Chapter Three

Samantha was loath to admit it, but two more weeks of Esther’s constant company leaves her different than before. The initial discomfort at being associated with a Sister wears away, and the gut-wrenching reaction to her innocence and insistent holiness simmers. The nun could find a way to be pleasant with truly anyone, a skill which Samantha grows to respect, if only for how useful it would have been in the upper echelons of society. Sure, Samantha had found ways to fake polite respect, but she had never achieved what Esther seems capable of: not faking it. The woman, through some mysterious machinations of her inner soul, actually seemed to believe what she professed. She saw the good in people. Samantha found the bad. 

And then, a little bit more of Esther’s carefully manicured righteousness peels away to reveal the dynamic woman underneath. Get her tipsy, and she’d be willing to make a few snarky comments about obnoxious parishioners or annoying children at the orphanage. It never ventured into any level of true hostility, and she always counter-balanced it with compliments leveled at the very same targets, but it was enough for Samantha to accept she must be more than just a naïve woman of god. 

She was growing to trust Samantha, and the former noblewoman found herself also growing to trust Esther. Esther asked her of her mother, and Samantha would share nearly anything and everything the nun wished to hear. Samantha, on the other hand, would poke around to find what mischief her past life was filled with, and Esther found herself able to give Samantha what she wanted. 

Which is why, as the two of them lay down upon a picnic blanket just outside of the city, nestled away on a hilltop where they might find some peace and quiet that would make such a hike worthwhile, Esther is saying: 

“Rebecca? Oh, she was beautiful!” She lets out a chirp of laughter, feeling free and easy-going in the shade of the large oak tree at their backs, protecting them from the early afternoon sun. “Everyone always joked that she was a princess in disguise,” she adds with a puff of nostalgia, “And sure, I loved that about her. But truly I was far more interested in how much she adored skinny dipping.” 

Her hands flick up to her chest, holding her palms tightly before her and reveling in the salacious detail revealed. Her laugh is almost lower than her voice, full-hearted and booming, and it usually has a habit of pulling a mutual smile out of Samantha as well. She doesn’t let herself be quite as boisterous as Esther is when she feels delighted, but she relaxes into the moments a little more than before. Years and years of scrutiny amongst the gentry taught her to hold her cards close to her chest, and she’d only just begun letting Esther peek at them now and again. 

Esther sits up, gazing out over the green hills around them. Early spring wildflowers have popped up through the tall grasses, giving the walking trails through them an extra pop of wondrous color. Esther continues, her hair removed from its veil and braid and floating with the soft breeze. 

“It was so scandalous, but I must’ve gone with her five or six times. She always wondered why I was so eager,” she recalls fondly, then sighs out to the air around them, “Ah, Rebecca…” 

“I will never tire of your honesty,” Samantha rolls over onto her back, gazing up at the leaves above which were just finally coming back from the winter. “It is remarkably easy to pull stories from you that I would never utter aloud to anyone.” 

“I was a different person then,” Esther shrugs. “I cared for little and believed myself less than nothing.” Her head inclines over her shoulder as though to assure herself Samantha was not mocking her. “It is a miracle no one proposed marriage to me - I was so eager for approval I would’ve accepted anyone’s ring.” She faces back towards the city and says, “Pelton was a very different place than Bellchester.” 

Samantha sits up, joining her in surveying the large city sprawling around them. It wasn’t the biggest city in the country, by either size or by population, but industrialization had sent the city bursting forth in the last century. Plumes of smoke rise over the area she knew to be the railyards and the factory districts, separated by a surprisingly pleasant downtown and surrounding neighborhoods. She can’t quite pick out the bell tower of St. Bartholomew’s, but it was there, somewhere. 

“In what way?” Samantha asks. 

“It was tiny, and there was hardly anything to do,” the nun pulls her legs in and crosses them over one another. “Naturally that meant my predominant past time was getting into trouble, solely because it was at least some excitement. Bellchester is bursting with people! I adore it.” She stretches her arms out, holding them as though she could fit the whole of the city before them between her palms. She releases a satisfied breath. “And, there are others like me now.” 

“I imagine all you had there was a tiny parish,” Samantha presumes. “There are far more Sisters here.” 

