The Causeway

By Jim Pinnells

Set in Italy during the Napoleonic Wars, The Causeway confronts the reality of religious barbarity, revolutionary violence and the frustration endured by women seeking to determine their own destiny.

A young Scottish girl, Marion, is sent to the convent of Santa Maria della Consolazione on the island of Ischia, the fate of many unwanted daughters of Catholic families. The convent is a death-factory where novices and nuns are cynically exposed to disease, physical abuse and privation. Few survive. The convent itself survives on the postulant dowry paid by each girl’s family. (The convent is today a hotel.)

Threatened with starvation, merciless flogging and mental torture at the hands of her confessor, Marion has no way out. An older nun, Sister Teresa, feels compassion for the young victim so, on Christmas night 1798, she snatches Marion from a whipping in the punishment cell, and the two women escape. Beyond the convent walls, Ischia is in turmoil: the Jacobin revolution in Naples is boiling, and Nelson’s fleet has just abandoned Naples to mob violence. The women are trapped on the island. As they learn to trust each other, an enduring bond forms between them.

Marion’s Jacobite spirit is drawn to the revolutionaries led by Carlo, and to the deserters from the British navy who fight alongside them. Marion and Carlo embark on a tentative love affair, while Teresa becomes close to one of the deserters, Bart. But none of this is to bear fruit. During a raid against Ischia by Captain Foote of the Seahorse, the two women finally escape the island, their lives now united by a profound and abiding love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Mar 2, 2009
• ISBN: 9781780887616

Jim Pinnells

Jim Pinnells is a consultant working around the world launching, rescuing, or closing out international projects in many fields. Jim studied literature at Cambridge and finished with a doctorate at Frankfurt University. This grounding in literature and historical research underpins his five novels.

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18

Chapter 1

I

What sort of girl is she? asked the Abbess.

A Scot. We had one before.

When?

Before your time. Sister Teresa looked out of the barred window, across the red tiles and far away toward Capri, invisible in the December haze.

The other woman’s eyes followed her gaze. Open the window, Sister, she said. The fire makes the room stuffy.

With logs at six hundred soldi a cartload, thought Sister Teresa. Her bare feet made no sound on the flagstones as she crossed to the window.

Who is she? Really? the Abbess pursued.

A bunch of keys at Sister Teresa’s waist clanked against the wall as she leaned into the window-alcove and unlatched the casement. You have the letters from her father, she replied evasively.

The Abbess sighed, as Sister Teresa had known she would. Her Uncle? the Abbess changed her ground. He brought the dowry with him?

Five hundred guineas. Already in the treasury. Sister Teresa opened the casement, enjoying the dash of cold sea air against her face. She stood with her back to the Abbess seeing, but at the same time failing to see, the green island, the village below and the fishing boats busy in the bay.

It’s shabby. The Abbess’s voice hardened. A few years back the English paid far more. I should never have agreed.

With Napoleon in Rome…. Sister Teresa waved her hand dismissively: they’d been through the argument twenty times already. "What do you want to know, Reverend Mother? About the nova." She walked back silently to her place in front of the Abbess’s table.

Manner? Education?

She’s seventeen. She speaks English with a Scots accent and reasonable French. She’s the younger of two sisters. The older is to marry a marquis, an émigré. But you know about him already. The Marquis d’Eaux Claires was a relation of the Abbess. When he’d first asked if the convent would take a Scottish postulant with a dowry of five hundred guineas, the Reverend Mother had indignantly refused. Even in a poor house like theirs, the dowry ought to be three times as much. The Poor Clares in Naples expected five thousand. The Benedictines ten!

Five hundred guineas. The Reverend Mother repeated the words as though they were a curse.

Sister Teresa made no reply, folding her arms into the sleeves of her habit so that her hands disappeared. As a novice twenty years before she’d been punished often and harshly for superfluous words. She’d learned her lesson.

Have you explained the situation to her? the Abbess pursued, straightening the papers on her table and covering the letter from the girl’s father with a note from the Bishop. So that I know where to begin?

No I haven’t. She’s still in the parlour. I thought we were to proceed as usual.

The Abbess’s face became shrewd. Yes. You’ll be there as always. But this time I also want Sister Rosaria.

