Chapter Two 

With yet another morning spent laying in the bed that used to be Annette’s room, staring out the window with a heaviness in her heart and a weariness in her form, Samantha begins to feel that she’s becoming proficient in the activity. If she’d descended downstairs before noon any day in the last few weeks, she couldn’t recall it. No, most of her mornings were swept away under the rug, skipped in favor of the afternoons which held a miniscule more promise. 

So, Samantha peels herself off of the mattress and throws a pinafore over her nightgown. She would have rather jumped into a freezing lake than be seen in such attire when she was a Lady, yet now it was her most common household attire. She’d hardly been able to take most of her belongings when she was cast out, and many of the things she had taken she had sold in order to amass enough to live on without being entirely at the mercy of the detectives.

Harold, Cordelia’s beloved pet pigeon, seems to have formulated an understanding of her lazy schedule, and is never to be seen in the mornings or early afternoons. He returns only in the evenings, and typically only because he could see Samantha setting out a plate of seeds for his consumption. They hold an uneasy alliance of need: Harold requires food, and Samantha requires something which forces her out of bed. He’s off exploring this morning, though she was never sure where he went. 

Her morning, which was afternoon to the rest of the world, is met with the melancholy of a woman without purpose. She ambles from room to room, sometimes staring off at a wall without registering any of its effects. The townhouse is a little cluttered, adorned with the endless trinkets and baubles Cordelia Jones had gathered from her detective work, most of which have been placed into a careful organization from Cordelia’s servant-turned-partner-turned-lover, Annette, who was also Samantha’s dalliance-turned-ex-lover. The darkwood walls, if Samantha cared more she would identify the tree they were cut from, spot a variety of maps and paintings, adoringly framed. She spends most of her time in the conversation room and the dining room, and only sometimes in the kitchen when her hunger would finally pry her into a sense of direction for only an hour or two of the day. 

She’s just about to settle into her schedule, biding time until the Fleeting Faery would open its doors and she could commiserate with Bill once more, when her borrowed home on 167th Mill Street receives a knock upon the door. She ignores it, figuring it was simply another prospective client for the detective who had not yet heard she was out of the country. A second knock repeats, an almost sing-song rhythm, which also goes unanswered. By the third entreaty Samantha is annoyed, so she rises from her place on the couch and storms over to the door, preparing to send the petitioner away with as much callousness as possible. 

She throws open the door and finds her hostility deflate upon seeing the black-and-white robes of the nun she was hoping was only a strange dream. 

“Miss Deveroux,” Esther says warmly, her shoulder sporting a small bag whose effects tug against the fabric. 

“Sister Levy,” Samantha sighs. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well, I was at the market,” she tells her, voice buzzing with the charitable enthusiasm of a Sister who’d not yet become an old crone, “and whilst there I found myself moved with concern for you, adjusting to the pitiable life without servants at your beck-and-call. I came by to bring you groceries,” she nudges her shoulder which carries the bag, “and to see if loneliness has overtaken you.” 

Samantha crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m quite alright on my-,”

“As I feared,” the nun confirms, nonchalantly strolling past her to enter the home. “I’ll prepare lunch,” she declares. 

With the door closed behind her, Samantha marches after her, face contorted into a mild offense. “I didn’t invite you in.” 

“Because you’re too proud to ask for help,” Esther diagnoses, setting the shopping bag down upon one of the counters in the kitchen. She meanders through the kitchen as she speaks, acquainting herself with the facilities. “So, I didn’t offer. I am simply helping, and you are simply being helped. No asking required.” She turns to Samantha, eager to see if the woman would put her foot down and demand she leave the home, and seems delighted to see her relent. Samantha pulls over a chair from the dining room and drops into it, resigned to accept her company. “Atta girl,” Esther grins. 

The nun retrieves a mixing bowl and spoon, then produces flour and processed yeast from her shopping bag. Combined with water, she quickly begins the early steps of making a dough for bread. Her head pops over her shoulder, black veil obscuring the back of her head while the white collar of her habit covers her neck, leaving only her face visible. “How was your morning?” 

Samantha crosses one leg over the other, resting her hands wearily into her lap. “It has been fine.” She provides nothing else to the conversation, a small portion of her mind wondering if it would still be too late to invite the nun to leave. 

After a few moments of silent work, Esther calmly replies, “Mine has been excellent, since you didn’t ask. Ask me why it has been excellent.” 

Samantha rolls her head to one side and disinterestedly asks, “Why has it been excellent?” 