“And I’ve even met some other twice-born.” 

She says this like it was a fact Samantha had already known, but the noblewoman finds herself tending to a surge of surprise in her chest. Her head whips over to Esther, studying her quickly, and she utters, “You’re…?” 

“Twice-born?” Esther’s lips open into a smile. “Oh, yes.” 

“You never told me. I had no idea.” 

“You didn’t ask,” Esther says simply. 

“I’m not in the business of asking every person in my life if they are twice-born,” Samantha complains. 

Esther flops back down onto the blanket, throwing her hands up behind her head as she watches Samantha with a furrowed brow. “Your former-lover-turned-roommate was twice-born. I didn’t think it mattered.” 

“It doesn’t,” Samantha replies quickly. “I simply didn’t expect it.” 

She finds herself cataloging every twice-born individual that she had met in her life, quickly going through the short list. There was Annette, who Samantha had the most intimate interactions with. There was Bill, the barkeep of the Faery who’s wife owned the bar, whom Samantha had spoken the most with. And there was the young Judith Velore, one of the children at St. Bartholomew’s orphanage. And now, Esther. 

“I imagine Annette would be excited to meet you upon her return,” Samantha says after a few moments. “And Judith.” 

A flash of recognition flitters through Esther’s eyes. “Oh, how I adore little Miss Velore!” She releases a long exhale, likely recalling her own interactions with the young girl. Once satisfied, her face grows more serious, though it retains its typical warmth and familiarity, and she adds, “My aunt has told me a great deal about Miss Baker. In a way, it seems that she and I are cousins, though not by blood. Connections such as that truly make the world feel such a small place, don’t you think?” 

“Is that why Sister Pullwater is so supportive of the twice-born?” Samantha wonders aloud. “Because of your rebirth?” 

Esther shakes her head. “She was supportive before either Annette or myself were born. I didn’t know her well then, but she came by to visit my mother when I was six. While there for a few weeks, at some point she made some comment about the twice-born, I can’t remember what it was.” She pauses for a moment to think, then shrugs and continues. “Anyway, I’d never known rebirth was an option before then, but I leapt up and declared, ‘That’s what I am!’”

Samantha can nearly picture it, Esther, then just a small boy, announcing forth her identity with the same trumpeting honesty that was so characteristic of her now. She smiles a little as she imagines the moment, then allows Esther to continue her story. 

“My parents hated that,” Esther recalls, “but Sister Pullwater lectured them for hours and hours about their duty to God and the necessity of rebirth for those who were called to it. It was awesome - which is to say, terrifying for anyone on the receiving end of such a lecture from her. I didn’t see her very much after that trip, but she would write and check in upon me every now and again.” She runs her hands through her sunny brunette hair, readjusting the strands so they flow out from the top of her head against the ground like she was under water. “I didn’t know until recently that a few years later, she took on a twice-born girl a little younger than me as something of a daughter.” 

Samantha doesn’t even realize she’d been caught thinking silently until Esther pokes her and remarks, “You’ve gone quiet.” 

The former noblewoman chuckles to herself, and is a little embarrassed to admit, “I was praising myself for learning something more about you. Favorite color: green. Used to be a troublemaker. Grew up in a small town. Twice-born.” 

“There is hope for you after all,” Esther decides, closing her eyes and resting in the soft warmth of the day. 

Samantha settles back into the comfort of quiet company, allowing her eyes to wander around the open area before them with an understanding that today was a pleasant day. And not just for the fact that it was ideal weather and a lovely temperature, but because a small part of herself understood that she was feeling better than she had in some time. The grand conspiracy to remove her ability to live the life she enjoyed seems to have, for at least the present few weeks, dissipated. 

And then a connection sparks in her brain, a little reflex that had been honed and practiced and cultivated out of necessity and pleasure. There was that impending sense of prospect bubbling forth, having identified a moment that was ripe for the taking. She could stifle it, to be sure, ignore the association she had just made and continue on with the afternoon as before; or, she could embrace it, allow it to carry her forward as it always had done, unfailingly guiding her towards something new and exciting. She knows immediately which impulse would win out. 