Sister Rosaria? A little soon for that, Reverend Mother.

I don’t think we should…. The Abbess searched for a word. Her English was correct apart from her unfamiliar accent, but she sometimes had difficulty in finding the right euphemism.

…should stand on ceremony? Sister Teresa prompted. She’d lived in the convent under four Abbesses. Under this Reverend Mother and the last, not a basket of apples had entered their walls but Sister Teresa had known about it. Even so, the old woman was astute and unpredictable: it was never wise to think too far ahead of her.

Her uncle brought her here? From Minorca?

He’s already left. Sister Teresa folded her arms tighter across her breast. Uncle and niece had parted with no sign of regret on either side, no recriminations, and no tears.

Will she be…? Again the pause for a euphemism.

Reluctant? She may. See for yourself.

Get her then. The Abbess stood up. She was a heavy woman. Her movements were ponderous and unhurried: she was used to the women around her waiting on her convenience. She crossed the room to a prie-dieu that stood in a dark corner confronting a life-size crucifix. Nailed to the cross hung a bloody Jesus transfixed for an eternal moment with savage pain. The Abbess’s thick, felt sandals scuffed discreetly on the stone floor.

Sister Teresa watched the Abbess jealously. She wondered for the hundredth time how much it had cost this interloper, this Lithuanian or whatever she was, to leave the North and move to the sunshine of Naples, to take over the convent when she was not even a member of the Poor Clares but a Brigittine. My convent, thought Sister Teresa. My convent! How much had it cost? And who’d taken the money? In a religious order sworn to both poverty and silence, such matters were in practice beyond investigation, though speculation on them filled many idle moments. Sister Teresa was in no hurry to alert Sister Rosaria or to return with the Scottish nova. The Reverend Mother would have to stay on her rheumatic knees in front of the crucifix until the politic moment arrived for her to suspend her prayers. It was a little show Sister Teresa had seen often enough: the old woman would keep them waiting, their heads bowed, submissive. Then she’d cross herself and stand with tears in her eyes to greet the new girl.

I might be a few minutes, Sister Teresa said. Silently she left the warmth of the chamber to look for Sister Rosaria, leaving the door open as the Rules required.

Sister Rosaria held a position that no other nun in the convent had either the vigilant will or the physical strength to perform: she was disciplinatrice. It was her duty to ensure that no unnecessary word was spoken outside the recreation hour, that a nun with a penance of motionless prayer remained motionless, that a nun with a penance of prostration on the stones did not moan or shiver or ease her aching limbs, that a nun who was given a thrashing had trouble afterward creeping back to her cell. Her domain was the burial chamber and the inner convent as it was politely called. She seldom left the penitential cells except for meals or prayers in the enclosure. It was a rare day when no one was improving her spiritual well-being through physical penance.

Sister Teresa’s bare feet were familiar with every flagstone, every stairway and every doorsill between the Abbess’s quarters and the year-round cold of the buried, inner convent. There was only one doorway into Sister Rosaria’s lair, a grating of open ironwork. Before she reached the grating, Sister Teresa chose a key from the bunch at her waist. The only other key to the grating, Sister Rosaria wore on a cord round her neck, hidden beneath her habit.

At the grating, Sister Teresa stopped and rapped with the key on the ironwork. A sound always served better than words. She waited. All she could hear was the distant bray of a donkey and the shouts of its master whipping it back onto its feet. The lanes were steep that led up to the convent, and the old flags were slippery. Sister Rosaria seldom came quickly, especially if she was punishing one of the nuns. Sister Teresa knew without hearing them the words the disciplinatrice would whisper to her victim before she answered the summons at the grating: You’ll kneel exactly as you are until I return, no matter how long it takes. Any movement will double your penance. Contemplate the sufferings of Christ and give thanks that yours are so much easier to bear.

Sister Teresa listened intently into the silence. Nothing. Then a heavy door opening and a footfall startlingly near. Sister Rosaria’s face and guimpe emerged white into the half-light.

You’re wanted, Sister Teresa said in Italian. Now. She turned on her heel and made her way to the parlour where the Scottish girl was waiting.