“There is that noble disposition,” she teases, looking quite pleased with herself. “I awoke early to find my spirit invigorated. Morning prayers were grounding and refreshing, and Sister Minerva even let me lead the hymns.” She pulls back the billowing sleeves of her habit, carefully tucking them away as she adorns herself with an apron. She picks up the spoon and begins mixing the flour, water, and yeast together. “And then, I had time to speak with Father Billings and his insightful roommate, Mr. Thornbry, only to find that the two of them were acquainted with you. Father Billings even told me the most scandalous story about you at a ball thrown by Lord Hastings.” 

“Dear Jesus…” Samantha mutters, recalling the occasion when the then Deacon Billings had stumbled across herself and Annette in the hallway during the ball. She’d played it cool in the moment, but there was a part of her which was terrified at the scene, sure he would expose their deeds to others. It was a miracle he remained quiet about the matter, resolving only to speak with Annette at the behest of Sister Pullwater. 

“Oh, I’m sure He saw it too,” Esther quips. Her face beams, as though the story was a happy affair. “I’m not shaming you. I’m politely impressed.” 

“Yes, I have enormous capacity for scandal,” Samantha utters back, pulling her hands up across her chest. 

Esther drops her voice lower, delighted by her salacious knowledge. “According to Father Billings, Miss Baker seemed quite well taken care of,” she smirks. “I didn’t know she was twice-born, how incredible.” 

Samantha hadn’t known Annette was either when they’d first met, and was further surprised at how much she’d enjoyed that fact about her. To know that Annette, as a child, was so sure of her own womanhood that she underwent the process of rebirth, taking on a new name and social identity, was admirable. It almost made Samantha feel insecure about her own womanhood, and jealous of Annette’s. She’d taken her birth as an assumed fact, that she was born a woman and simply must be. Annette had defied the expectations of her first birth and attested to the womanhood within. It was marvelous and made Samantha appreciate something which she had taken for granted. 

She sizes up Esther and replies, “I am increasingly less and less convinced you are truly a nun.” She intends to continue her criticism upon the decorum of the Sister, when she notices Esther’s hands begin to knead the dough she was making. “That is not the correct technique,” Samantha asserts. 

“Surely it is,” Esther ignores her, continuing. 

“No, it won’t develop structure if you don’t-,” she sighs and stops herself, rising from the chair and approaching the counter. “Move over.” 

“Nonsense,” the nun declines, though wears a smile upon her face. “This is correct.” 

Samantha adjusts her pinafore and waves Esther away from the station. “No, it isn’t,” she repeats, tossing her hands down into the warm dough and letting her memory take over. It returns to her quickly, despite the fact that it has been years since she’d last kneaded dough, and she moves with the skill of practiced habit. “You need to stretch the dough, not tear it. If you tear it, you prevent it from strengthening, and then it will turn rough and won’t rise correctly.” 

Esther leans her hip against the counter to watch. “I didn’t realize you were the expert.” 

“My mother taught me,” Samantha answers her, a little puff of nostalgia entering her mind as her fingers pull the spongy dough. “We used to make fresh bread every morni-,” she stops abruptly. She looks over at Esther, who is smiling as though having performed a carefully crafted trick. “What, am I now performing a favor for myself?” 

“I know how to knead dough, mostly,” she says pleasantly. “But it took you four seconds after touching the dough to lighten dramatically. For a moment, you very nearly seemed pleased with yourself.” 

Samantha shakes her head and continues. “I was merely correcting your error. That is all.” 

“Tell me more of your mother,” Esther invites. “What was she like?” 

Samantha feels a light burn in her forearms and fingers from the effort, but takes delight to see the flour slowly incorporate the water into itself. “She was from Andland,” Samantha answers, “and emigrated to Bellchester in search of work. I was an infant then, and my father was a worthless lout who abandoned her.” She takes a few moments to steady her breath, feeling the exertion of kneading. “She had few options, so she entered collar service to provide for us. Not a lot of families would take on a servant who came with a child, but Miss Jones was simply the mistress of a nobleman, Lord Hastings. She was Cordelia’s mother, and was more than happy to help us considering that Lord Hastings would foot the bill.” 

The backgrounds of her mind slowly slip into the memories of those days. She remembers the relief her mother had felt when they’d first landed the contract, and how delightful it was to know that they’d be in a home where they would be safe. It wasn’t too much work, and Miss Jones had little need for a servant, and so oftentimes they felt like wonderful friends living together. It was a small home, and it was a little crowded with the four of them, but Samantha remembers it fondly. 