She releases a low laugh, breaking the silence without explanation. Esther turns to her, pleased to hear her moment of joy, and asks, “What is it?” 

Samantha pulls her hair out of its braid and runs her hand through it, natural and attractive. “The story of myself and Miss Baker that Father Billings told you…” She speaks slowly and softly, drawing Esther in. “You were impressed that Annette was so well taken care of because you are twice-born-,”

Esther blushes and quickly deflects, “That was simply an-,”

“-And,” Samantha presses on, “you were excited to learn that I knew my way around girls such as you.” 

“Nonsense,” the Sister puffs, quickly averting her gaze. 

“You’re blushing!” Samantha giggles. “Was that a lie, Sister Levy? You’ll have to confess.” 

The nun makes no further effort to hide the flush of pink over her cheeks, instead deflecting, “Perhaps I was simply happy that another woman like me found delight.” 

Samantha’s eyes meet hers and hold her stare until Esther flusters and looks away. “You’ve already declared you have interest in me. Do you fantasize about me?” 

“I was still deciding my motivations.” 

“Answer the second question.”

Esther is smiling, more from nerves than anything else. “I would rather not.” 

Samantha gasps playfully. “You’ve answered all of my other enquiries,” she says, then asks, “Have you spoken about me during confession?”

Esther purses her lips. “No, I have not.” 

“So you’ve hidden your sins?” 

“I am interested only in your friendship,” she insists, though her voice betrays her ever-so-slightly. 

“Is that so?” Samantha asks, shifting herself closer on the blanket towards Esther. “So your heart is not beating faster as I approach?” 

“So what if it does?” She blushes again. 

“And if I lean over you…” Samantha muses, lifting her torso over Esther’s and guiding the girl to lay her back against the blanket. “... gazing down upon you as though I might kiss you, this stirs nothing?” 

Esther can’t hide either her nervous grin or the increase in her breathing. Her eyes dart away, too sheepish to meet Samantha’s slowly encroaching stare. “I can resist the temptation.” 

Samantha places a hand beside her head, allowing her golden hair to curtain down towards the Sister. “Alas, man is not meant to be perfect.” 

“I am no man,” Esther attempts, though her voice is breathy and light. 

“How brave of you, to taunt me nearer…” She waits until Esther cautiously meets her eyes, before allowing hers to drift suggestively lower. Her voice drops to a cool whisper. “And if I were to touch you… it would neither be wet nor hard?” 

“Correct,” Esther almost whimpers. 

“Say only the word and I will not continue pressing myself closer,” Samantha directs, continuing to lower herself down at a teasingly slow pace. “Say the word, dear Sister…” Esther is silent. “Say it…” 

Esther closes her eyes, her breath leaving her in a tightly controlled stream. “I can resist the temptation…” She mutters. 

“It is within your power to do so. Simply ask me to rise and I shall,” the confirms, careful not to let too much of herself touch Esther. The key was withholding, make her desperate to know what she would feel like; close enough that her scent and her warmth would bridge the gap between them. “Unless, of course, you don’t wish wish to resist the temptation…” 

“A-a moment to think.” 

Samantha purses her lips, loving watching the struggle play out over the girl’s face. From this position, with the tension now finally realized, Samantha allows herself to appreciate the quiet beauty of the woman. If she weren’t so often swaddled in the robes of the convent, she’d be an adorably attractive girl. A little plain, perhaps, but with loving eyes and soft cheeks, and brows that entreat a person nearer. Tucked together carefully her lips look so delightful to kiss, sweet and pink, and the expression she wears on her face battles between embarrassment, excitement, and strain. Samantha finds herself also needing to withstand the temptation to simply press down into her. 

“Oh, you wish to be bad, don’t you?” She taunts. “You’ve already sinned by lying about your fantasies… why not kiss me as well?” 

Esther’s hand, which for the whole duration has been wedged up closely to her side, slowly rises to brush the backs of her fingertips along the soft skin of Samantha’s arm. They drift the whole length down as she opens her eyes, finally managing not to scurry away at the moment Samantha’s meet hers. She takes a long breath in, and after exhaling whispers: 

“Samantha, would you please rise from me, my dear?” 

