty as charged. “Well...sort of.”

“Sort of,” Elle repeated. “May I ask what they told you about me?”

“Oh...” Kyrie shrugged. In her voluminous pure white habit, Kyrie’s shrug looked like a bird adjusting its wings. “This and that.”

“What specifically, might I ask?”

“If you must know, no one was gossiping. I asked someone about you. You know, since I thought you were a ghost. I didn’t think anyone but sisters were allowed in the abbey. They said an exception was made for you because of extraordinary circumstances nonrelated to noncorporealness.”

“Extraordinary circumstances. That’s one way to put it,” Elle said.

“Have you ever thought about how weird the word ‘extraordinary’ is? It means not ordinary but if something is extra ordinary wouldn’t you assume it was very ordinary? Super ordinary?”

“Extra is a Latin prefix meaning ‘outside.’ If something is extra—it means it’s outside. Extra ordinary means outside the ordinary.”

“Wow.” Kyrie’s blue eyes widened. “You are really smart.”

“Genius IQ, and I’m working in a laundry at a convent.”

“How extra ordinary of you.”

“Are you done talking to me yet?” Elle asked, hoping the answer was yes.

“Oh no. We’ve just gotten started here. I want to know what your extraordinary circumstances are.”

“You really don’t,” Elle said as she started the washer. She pulled a wrinkled tablecloth from a basket and lined it up on her ironing board.

“Why don’t I?”

Elle looked up from her ironing.

“You’re a nun.”

“I am?” Kyrie repeated. She looked down at herself as if noticing the habit for the first time. “Oh, you’re right. I am. You were saying?”

“You’re trying to make me laugh again.”

“You have a really awesome laugh, Elle.”

“It’s not going to work. I checked my sense of humor at the door when I came here,” Elle said, picking up her iron again.