Chapter 3

The bell for Matins tolled once more through the stone corridors of Sainte-Croix, pulling me from another night of uneasy dreams. I rose in the darkness of my cell, my body still tingling with the strange sensations from yesterday’s exercises with Sister Marguerite. At five foot six, my thin waist and wide hips felt somehow more noticeable under the heavy black habit as I dressed quickly, binding my full DD breasts modestly before joining the silent line of nuns filing toward the church. My blue eyes stayed lowered, chestnut hair hidden beneath the wimple. The night air was cold against my flushed skin.

We chanted the Psalms in the dimly lit choir, Mother Isolde’s tall, commanding figure at the head as always—five foot eleven, red hair tucked away, her blue eyes sharp even in prayer. Her presence made my pulse quicken for reasons I could not name. Lauds followed, then a brief return to our cells before Prime. The familiar rhythm steadied me somewhat: chapter meeting where small faults were confessed, breakfast in the refectory eaten in silence while a novice read from the saints. I noticed Sister Lisette again, moving with careful grace, but pushed the observation aside.

Morning work took me back to the scriptorium with Sister Marguerite. The scratch of quills on vellum was soothing, the scent of ink grounding. Yet as the sun climbed, my mind wandered to the strange warmth that had bloomed between my thighs during those pelvic exercises. I had been raised in the convent my whole life—prayer, labor, silence. Such feelings were foreign and unsettling.

At midday we attended Sext, then the main meal of vegetables, bread, and watered wine. Afterward, as scheduled, I made my way to the quiet corner of the cloister garden where Sister Marguerite waited. My steps faltered. The memory of her authoritative hands on my waist and hips, the confusing heat it stirred, made my stomach twist with unease.