“Yes, but what was she like?” Esther insists, her voice interested. “What do you remember about her?” 

“She was always singing,” Samantha recalls, hearing her gentle timbre echoing in the far reaches of her eardrums. Her mother’s voice was light and gentle, and she sounded like she must have held the spirit of a bird within her. “It was only sometimes a recognizable tune. Most often she would improvise a song, usually about whatever little thing she was doing.” 

Without thinking, Samantha finds herself imitating her mother, gazing down at the forming dough in her fingers and singing out, “‘Yeast may be small, but it’s not the least, and it’s quite able to bring a feast.’”

It takes a moment to realize that her voice had left her mouth, and that she’d been swept away into the memory of her mother. Her face puffs pink and she quickly averts her gaze so that Esther could not see her. “She loved to cook,” Samantha adds. “She loved to get her hands dirty.” 

Esther doesn’t speak, instead listening to her as though she was telling the most important story one could tell. She’s surprised to find herself desperate to say more, feeling the necessity of getting the words out as the nostalgia overtakes her. Samantha stretches the dough out, thrilled to see it holding together and forming a thin sheet, before pulling it back together to continue. 

“There wasn’t much space for us,” her voice adds, a little whisper of emotion tucked inside of it, “so I remember sharing a bed with her until I was eight or nine. I was so insistent then that I got my own space to sleep… but now…” Her voice drops a little lower, and the feelings underneath begin to percolate up. “... Now I only wish I could lay my head into her chest and rest. I never slept so well as I did in her bed.” 

To her greater surprise, a single tear escapes her eyelashes and drops down her cheek. Samantha halts her work, whipping away the trail it left behind and rapidly squashing the emotion which caused it. “Forgive me, I…” 

Before she can say anything more, Samantha feels the flowing black robes of Esther’s habit wrap around her as the nun embraces her. Esther takes a long breath in, inhaling as though her breath could stabilize Samantha’s pain, which only reminds her further of the warmth and comfort of her mother’s bed. She pulls away quickly and stares at Esther. 

“What are you doing?” 

“It is called showing compassion, perhaps you’ve heard of it?” Esther’s head tilts to the side, one part teasing and one part empathetic. “Typically, when people cry, they appreciate comfort.” 

Samantha takes another step away, shaking her head in disbelief. “What are you doing here? What is this?” 

Esther leans back into the counter, gently poking at the dough which was almost finished. “I’ve just moved to a new part of the country and I know no one apart from the clergy. I’m lonely. You’re lonely. It seems we could offer one another shelter from solitude.” 

Samantha holds up her hands and waves away the idea. “Just go back to your convent with your ridiculous robes and leave me be.” 

The nun doesn’t move. “I love the other Sisters dearly, but I have no interest in my life being sequestered in a church whilst there is a whole city full of people to explore.” 

“So, amongst this whole city, you’ve elected to torment a lonely woman in pain?” Samantha accuses. 

Esther doesn’t take the bait, instead taunting her by replying, “Should you like me to leave, you need only say the words and I will leave you to wallow in despair.” 

Samantha falls silent, grumbling internally, and returns to finishing up the dough. It would need only a few minutes more before it would be ready for her to set it aside in a covered bowl to proof. She doesn’t look at Esther, but utters, “If you’re going to stay, you could at least prepare the oven.” 

“As you direct, so shall it be,” Esther places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it as she turns away. 

She’s annoyed at how easily Esther has worked her way into this space in her home. Samantha tests the dough to confirm it was ready, and glances over at the woman beside her, contemplating the value of her company. She’d never have chosen the companionship of a cloistered woman, and yet, it was not as though she had many other options. Cordelia and Annette would be gone for a minimum of a few months. All her friends from the nobility had discarded her the moment the news broke. She hadn’t the heart to flirt with any women at the Faery, which left her only Bill for a conversation partner, and he was rapidly growing tired of the burden of her misery. 

Samantha wraps the dough into its bowl with a cheesecloth over it, then places it on a spot along the windowsill. She wouldn’t normally have considered it, for fear that a cold window would inhibit the yeast’s growth, but it sits in direct sunlight and it is a pleasant early spring day. It should suffice. Esther successfully ignites the oven, and turns back to Samantha with a proud look in her eyes. 

“What does your hair look like?” Samantha asks, giving in to the itching question. “It’s strange to only see your face.” 

“It is a light brown, with but a hint of curls that abhor the humidity.” 