Samantha stiffens, then sighs and says, “Very well,” rolling off over her and sitting upright at Esther’s side. Esther sits up slowly, taking another few long breaths as she steadies herself, her face still holding on to its pink color. 

“Well…” Esther croaks, “That was… educational.” 

Samantha smiles weakly. “I’m envious that the fantasy of me will likely be played with instead of the reality.” 

“Well,” she says again, another deep breath separating her sentence, “She doesn’t boast about the basic duties of friendship, so…” She tosses out a timid chuckle, then grows somber and adds, “I hope I have not hurt your feelings.” 

Samantha stretches her legs out and rests on her hands, then shakes her head. “My ego is damaged, I believe, but I suppose I ought to be used to that by now.” 

“And we will maintain our friendship?” 

“If only to ensure you possess a vibrant set of fantasies.” She sighs again, then adds in a low voice, “Should you ever desire to…” 

Esther places her hand atop Samantha's and squeezes it. “You will be my first thought.” 

“Christ, a part of me admires you,” Samantha admits, thinking about how differently she would react if the tables had been flipped. Then, a little surprised by her own response, “Dear God, you’ve tainted me. When Annette rejected me I was vitriolic. You’ve rejected me and somehow I’ve complimented you for it?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Wretched.” 

She marvels at the moment, realizing that she was more impressed at Esther’s fortitude than she would have thought. But the nun interrupts her reflection, shocking her by muttering, “Fuck…” 

Samantha furrows her brow, impressed in a different way. “I have never heard you curse-,”

And then Esther’s lips are hastily placed on hers. It’s only for a rushed and frightened second, but the kiss catches Samantha’s breath in her mouth, leaving her halfway between moments. She slips so easily into the effortless delight of feeling another’s warmth upon her, only to find her delight stifled by Esther’s quick retreat from her. 

The nun pulls away, throwing her hands up to her mouth and muttering, with eyes widened, “I shouldn’t have done that.” 

Samantha is already moving nearer to her once more. “Yes, you should have.” 

“No. No, I really shouldn’t have,” she asserts, a flutter of panic flashing out from her face and down her body. She launches up to her feet, anxiously fixing the parts of her robes that have tucked in on themselves. “I’m… forgive me,” she pleads. 

Samantha rises in tandem with her and is already striding towards her, positioning her in such a way that Esther’s retreat causes her back to press up into the large oak tree behind them. Samantha enters into her space, her pride successfully stroked, and leans in towards her. “So it’s my forgiveness you want now? I don’t give it out easily.” 

“Saman-,” she stops herself. “Miss Deveroux-,”

“You’ve already sinned, dear,” another slow entreaty forward. “It wasn’t something I did. You chose to kiss me just now. Why not make it worth it?” 

“It was a mistake,” the nun defends, her voice shaking with something that was either fear or excitement. Likely both. 

“Then beg for my forgiveness…” She brings her head in, laying her palms against the bark on either side of Esther’s head, and whispers into the woman’s ear, “...or beg for my touch…” 

“I’m sorry to have confused you so,” Esther closes her eyes, her face contorting with embarrassed shame. “It was a moment of weakness I’ll not soon repeat.” 

“You wanted to do it,” Samantha reminds her, keeping herself positioned to block Esther’s escape, though the Sister makes no attempt to leave. “It seems you didn’t come to save me at all… you only came to have me for yourself,” she remarks, slow and sultry, “... what a tease you are.” 

“Samantha,” Esther pleads. 

She repositions herself in such a way that her face is directly before Esther’s, just a few inches separating them, close enough that their breaths could mingle and their eyes would hold together. “I will step back, all you need to do is ask. But,” she emphasizes the word, leaving a carefully placed pause between thoughts to capture all of her attention, “it was the absence of my body over yours that compelled you to kiss me moments ago. Is it not more dangerous for you if I step away?” 

Samantha drops her gaze to Esther’s lips, and playfully bites her own, ensuring the Sister was captivated by her movements. “If I stay right here, you can pretend that it is only me who wants this; that I’m prepared to take it against your will. But if I leave, you’ll be forced to admit to yourself that you want me just as badly…” 

“I do,” Esther admits, hardly above a whisper. “But I shouldn’t.” 