II

Sister Teresa unlocked the door that opened into the parlour. On the convent side the door was of plain oak. On the visitors’ side it was chastely rococo and frugally gilt. In the summer the parlour was a pleasant room. The big window, though barred, was sunny and fringed outside with vines. In the winter, at least when a fire was lit, the room was austerely comfortable. With a glance through the bars, Sister Teresa took in the little square where the uphill lane came to its abrupt end. A cart was grinding into the square with a load of logs. She saw the driver look up, as did everyone who entered the square, at the towering front of the Immaculate Conception, the Immacolata as the nuns called it. The stonework was already seventy years old and badly weathered, but the church had never been consecrated. The high doorway stood, as ever, black, desolate and doorless. One of the lay sisters could attend to the logs, Sister Teresa decided.

The parlour had once been a well-proportioned room. Now it was divided in half by a grating painted light grey and ornamented with iron roses. A black veil on the outside of the grating prevented visitors from glimpsing the nun’s world. In a stiff chair on the convent side of the grating sat the nova, Marion.

As soon as Sister Teresa caught her eye, Marion stood up, quick and lithe. You were a long time, she said easily. Sister Teresa found the readiness in her voice, in her figure, in her quick smile, somehow disturbing. Your uncle sails tonight? she asked calmly.

He’s not really my uncle, the girl replied cheerfully. A ship sails back tonight for Minorca. He must be on it. Business as always.

He didn’t sound English when I spoke to him.

No. He’s Portuguese. In the wine trade. Family connection.

Sister Teresa listened to the girl’s young voice with its soft Scottish burr. The sound fell pleasantly on her ear. It was an accent she’d known all her life: her own mother had left Scotland as a child, but she’d never lost the highland lilt. She was eager suddenly to hear more, to watch the trustful blue eyes engage her own. Marion Stewart. Marion….

Marion had been her own name before she’d left the world to become Sister Teresa Mercedes. Marion Asprey. The abandoned name threatened to resurrect unfamiliar emotions, long repressed and with good reason.

While Sister Teresa had been gone, Marion had taken off her pelisse. It was neatly folded on her trunk with her bonnet. She was dressed now in a white muslin gown. Sister Teresa had seen such a gown only once before. Their patroness, the Contessa, had worn it the year before at the profession of Sister Conception. But the Contessa was old and plump. Marion was young, supple, and, Sister Teresa saw with regret, pretty – a glowing, vulnerable child. Does everyone wear their waist so high now? she asked, circling her own heavy chest with thumb and fingers where Marion’s blue ribbon held her, just below her breasts.

Yes everyone, Marion replied laughing.

So you escaped your panniers and your stomacher? That’s what we wore when I was your age.

Escape? No I didn’t! I had to wear them sometimes when I was little. But now it’s all changed. On a sudden inspiration, Marion danced a few steps, turning her body so that the light muslin flared out.

Sister…. With a little cough, Sister Teresa corrected herself. Miss Stewart…Marion, she said slowly. There’s no dancing here. Only work. And prayer. And penance.

But I’m only a guest. And just for a little while, Marion replied without hesitation. But I won’t dance if it upsets you. Or the other sisters.

Sister Teresa wondered what story the girl had been told to decoy her so blithely into the confines of Santa Maria della Consolazione. Perhaps she should warn the soft, pretty thing of what awaited her so soon and so ineluctably. But she said nothing, letting the girl enjoy the last dance she’d ever tread. Show me again, she said.

Encouraged, Marion turned again, making the dress billow and fly with quick, neat steps. She stopped at the window, looking out across the square at the causeway and the village beyond. That’s Ischia, isn’t it? she asked. And Naples is in exactly the opposite direction? She turned and pointed. That way?

The Reverend Mother expects you, replied Sister Teresa. We mustn’t keep her waiting.

III

Included here is an extract from an unpublished manuscript by Elizabeth Mulholland. The manuscript is dated 1881 and bears the title: Notes toward a History of Religious Orders in the Kingdom of Naples. Elizabeth Mulholland was the wife of a well beneficed Anglican clergyman. They apparently spent several summers in the Bay of Naples, one of them on Ischia. The extract explains, for those unfamiliar with religious practice, how a nova becomes a nun. Two extracts from Mulholland’s writing are included in this book so that some scraps of her research will be preserved from the oblivion that has been the fate of so many women writers.