Samantha almost removes her pinafore apron, then remembers she only has a nightgown underneath. If Esther was to stay, she should change into a proper outfit for the day. “Show me,” Samantha directs, curious. 

To her surprise, Esther complies. She carefully pulls down the veil, letting her braided hair twirl out from the fabric. The braid is a messy ash brown, with strands of baby hairs escaping from the binds all around. She smiles, shaking her head slightly as she adjusts to the feeling without the headdress. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” Samantha admits. 

“I didn’t think you’d tell me about your mother,” Esther replies. 

Samantha is surprised with how easily the two of them transition into a quiet afternoon as the day draws on. The Sister evidently also brought along a few books: her journal, a copy of the Bible, and some other collection Samantha doesn’t recognize. She sets up in the living room, tucked into the armrests of one of the chairs, and reads contentedly. Samantha, meanwhile, takes the opportunity to change clothes and begin tidying up the house. She’d been neglecting those duties in her isolation, and Esther provides an opportunity to be responsible for it. 

They eat in polite conversation and return to silence once more, until the early evening, when Samantha acquires her coat and declares, “I’m going to go for a stroll.” 

Without a word, Esther gathers her things and quickly replaces her veil onto her head, tucking the rest of her objects into her shoulder bag and making her way to the front door, where she waits for Samantha. “And apparently you are coming with me,” she tells the nun. 

“Well,” Esther adjusts her bag, “I’d not risk allowing you to be bored.” 

 

– – –

In the following week, Esther’s company in the early afternoon becomes a fact which Samantha takes for granted. She’d arrive after her morning duties at the orphanage and the church, removing her veil once entering 167th Mill Street. The first two days she’d brought food and insisted on preparing it for the two of them, only for Samantha to remark that she was an unfortunately mediocre chef. From then on, Samantha would arise in the morning, earlier than she had been the past weeks, and would have lunch prepared by the time Esther arrives. 

It’s an unexpected stability, knowing the nun would come calling each day. As awkward as the idea of befriending a Sister was to Samantha, she could hardly deny that it improved her mood not to be shut in and alone until sunset. They’d read together, sometimes make pleasant conversation, and occasionally take walks if the weather permitted. She teases Samantha when she feels the former noblewoman has committed some philosophical error, and Samantha pokes fun at the rigidity of the convent’s lifestyle. 

And through it all Samantha finds herself thinking constantly of her mother. When she’s alone and preparing the home for Esther’s arrival, she’s no longer consumed by silence and dread. She sings little songs just as her mother would, she finds comfort in the familiar actions of cooking and cleaning. It’s wretched, in its own way, and she still misses the delights of luxury, but it is stabilizing in a way she cannot deny. Surely, she was still meant for more than this life, but at least now she could say that she was living at all. Through the dread, there were a plethora of moments she questioned whether she existed any longer, relegated to the life of a spectre haunting this abode. 

But, after five days of the nun’s company, she makes no appearance one afternoon. Samantha awaits her, having decided not to cook until she arrives so Esther could have input on the menu, but finds herself alone for an hour past the woman’s typical arrival. She considers waiting longer still, when she’s struck by the sudden realization that the day was Sunday, and Esther would likely have responsibilities at Mass. She retrieves her coat and departs, unwilling to take the risk the Sister would not arrive at all because of this, and accepting the responsibility that if she wished for company she would need to acquire it. After a week of consistent company, Samantha could no longer bear the idea of returning to solitude. 

St. Bartholomew’s was a cathedral which seemed simultaneously large and small. On a Sunday, it was filled with people coming and going, giving it this sense of grand purpose. But on every other day, it was simply a small stone church with gorgeous stained glass, sitting empty and forgotten. Two buildings sit on either side of the main sanctuary: one which housed the convent upstairs and the orphanage on the ground floor, and the smaller home where Father Billings resided. 

Samantha arrives to find the sanctuary slowly emptying itself of people. Mass seems as though it ended a few minutes ago, and she pushes through the exiting congregants as she searches for the black-and-white robes that could indicate Esther’s presence. She finds a small clearing behind the pews and gazes around, when her mind flashes with recognition to notice a nun’s habit. Closer inspection disappoints her when she seems it is not Esther at all, but rather her aunt, Sister Pullwater. 

The Mother Superior looks surprised to see Samantha, and she hobbles over to speak with her. “Miss Deveroux, how unexpected to see you here.” 

Samantha releases a breath. “How unexpected to be here.” 

Sister Pullwater grins, clasping her hands together. “My heart just may believe in miracles once more. How on Earth has the Lord carried you here, today?” 

