Sister Maria slipped through the darkened corridors of the convent just after Compline, barefoot to keep her steps silent on the cold stone. Her habit felt heavier than usual, rough wool scraping against skin still fever-hot from the afternoon’s sin. Beneath it she wore nothing, as instructed. The rosary beads clicked softly between her bare breasts with every hurried step, the silver crucifix already warm from her body heat.
Father Elias’s private sacristy door was ajar, a thin wedge of candlelight spilling into the hallway like an invitation to damnation. She pushed it open without knocking.
The room was small, intimate, lined with vestment cabinets and a heavy oak table that served as both altar for private preparations and—tonight—something far more profane. A single tall candle burn