A nun is wine fermented from grapes long picked. First she becomes a nova, crowned by the Mother Superior on her first day in the convent with a small, almost transparent white veil that falls in three folds behind her head. During her time as a nova, she wears a brown smock tied at the waist with a plain cord – this is the tradition of the Poor Clares and of several other orders. A nova makes no vows. Once she feels at ease with the regime of the convent, she becomes a postulant. The veil behind her head is heavier, covering her still uncut hair. She is given charges to perform, preparing her for the next step, her novitiate. As a novice, she wears the same habit as a nun, her hair is cropped, she goes barefoot, and she wears the white veil concealing everything but the plain oval of her face. The cord at her waist still has no knots because she has not yet taken the four vows that will make her the bride of Christ. As yet she is merely the fiancée of Christ, as it is termed. The final step is the black veil and the solemn vows of obedience, poverty, chastity and, for the enclosed orders, enclosure: making these vows is known as her profession. At the moment of her marriage, the bishop puts a ring on her finger with the words: Receive the ring that marks your sacred marriage with Christ. Keep unbroken faith with your bridegroom so you will be able to enter into the wedding feast of eternal joy. Her life is now one of prayer, penance and sacrifice. In an enclosed order, such as the Poor Clares, that is all: prayer, penance and sacrifice. There is no teaching, no nursing, no scholarship, no service of any kind to the world beyond prayer for its salvation.

IV

As Sister Teresa had expected, the Reverend Mother was still on her knees at the prie-dieu as they entered the open door. Sister Rosaria was there already, standing with her back to the window, blocking out much of the light. Her head was turned toward the door, her face expectant: Marion’s leather shoes clacking against the stones must have alerted half the convent to the arrival of a nova. The Reverend Mother continued to pray, earnestly and devoutly, but in silence. Sister Teresa motioned Marion to stop, and stood with her head bowed and her hands concealed as custom required. Marion, however, examined the austere, unpromising room with open curiosity. She began to whisper a question, but Sister Teresa silenced her with an expression of alarm.

The Abbess, the Reverend Mother, heard the intrusive voice. She waited a few seconds, then crossed herself effusively and stood up, conquering with an effort of will the pain in her unfolding knees. Sister Teresa watched the performance coldly. Many of the nuns had tortured knees from long hours of kneeling on stone. In the dispensary there was a palliative that could be given to anyone who asked, but the Reverend Mother had not asked, and Sister Teresa had made no offer. The Abbess turned toward them, her ice-blue eyes glistening with tears not wholly feigned.

Reverend Mother, said Sister Teresa. Miss Marion Stewart.

Sister Teresa watched as the Abbess’s eyes took in the details of the girl’s dress, her hair, her buckled shoes, the blue ribbon at her breast.

Welcome, my Child, said the Abbess, moving emphatically toward her desk. You are welcome. It was an order, not a greeting.

Marion seemed unsure of her reply. Thank you…, ma’am, she stammered.

You must address the Abbess as ‘Reverend Mother,’ instructed Sister Teresa quietly.

I’m sorry, Reverend Mother, Marion said biting her lip.

You wish to enter our convent as a postulant, the Abbess stated flatly, sitting at her table.

No, Reverend Mother. The girl’s tone showed no alarm – it was as though she found the Abbess’s mistake amusing in some way. Not as a postulant. Only as a guest.

Sister Teresa had no idea how many girls had made the same mild protest in that room during the three hundred years the convent had existed. Her own first protest has been almost as tame twenty years before, and just as hopeless.

My Child, how old are you?

Seventeen, Reverend Mother.

You have a father.

Of course.

In Scotland.

Is he ill? You’ve had news of him? Marion’s tone was eager and anxious.

Do you know his handwriting?

I’ve made fair copies for him for years. Of course I know it.

Sister Teresa wondered how the girl could be so blind to the impending blow and answer so trustingly.

Is this your father’s writing? The Abbess extracted the letter she had concealed on her desk and held it toward Marion. The girl approached the desk, recognizing the difficult script before she’d taken two steps.

Yes it is, she said. She held out her hand, expecting the Abbess to give her the letter. Instead the older woman returned the letter to her desk, securing it now with the small brown skull she kept as a memento mori.