“I…” Samantha considers telling her, but then stifles the idea. It would be far too embarrassing to admit to another soul she was eager for the company of a nun. “A miracle, it seems.” 

“Well, you’ve just missed our last Mass, though Father Billings will surely be heading to the confessional soon, should you desire,” Pullwater tells her. “I had been intending to come calling upon 167th Mill Street soon, anyway. I have been wondering how you have been doing.” 

“Better, I believe.” 

“I am sure it is significantly quieter, with the absence of-,”

A third voice cuts through the chatter of the room nearby, and Samantha turns to see Esther striding over to the two of them. “Miss Deveroux! I’d not expected to see you in this church.” She places her hands upon her hips, beaming. “Well, not anytime soon, at least.” 

“Esther,” Pullwater glances between the two of them. “I was not aware you and Miss Deveroux were acquainted.” 

“We’re not-,” Samantha tries, only for Esther’s enthusiasm to carry her voice forward instead. 

“I have been comforting her amidst the trauma of her last few months,” Esther relates to the Mother Superior. Her eyes flick back to Samantha. “It’s good to see you, Miss Dever-,”

“Miss Deveroux,” Pullwater interrupts, “why don’t you go and see Father Billings? I should like to speak with my niece for but a moment.” 

Sensing the potentially unpleasant conversation that was about to occur between the two of them, Samantha nods and walks away. She’s annoyed to have stumbled against such a wrench in her plans, and upon approaching the confessional she finds herself feeling the patters of nervousness inside. It seems to her more awkward to stand by the booth and not enter, so she pulls the door open and drops herself down onto the wooden bench. 

She’s surprised by how quiet it is inside once the heavy door closes. She fiddles with her hands, hearing both her breath and her heartbeat, and asks, “How… how does this work?” 

Simon’s recognizable voice drifts towards her from behind the wicker divider between them. “First time?” 

“Since I was a young girl.” 

“There is no need to be afraid,” his low voice comforts. It has the mildly awkward cadence of a scholar, intelligent but unpolished. “When you are ready, you may simply say, ‘Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been some time since my last confession.’ State how long it has been. Then, you may simply tell me the sins you would like to confess, and I will listen without judgment.” 

“All of them?” 

“Perhaps,” he chuckles, “for our purposes today, simply the ones weighing upon your heart.” 

“I… I’ve committed the sin of…” She sighs. Surely there was a long list of things she could name, from adultery to lesbianism to deceit, but she doesn’t feel any of them particularly weigh upon her. Instead, she finds herself saying, “Father, a friend of mine told me that confession taught her she did not know who she was. I… I’m afraid that neither do I.” 

“I see,” he pauses. “And do you feel as though-,”

“I’ve always known who I was and what I cared about,” she blurts out, a sudden wave of importance carrying herself forward without thinking, “or, at least I thought so. But lately I’m unsure.” She sighs, dropping her head into her hands and resting her elbows onto her knees. Her forehead lightly bumps against the wooden door. “I… I feel as though I’ve simply ceased to exist, as though my soul has passed on and left nothing but an empty shell behind.” 

The spiraling thoughts reach their conclusion, and her anxiety manifests by her declaration that, “I’m nothing. I’m just vanity and nothingness. All I have ever been is someone to be desired, but now I’ve been cast out.” Samantha’s fingertips pull through her hair, scratching her scalp as she lets the rant she kept in her pocket pour out of her. “Christ, I’m sitting in a confessional because I’m lonely! A confessional! It’s so pitiful it hurts.” She sighs, realizing the insult she’s placed at his feet, and half-heartedly adds, “Not to… erm… dismiss your holiness, Father.” 

The screen greets her with only silence. She sits up, her eyes peering through to the darkened side in a futile attempt to read his expression. 

“Father?” She repeats. 

Simon takes a long breath in, and when he speaks again he sounds as though it had taken a few moments to collect his thoughts. “One of the things I believe is most true about our God, is that he created us all uniquely. There is a holiness to all creation because we were hand-crafted by God’s love.” 

“Then surely he’s made a mistake with me, or the plan’s gone awry,” Samantha contests. This time she rests the back of her head against the wooden panel behind her, exposing her neck to the sky and closing her eyes. “I am deficient. I am defective.” She sighs. “Jesus, I cannot believe I am saying this aloud. It’s delusional, it’s-,”

“Do you believe yourself capable of love?” 

“No,” she answers automatically. 

