The convent chapel was never meant to witness this.
Midnight had passed; the last bell of Matins had rung twenty minutes earlier. The sisters were supposed to be in their cells, sleeping in chastity under the watchful eyes of plaster saints. Instead, three black habits moved like shadows through the darkened nave.
Father Elias led the way, cassock billowing. Behind him walked Sister Maria, habit unbuttoned to the waist, rosary still looped around her neck, face flushed and eyes glassy from what he had already done to her in the sacristy earlier that evening. She walked with her thighs pressed together, trying to keep the slick evidence of her repeated confessions from dripping down her legs.
Flanking her were Sister Clare and Sister Agnes.
Clare was tall, auburn-haired, the one Maria h