Stay where you are, the Abbess said.

The crude command, the rough edge in the foreign voice, visibly alarmed Marion. I have not come here as a postulant, she repeated. Then, less certainly: I am to stay here until I can go on to Cyprus. My brother will come for me as soon as there’s a ship. That’s what it says in my father’s letter.

Cyprus, thought Sister Teresa. What nonsense had they been telling the girl? Cyprus was Turkish – the Ottomans gave short shrift to little Marions.

Have you read the letter? the Abbess asked as though unsure of the answer.

No ma’am. No, Reverend Mother.

"Well, I have. That is not what it says. It requests that we accept you into our convent as a postulant. Normally you would come here first as a nova, but the letter expressly asks that you enter as a postulant. I’d imagined that your vocation was already clear to you and that your father was simply following your wishes."

Marion stood for a moment bewildered and defenceless. She glanced anxiously from the face of one nun to the other, but gleaned nothing from their blankness. Sister Teresa felt an unfamiliar urge to give the girl some sign of encouragement, but she suppressed it immediately.

May I see the letter? Marion asked, her face starting to pale with apprehension.

You doubt my word? asked the Abbess with dignity.

Yes ma’am. I doubt it. The words were not defiant but a simple statement of fact. Even so, Sister Teresa heard a quick indrawing of breath from the window. There would be penance later, severe and prolonged. Sister Rosaria was planning it already.

Please let me see the letter. Marion spoke with a degree of self-assurance that boded no good for her. Sister Teresa understood with a hidden wince that it would take a while to break her spirit.

The Abbess removed the letter from under the skull and handed it to the girl with a forgiving smile. If there is some mistake, of course…, she said.

Marion snatched the letter from the Abbess’s hand, glancing quickly over the lines, taking in nothing. Then she closed her eyes, controlled her shaking hand, and began deliberately to read her father’s words. There was no mistake. Sister Teresa had already seen the letter and others like it: …her vocation…her often expressed wish…her shy, retiring nature…entry as a postulant….It was as the Abbess had said. There was, of course, no mention of a postulant-dowry of five hundred guineas. The head of every family was requested to write exactly such a politic and useful letter.

Though shocked, Marion struggled to keep her self-command: I don’t know how this mistake has arisen, she said. But there is a mistake, I assure you.

Are you telling me your father’s letter is not to be trusted? That your father is not a man of his word? The Abbess’s tone was edgy, offended, making it impossible for Marion to answer yes.

I’m telling you no such thing. Of course not. But I don’t understand what’s happened.

Sister Teresa nodded: it was not a bad answer.

But you agree I must act on your father’s instructions. How else can I proceed? You yourself confirm that it is his handwriting, his signature.

Marion said nothing, apprehending at last the threat hanging over her.

Well? pursued the Reverend Mother. What am I to do?

Let me write to him, Marion suggested. I’m sure there’s some explanation.

His letter is perfectly plain. Is it not?

Please let me write to him. Please. Sister Teresa watched the tears well in the girl’s eyes and heard the helpless pleading in her voice.

I shall not be trifled with, Miss Stewart, the Reverend Mother said severely. I shall act on my instructions. Unless you give me good reason not to do so.

Now she was cornered, Marion screwed up her courage. And I shall not be trifled with either. I shall not enter this convent as a postulant. I shall not. Quick tears ran down her cheeks, and her voice was tremulous. Even so she repeated her words: Definitely I shall not.

You will do exactly as you are told, said the Abbess. This is a convent, not an inn.

Marion absorbed the words, seeing for the moment, no escape. Reverend Mother, she began hesitantly. I can promise you I’ve never expressed any wish to become a nun, not to my father, not my confessor, not anyone.

Well, well. This is all most unfortunate. Sister Teresa watched the Reverend Mother assume the conciliatory expression she often affected at this juncture, at least when things were going well. How can your Father have been so mistaken? How could such a thing have happened?

Marion looked at the older woman uneasily. "There is a mistake, she repeated. I’ve not come here as a postulant. Really I haven’t."

If your Father has made a mistake, the Abbess continued smoothly. Then of course, the mistake will be put right. It would be impossible for us to accept a postulant who has not been particularly and unmistakably called by our Lord Jesus Christ. The Reverend Mother and the two sisters crossed themselves. A girl with no vocation.