“Confession typically ends with an act of penance, an assignment for you to go and sin no further,” he explains. “You cannot know who you are if you do not know how to love. Whether you love yourself, or another, you must express this capacity.” He pauses for a moment to allow his words to sink in. “This is your penance, not that you’ve confessed a sin, per se. But go and prove to yourself you are capable of love. It will reveal you to yourself, just as God reveals His love through our devotion to one another.” 

“Having Peter around has truly improved your capacity to console,” she tells him, steadying herself enough to accept his guidance. 

“Thank you, Samantha,” he replies, and she can almost hear the smile in his voice. 

Outside of the confessional, her eyes readjust to the more chaotic scene of the social time after Mass. She locates Esther and Sister Pullwater, who appear to be wrapping up their conversation, and slowly approaches. The Mother Superior tosses her a polite nod and departs before she arrives, leaving Esther behind. Samantha feels herself thankful to see her once more, though the Sister appears conflicted and distracted. She takes a moment, then looks up to Samantha to ask: 

“Would you care to go for a walk?” 

 

– — – 

 

There are precious few places Samantha enjoys walking around in Bellchester. Over a few streets from Mill Street lay the couple of neighborhoods that belong to the wealthier families, which meant the streets were generally cleaner and quieter, while the homes were more extravagant and interesting to observe. She’d spent many days in her prior life strolling about the area, usually arm-in-arm with one of her friends, chatting and gossiping and generally feeling important. 

She does not, in fact, enjoy strolling alongside the Fennes River. Sure, there was a long path that meanders along its banks, following some of its twists and turns, and by the later stretches it could be quiet and gentle. However, for most of the early part of the walk she finds herself disgusted with the smell of the river, the noise of the boats chugging along in its murky waters, and the more crowded pathways. But, Esther had chosen to walk along the river. 

The nun walks with her hands tucked behind her back, which disappear completely once her blooming sleeves drop forward to hide them. Her face, which Samantha had grown expectant of seeing a polite smile and glittering warmth, carries with it a sort of gravity of decision. The corners of her lips frown, her nose scrunches ever-so-slightly to one side. If she notices at all the strand of her hair across her forehead which liberated itself from her veil, she does nothing about it. 

“You’re unusually quiet,” Samantha says at last, unable to bear the awkwardness any longer. It was one thing to take a walk along the river, it was another to be subjected to silence along its banks. 

Esther’s face adjusts a little, though maintains its soberness. “I’m thinking,” she answers, “the subject of which has unfortunately soured my mood.” 

“Am I allowed to ask why?” 

True to form, Esther replies with her straightforward honesty. “Sister Pullwater disapproves of my affiliation with you. Between your past and my enthusiasm, she believes you present too great a temptation for my safety.” 

Samantha can hardly deny the pit that forms in her stomach. “I see.” 

Esther’s hands pop out from her back, and as she speaks again they begin waving in front of her, measured and deliberate, with black flags of cloth draping around them. “I have been so deliberate and repentant of-,” she stops herself with an exasperated sigh. “It feels as though she hardly trusts me at all. As though she believes I am hanging upon a precarious cliff, moments from falling off at all times.” 

Not enjoying the direction of the walk, and feeling even less inclined towards the present conversation, Samantha slowly accepts that her hopes for the day must be abandoned. Clearly Sundays must be relegated to days in which she would not be able to see Esther, for fear of this very issue, and she would simply have to cope with the solitude for one day of the week. 

“I… I believe I may head home,” Samantha halts her step, intertwining her fingers over her stomach. “I am not sure a walk is what I need at the present moment.” 

Esther stops just as quickly, and remaining still wrapped up in the debate waging in her head, says, “I’ll accompany you.” She waits for Samantha to step off into the direction of her home and matches her pace, returning once more to the conversation at hand. “I admire my aunt so deeply, but in moments like this - am I not allowed to be friends with any women, lest I risk scrutiny from her? Much less friends with women who share my experiences, who I might relate to more strongly.” 

“Are we friends, then?” Samantha asks, peering past her veil and trying to read her meaning. 

“Of course,” Esther says, as though there could be no question of it. 

“And I present no temptation for you?” 

Esther smiles, waving her away once more. “I am more than capable of withstanding temptation.” 

And immediately Samantha feels the practiced machinery of her past life reignite. Suddenly, there was a chance someone found her desirable, which meant she was something to someone. A creature meant only for desire needs to be desired or else they fade into nothing, and in this brief omission, it feels as though Esther unwittingly restores a sense of purpose to the former noblewoman. 