Samantha drops her pitch lower and tilts her head to the side just slightly, giving Esther the visual of what it would look like if she were to be about to kiss her. “You should have the things you want…” 

And Esther surprises her again, though not in any way Samantha finds titillating. The nun shuts her eyelids down, drawing her face into a cool shield from the woman before her. Her tone descends deeper into the desperate begging that it possessed moments ago, yet it feels weighed down by a greater pull of gravity. 

“I’m burning, Samantha, and I cannot do it again,” she tells her, rigid from the task of forcing her body into motionlessness. “I can’t be that version of myself ever again, not if I want to keep my peace.” 

And then her eyes open, hazel pools like a glittering pond in the sun flashing up at her, meeting her own with a terrifying seriousness. “If… if all you have for me is lust, then do what you will.” She swallows, preparing herself for the possibility. “But if you love me, care for my friendship and her peace…” she leans in, her lips waiting less than an inch from Samantha’s so that her voice reaches the woman by breath rather than sound, “... don’t let me do this.” 

Samantha’s neck retreats, watching Esther’s face with an unsettled embarrassment at her vulnerability. She’d miscalculated, misunderstood the depth of feeling and commitment which exists within the woman’s peace. She realizes that she had not taken Esther’s stories of her past troublemaking seriously, not believed in how necessary the sacrifices of cloistered life were to her. What had been a fun game to Samantha appears, in Esther’s tone and the fervor in her gaze, to be life or death for the Sister. 

She nods, and slowly steps back from Esther, trying to hide the feeling of shame which settles within her stomach like weights added to a scale. It wasn’t Esther’s guilt for having relations with women which governed the nun… it was the fear of how deeply she would fall, how totally she lost herself in the pursuit of lust. It wasn’t about a prickling of her conscience or a fear of retribution from God, she feared losing herself in the passions of another. And Samantha had toyed with it, solely for the hope of restoring her own pride and power. 

Unable to stomach the feeling, Samantha instead jokes, “If you try to kiss me now I’ll hit you.” 

Esther tosses a weakened smile to her, which then melts away to a wash of relief over her whole body. “... thank you, Samantha. Thank you.” 

She looks away, struggling to face the results of her actions, gazing off into the hills so that Esther’s eyes could not see her spiraling fear. “You’re not allowed to turn tail and never see me again.” And, softly, “I would prefer not to lose you.” 

Esther nods and scratches the back of her head, dropping down to scoop up her veil and return it to her hair. “I think I ought to give myself space to cool down for today.” A brief tension fills the air, ameliorated by her quick addendum, “But I would be delighted to accompany you for lunch tomorrow.” 

“I’ll cook, then,” Samantha agrees, fretting about what the nun must be thinking of her. “You’re sweet to do it but you’re a horrid chef.” 

“Tomorrow, then.” 

 

– – – 

 

Mirrors were supposed to show you your true self. They take all that you are and present it back to you in a neat little frame, shining and sincere. When Samantha had gazed into them before, every encounter was one which proved to herself the superiority of her status, her character, her beauty. The mirror in her bedroom promised that she was a goddess incarnate. The mirrors in the hallways proclaimed that she was animate and enviable. The mirrors in her silverware, in her scattered reflections across the course of the day, assured her that every corner of the world possessed the possibility of holding her image divine. 

This mirror is shit. It surely must be. 

As she stares into the silver framed standing portal in the room which used to be Annette’s, which she was slowly having to accept as her own, Samantha can hardly recognize the woman before her. Gone was the majesty and splendor. Gone was its color and its shine. The memory of what she was before feels as though it slips away into illusion, a false recollection. 

There is only one artifact of clothing she’d convinced herself not to sell, heartbreaking as it was to part ways with the rest of her things. It was a tight and shining red ball gown, made of the most expensive silk she’d ever seen at the time. It hung close to her figure, emphasizing the curves of her hips before dropping into its spiraling pleated skirt. The shoulder’s color had been neatly matched to her skin tone, so the small bands holding it up appeared almost invisible in the right light, and left her neck and collarbone scandalously bare. The sleeves cinched into billowing cuffs in the center of her forearms, and the ruffled lace of her neckline was some of the most extravagant tailoring she’d ever witnessed. 