You mean…? Marion’s eyes brightened with hope.

I mean you have been received into our convent as a guest. Obviously you are free to leave us whenever you wish. You may wait here for your brother or your uncle. I give you my permission. We have no guest room here, but if you want to stay in one of the nun’s cells, you may. In fact, it will be safer for you here than in the town. There is confusion and revolution everywhere. Only last year Moslem pirates kidnapped a dozen women from the village below. But you decide for yourself.

It was a nice touch, about the pirates, Sister Teresa thought. And it had the merit of being true. The girl’s gratitude was, of course, predictable. Marion would think she’d won a significant victory, and now she’d make careless and irreversible concessions.

Thank you, Reverend Mother, Marion exclaimed. If the Abbess had extended her hand, Marion would certainly have kissed it.

Only…, the Abbess suggested. …while you are here, it might be better to dress as we dress. And perhaps attend Matins every day, if none of the other prayers. But you are under no obligation. You are free.

Of course, I’ll do as you suggest. Of course.

Sister Teresa will find you a habit and a cell. A room I mean…. We call them cells here. A ghost of a smile lit the cold eyes. God bless you, my Child. Go now.

Marion turned toward the door in anticipation of her escape.

Oh, said the Reverend Mother. Just an afterthought….

Such easy game, thought Sister Teresa. The afterthoughts are the scorpion’s sting. Always.

The Reverend Mother smiled: Let me introduce you to Sister Rosaria since she’s here. You’ll seldom see her. Her duties here will not affect you. Discipline. Penance. Sacrifice. And your confessor. If you’re to attend mass in the morning, you’ll need to confess tonight.

Yes, Reverend Mother. Yes, of course. Following the prompting of the Reverend Mother’s eyes, Marion approached Sister Rosaria who stood motionless by the still open window and held out her hand in greeting. Sister Rosaria made no response. The two women looked into each other’s eyes.

"Disciplina, penitenza, sacrificio," said Sister Rosaria, lingering over each word. Although the convent lay within the Kingdom of Naples, the common language of the nuns was French or English. Sister Rosaria was one of the few who spoke only Neapolitan or, when that did not serve, bastard Italian.

Marion began to mutter: I hope…. But she was evidently unsure what she hoped with regard to Sister Rosaria, and she looked away.

Sister Teresa saw the muslin dress swing wide as Marion turned toward the door. The Abbess had played her game skilfully. Marion was theirs, or she would be. The girl was frowning with childish determination as she negotiated the uneven steps that led down from the Reverend Mother’s room to the convent and the enclosing labyrinth below. Who knew when she’d leave it?

Chapter 2

I

As the two women entered the cheerful parlour once more, Marion threw herself down in her chair. Oh my goodness, she said. For a moment I was so frightened. I must write to my father immediately. Find out what’s gone wrong.

Sister Teresa stood near the door, her arms folded, her hands invisible. You may write, Miss Stewart, but the letter will not be sent. The words were incorrect – not expressly forbidden, but certainly not allowed. Sister Teresa had spoken them quietly, almost unwillingly.

Not sent? Why not?

Did the Reverend Mother give you permission to send a letter?

Not directly, but why shouldn’t I send one?

How will you send it? Sister Teresa had no clear idea why she was asking such questions. Nothing good would come of upsetting the traditions of the convent in general and the Reverend Mother’s plans in particular.

I don’t know. How do you send letters from here?

Most days the Governor sends a courier round to pick up official letters. From us he collects anything the Reverend Mother allows to be sent. Then every week, I think, the Governor sends it all to Naples. From there…. I don’t know.

She’ll allow my letter.

She will not.

Then I’ll send it from the town.

How? As far as I know, at the moment no one can send letters from the town. And anyway, how will you leave the convent?

Through the door, exactly as I came. I’m not a prisoner here.

Marion. Between the parlour here and the front door are two doors, both locked. Look at the grating that divides this room. You came in through that grating three hours ago. Your uncle did not. You spoke to him through a gap in the black curtain. And, as you remember, I locked the grating after you. How will you get out again?

You’ll open it for me.