Her voice a little lower, Samantha can hardly hide the smug look on her face as she confirms, “So you are tempted.” 

“With a sin such as this, a one-way temptation negates any possibility of indulgence. I can withstand it easily.” 

She raises an eyebrow and places a neutral grin on her face. “One-way?” 

“Obviously,” Esther dismisses, still swaddled in the greater conversation at hand and not recognizing the thoughts flashing though Samantha’s face. 

Samantha couldn’t yet say whether or not Esther was correct in this assessment. It didn’t really matter. She’d been something to desire for many people who she felt nothing for; it gave her the necessary lifeblood to her ego nonetheless. She looks away at the river, enjoying the newfound dynamic in their friendship. 

“Then you should have nothing to fear,” she muses. 

“Precisely,” Esther agrees.

 

– – – 

 

Esther, to Samantha’s mild frustration, provides very little avenue for her newfound sense of purpose for the rest of the day. As soon as they arrive at 167th Mill Street, the nun removes her veil as she’s grown accustomed to doing around Samantha, then strides towards the living room to nestle up onto the couch with her Bible and her journal. It was their usual habit of pleasant company, yet Samantha would rather be talking with her, teasing her about Esther’s implied interest. 

Seeing that she’d find no satisfaction in this way, Samantha stifles her disappointment and makes her way to the kitchen, beginning the task of preparing a meal for the two of them. It was already mid-afternoon, and while Samantha knew Esther could eat dinner at the orphanage with the children, she’d rather try and find a compelling reason for the woman to stay. She gets to work dicing vegetables for a shepherd’s pie, intermittently watching the nun from the other room. 

Esther rotates her position often. At first, with her boots removed, she props her feet up onto the couch and tucks them in close, using her knees as a desktop to write in her journal. A little while later, she extends out fully across the couch, laying on her stomach and reading from her Bible, which is a small leatherbound copy that seems to have been well-loved. On a few occasions Samantha even notices her kneeling on the ground beside the couch, hands clasped before her face in prayer. 

To her delight, the nun decides that dinner on Mill Street is the preferable option to the orphanage this evening. She eyes up the food, grinning happily once more to see the care and skill Samantha had prepared it with. Samantha, meanwhile, finds herself in a sort of strange satisfaction from cooking more often, and spends most of the last few hours humming to herself, just as her mother would do. 

“What have you been writing about so frantically this afternoon?” Samantha asks between bites. Despite no longer sitting at the table of the gentry, the habit of table etiquette never leaves her. 

“You,” Esther replies, as though it would provoke no further questions. 

Samantha purses her lips. “And what about me?” 

Once more, innocently, Esther answers, “I am ensuring that the core of my interest in you is righteous.” 

The former noblewoman places her fork and knife down beside her plate, staring forward at Esther and trying to read her. “You are being both so honest, and so cryptic. Must I ask a thousand questions, or shall I simply read what you have written?” 

Esther flicks the spine of her journal, placed a little ways down the table. She looks back at Samantha with a proud grin. “You can read ecclesiastical latin?” 

Samantha sputters. “You… you journal in-,”

“Of course not, silly,” Esther giggles. “Sit back, and I’ll speak my mind, okay?” She waits for Samantha to lean back in her chair and present a more receptive air, then says, “At Sister Pullwater’s direction, I am considering my motivations for evangelizing in a place such as the Faery. Do I truly believe myself the best witness, or is it simply an excuse to surround myself with women like me?” 

Samantha takes a bite, chewing slowly as she measures her words. “Your… witness… is it your intention to cure me of this sin?” 

Esther shakes her head, which is a relief. “It is my intention to spread love. Lesbians are just as capable of it, yet the church has cast them aside. I should like to share the peace that I have received.” 

“Peace, which you have found in abstinence?” 

The nun takes a moment and carefully replies, “My peace is found in wholeness of self.” 

“Which,” Samantha insists, “from your perspective, requires abstinence?”

Esther’s fingers drum over the bound cover of her journal. “I’ve said before, I will never be perfect, yet I must maintain peace in imperfection. To fall and not waiver in spirit or faith, that is peace.” 

Another bite of food to collect her thoughts. “So you would act upon it and not consider it contrary to your witness?” 

Esther leans forward, eyes shining as they peer into Samantha’s neutral expression. “You seem rather preoccupied with my capacity for action, Samantha.” 

The noblewoman looks away. “I am simply attempting to understand, and you are deflecting from the question.” 

