“Ask me. I’ll tell you.”

“Great. What am I supposed to be?”

Kyrie held up the pages again.

“This.”

“That? A girl having sex with a cop?” Elle asked, arching her eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ve ever fucked a cop. Or a music teacher.”

“A writer,” Kyrie said. “You should write books. Professionally. For money. Like my sister did.”

“Write books,” Elle said.

“Professionally,” Kyrie repeated. “For money. There. I told you I would figure out what you should do with your life. You can even do it here. You don’t have to leave to do it.”

“I’d probably have to go somewhere with a computer,” Elle said. “You know, for typing. I doubt publishers have accepted handwritten manuscripts since 1890.”

“Mother Prioress has a computer in her office.”

“That’s good. I’ll ask her if I can borrow it to type up my novel about the rookie cop deflowering a high school girl against a tree after killing her brother.”

“Well...you might not want to word it quite like that.” Kyrie laughed. “Maybe call it a dissertation.”

Elle winced at the word dissertation.

“What?” Kyrie asked.

“Force of habit. Sorry. Anyway, it’s a fun idea, writing books. I’ve been writing short stories since I got here. Very depressing ones.”

“Toss them,” Kyrie said. “No money in short stories. Write novels.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You say that in a tone that makes me think you won’t think about it.”

“I’ll think about it, I promise.”

“You’ll finish the book, right?” Kyrie asked. “I want to know what happens next.”

“I don’t know what happens next.”

“You’re smart. You’ll figure it out. You should write more tree sex, though. That was fun.”

“It’s not as fun in real life. The bark on your back is really itchy.”

“You’ve had tree sex?” Kyrie asked, her eyes wide.

“Not with a tree. Against a tree.”

“Oh my.” Kyrie grinned and leaned over Elle’s ironing board. “Tell me all.”

“I had sex once and it was against a tree. The end.”

“Okay, maybe you shouldn’t be a writer.” Kyrie stood up straight again and sighed.

“I’m not going to tell the dirty details of my sex life to a virginal nun who’s never been kissed.”

“Elle, I will tell you the truth and you should believe it because it is the truth.”

“What?”

Kyrie reached out and took Elle’s hand in hers. It had been so long since someone had held her hand that Elle had forgotten how good it felt, the simple act of fingers touching fingers, of palms pressed to palms.

“The truth is...there is no one on earth who needs to hear the details of your sex life more than a virginal nun who has never been kissed.”

Elle stared at Kyrie. She thought they’d been joking, only joking. And while Kyrie’s words were joking, the way she said them was serious.

It wouldn’t hurt anything, would it? A kiss? A kiss was such a small thing, small as a hiccup, small as a firefly. And maybe if she kissed Kyrie, it would scare the girl enough to send her running away. Then Elle could have her peace and quiet back. Worth the risk anyway.

It was only a kiss.

“Ellie? Ellie, are you here?”

Kyrie dropped Elle’s hand as if it had caught fire.

They both turned to the door. Elle’s mother rushed into the laundry room. Her pale skin was whiter than usual, almost as white as her habit.

“I’m here. What’s up?” Elle glanced at Kyrie who was discreetly sliding Elle’s pages underneath a pile of towels.

“Have either of you seen Sister Mary Angelica?”

“Which one is she?” Elle asked.

“The old one,” Kyrie said. “Really old, right?”

“Yes, she’s ninety-two. And she has dementia. She’s wandered off again, and no one can find her.”

“I’ve been in here for three hours,” Elle said.

“When is the last time you saw her?” her mother asked Kyrie.

“Breakfast,” Kyrie said. “Not since then.”

“Everyone is looking for her,” her mother said. “Can you help?”

“Yeah, sure.” Elle dropped her towel back into the basket. Kyrie followed her out of the door. In the hallway they were met by Sister Aquinas.

“She’s locked herself in the supply pantry in the infirmary,” Sister Aquinas said. Her words were rushed, her faced flushed.

“Can’t you unlock it?” Elle asked.

“No. It used to be an office so it’s got an old lock on the inside. We haven’t had the key in years.”

“Did you call a locksmith?” her mother asked.

“Yes, but he’s on a call and can’t be here for another hour. There are needles in there, scalpels. We’re going to have to take the door off the hinges,” Sister Aquinas said. “Or call the fire department to come.”

“Is it a normal lock?” Elle asked. “A key lock? Nothing fancy?”

“Nothing fancy,” Sister Aquinas said.

“Hold on,” Elle said. “I’ll meet you in the infirmary.”