Marion. Something pathetically childlike in Marion’s young face gave Sister Teresa pause. She went to the grating and gripped two of the iron roses, one in each hand. Without looking at Marion she said: My Child, I pity you as I have pitied no one these many years, though I don’t know why. But I will not open this grating for you. I am sworn to obedience. Those are my instructions. And even if I opened it, I have no key to the doors beyond.

No, no, no. Marion began to shake her head, her face buried in her hands. For a moment she’d felt safe. Now Sister Teresa had deliberately ripped this illusion away. Why? she cried, her voice rising in anguish. Why are you doing this to me? Why? She was losing control of her voice, close to panic.

Be quiet, said Sister Teresa severely, turning toward her. I have gone too far in talking to you at all. Much too far.

Marion was not listening. Why? she cried again in anguish.

Will you be quiet! Sister Teresa hissed at her, moving quickly and standing behind the chair. She gripped Marion’s shoulders, tightening her grasp as Marion persisted in her question: Why, why? Then, raising her arm, Sister Teresa aimed a stunning slap at the side of Marion’s head. She caught her just in front of her ear, knocking her off the chair and onto the stone floor. That was how hysteria was treated in the convent, at least whenever treatment was thought necessary, but Sister Teresa regretted the blow immediately.

As Marion hit the floor, her young body coiled itself and then writhed across the floor to a corner of the room where she could more easily defend herself. She crouched there, trembling against the stones, her frightened eyes blazing up at Sister Teresa, but the nun did not attack her again.

This is the parlour, Sister Teresa said with some bitterness. Save your screaming for Sister Rosaria.

You hit me, exclaimed Marion clutching the side of her face. No one’s ever hit me. Ever.

Then you’ve been extremely fortunate. I apologize for hitting you, but it was necessary. If you’ll be quiet, I’ll talk to you. If you persist in screaming, I’ll take you to your cell and leave you there. Then, trying to take the harsh edge out of her voice: I want to help you.

Help me! Marion spat the words out. What help is that? Knocking me off my chair? How dare you even touch me?

Do you understand what’s happening? Now? To you?

No. How can I? This is a madhouse I’ve landed in.

You may be right, but even a madhouse has rules. Will you keep your voice down if we walk outside?

Marion said nothing, eyeing the bunch of keys at Sister Teresa’s waist.

Yes, I have many keys, said Sister Teresa understanding the direction of Marion’s gaze. The outer doors have two locks. The Reverend Mother has one key: the senior lay sister has the other.

Marion, trapped and distraught, thought over the words. She looked searchingly into Sister Teresa’s eyes, trying to fathom her purpose. Will you tell me why? she asked at last. If I’m quiet.

Marion. Please understand: you can’t resist. You’ll be terribly punished in ways you can’t yet imagine. Please believe me. Sister Teresa was trembling. The unlikely chance of the nova bearing the name she’d once borne, the soft speech that took her back to her childhood and her Scottish mother, the weariness and spite that had characterized her life for so many years: it all fell strangely together. She felt herself softening toward this still unbroken girl, though she knew no softening was possible. And she was sickeningly aware of the punishment that awaited her if she listened, as she was listening now, to the devil of disobedience.

Marion! Sister Teresa said the charmed word and held out her hand to the still crouching girl. On her knees, Marion tried to move toward the outstretched hand, but her dress trapped her legs. Sister Teresa saw the awkward movement and quickly approached the girl. For a moment she rested her hand on Marion’s head in silent blessing. Then she helped her to her feet. For a second she caught Marion’s chin in a firm grip, turning her head to expose the red-flushed cheek. It’s nothing, she said. It won’t even bruise. There were unguents and salves in the dispensary for every kind of bruise, scratch, cut and weal. Years before Sister Teresa had been the convent’s dispenser – it had been her first real office. Put on your pelisse, she said. It’s cold outside.

II

The convent had once been a palace with pleasant terraces and belvederes providing sun or shade according to the hour and the time of year. Sister Teresa led Marion to a triangular terrace walled in with tall convent buildings on two sides. On the third side, facing west, a stone rampart and then the bare cliff dropped sheer to the causeway below. The December afternoon was bleak and sunless. The dome of the Immacolata blocked out much of the remaining light. The