“Perhaps I enjoy keeping you guessing,” the nun teases.  

Samantha would rather be the tormentor than the tormented, so she quickly adjusts the course of the conversation. With a timid accusation entering into her voice, she stares down the nun and asks, “Why have you befriended me?” 

“Because you needed it.” 

A little part of Samantha’s ego bristles. “I don’t need you.” 

“Then, because you desired it.” 

“I don’t desire you.” 

Esther is undeterred, simply returning to her food and diagnosing, “You are simply being reactive. I’ll not take either of those statements to heart.” 

But Samantha fails to resist the challenge to her sense of superiority. She presses the issue and summarizes, “So you’ve befriended me not because you derive any pleasure in my company, but because it saddens you to pity me.”

“It is my heart’s work to find those who are lost and lonely and to show them God’s love,” Esther’s face softens, her eyes peering into Samantha to study her expression. “When you mocked me upon my entrance to the Faery, my first thought was: ‘Now there is a person who could benefit from a companion.’”

Underneath the table, one of Samantha’s legs crosses over the other, and she rests her hands down into her lap, asserting the comfortable poise that so often won her respect and power in conversation. “That is all your company is, then? Pity and evangelism?” 

Esther doesn’t take the bait, calmly answering, “My company is an extension of the presence of God, comforting and peaceful.” 

“I have no interest in friendship with a deity, or the pawn of a deity,” Samantha concludes, her wounded pride detesting the idea of being a pitiable creature. She was not, she refused to accept it. She may have fallen, she may have struggled to adapt, but if she were to hold on to one thing it would be her pride. “I should much rather be friends with a person. An actual person. With their own thoughts and feelings.” 

Esther smiles and looks down at her plate. “Then ask me a question.” 

“Pardon?” 

“Samantha, all this past week I have listened to you and empathized with your pain, and I have been glad to do it. It is my purpose.” Almost as though unconscious of it, when Esther looks up she retrieves her journal and holds it between her palms. She holds onto it like it was a holy item, capable of surmounting any obstacle she might face. “Yet you have seldom asked me a question beyond my theology or my desires for women - most often both at once. I am simply a pawn of a deity because that is all you believe me to be.” She tosses a warm glance at the woman before her and places the journal to her side once more, and speaks gently, “I am a whole person, you know. You may show interest in her.” 

“So you think this is my fault?” Samantha finds herself accusing, the words leaving her as a reaction entirely separate from her decision-making. “You believe I am selfish and narcissistic and… and…” 

“Undoubtedly,” the Sister teases. She holds eye contact with Samantha until the former noble defuses her hostility, meeting Esther’s gentleness with resigned calm. “Oh, don’t be so cross. I do not, for a singular moment, believe that all you are is vanity. Underneath the veneer, underneath the manufactured immutability, I believe there lies in you a sincere, sweet woman who you have been, for some unknowable reason, trying to rid yourself of. If we are to be friends, I would much rather befriend that woman.” 

A little pathetically, Samantha crosses her arms over her chest and looks away. “I thought you lot were supposed to practice unconditional love.”   

“In what way is this perspective not loving?” Esther scoots her chair in and places her head into the palm of her hand, elbow on the table. She looks at Samantha with kindly eyes, adding, “Your beliefs are making you miserable, and all I am saying is, ‘Samantha, dear, you are making yourself miserable. Please refrain from doing that to my friend.’” 

It takes a long moment for Samantha to make any reply, and in the time until she does, the inner workings of herself do everything they can to reject her perspective. The defenses of her mind attempt to rebuttal the challenge, only to find that the loneliness of her last quarter year and the monument of her fall from grace add a profound potency to Esther’s argument. It was difficult to deny that she’d shut herself away in this home not only because of the shame of her plummet, but also because she felt much of her newfound status to be beneath her. 

And yet, it had not been beneath her mother. Susanna Holm, her endlessly kind and considerate mother, enjoyed the position she found herself in. She and Cordelia’s mother had been fast friends, quickly moving past the dynamic of servant and master in favor of an equality of the home, and they’d been delighted that Cordelia and Samantha got along so well. True, they never know exactly how well the two of them were, but it was a life she’d found purpose in. When she passed… perhaps Samantha had allowed that life to pass with her. 

With as pained of a whisper as was willing to leave her lips, Samantha rises from the table and towards the kitchen to fetch more food, uttering a weary and defeated, “You’re right.” 

Esther laughs, calling after her, “Apology accepted!” A moment later, she adds, “My favorite color is green, should you have interest!”