And it no longer fits her. 

She’s slimmer than she was before, and while it’s easy enough to wear it, and minor enough of a change that it would be fine on some occasions, it looks nothing like how it used to. Without access to the opulent dining she had grown accustomed to, nor the luxury of a carriage ride whenever traveling, Samantha had lost some of the perfectly adorned curves to her figure which had made her so desirable in the first place. They were still there, but they had been dulled by the constant walking of her present life, the lack of abundance in her food. Ever the meticulous critic of her own form, Samantha can only stare into the mirror and conclude that the reflection must be a defect of the mirror. To accept anything else would require her to believe herself the defect. 

And then, the look in her eyes reminds her of Esther, and she feels worse than before. Trying on the dress once more was supposed to distract herself, supposed to fluff up her vanity enough to abandon the incessant self-criticism that had been haunting her since their picnic yesterday. But the defeats conglomerate, and one misery compounds into another. 

She strips the dress off of her apparently deformed figure and allows it to fall to the ground in a crumple, before the remaining sense of pride within her quickly picks it up and folds it neatly onto its hanger. Samantha tosses on the clothes which had once only been her outfit for disguising herself to steal away to the Faery, but which were now her everyday attire. It was a simple white shirtwaist, with a long blue skirt that wrapped closely to her waist and billowed down into her petticoat. She lays back into her bed, counting the miserable seconds as they pass while she waits for Esther to appear for lunch.

She’d misjudged the Sister, and feels it was a horrid mistake to make. Esther was supposed to just be some innocent, demure, clever girl which Samantha could easily fold into her charms, turning her into a woman whose very presence did nothing but attest to Samantha’s desirability.  She’d be an enjoyable source of affection and a lively boost to her sagging ego, so delightfully easy to toy with. That's what Samantha had wanted to make her: a toy. She rolls over onto her side, surprised by the mutterings of disgust from inside her chest. 

How was she to know that Esther contained such deep pains on the subject? The woman was so constantly chipper and pleasant and avoided anything she found scandalous - she seemed so likely the model of a sheltered Sister itching to do something bad. Samantha had assumed her endless attestation to the peace which cloistered life brought her was nothing more than the same drivel every other self-righteous church-goer proclaimed. How was she to know Esther truly meant it, that her life before had felt consumed by nothing but fire, and that this life was all which made her feel inner stability? 

She groans loudly to the room around her and decides that Esther was running far too late for her comfort. Samantha drags herself downstairs, flicking her eyes to the kitchen for a moment to allow her mind to begin wondering what she might prepare for the two of them for lunch, then marches to the front door to search for the nun. 

Esther is not to be found on her porch, nor anywhere amongst the rows of townhouses which sit on either side of the street. In her place, positioned onto the front step with a delicate amount of care, is a small, tan envelope. Samantha snatches it up, seeing her own name scribbled across it with a fanciful script, and rips it open to read its contents. 

 

To my dear friend, Samantha, 

 

I feel horrid for not keeping my word to you that I would join you for lunch today. I regret the possibility that you have prepared something for me which now sits neglected upon your table. I’m afraid that my fervor has not dissipated since yesterday, and I do not trust myself to be around you at present. I intend to spend the next few days in prayer, attending to the needs of my soul so that I may be refreshed and ready to be a good friend to you. 

 

With enormous consideration, 

Esther

 

“Shit,” Samantha utters aloud. 

She drops down to the porch and sits upon the front steps, her eyes scouring over the letter a few more times. The nauseating prickles of guilt in her chest push forth, and she finds herself muttering her frustrations under her breath. There was nothing to be done about it. Samantha had done something to harm Esther, had pushed her away as she’d done with so many in her life, and once more someone was leaving her for it. 

Samantha throws herself into a frenzy of household chores for the afternoon, hoping the busy work would make her feel better, but it does not. Instead, it gives her endless time to ruminate and criticize herself, and the evening greets her feeling worse than before. The house might be clean, but it was pitifully lonely. She escapes. 

The early evening finds her marching up to the steps of the Fleeting Faery, tugging her coat close to her constrained chest, and nearly startling Bill as he begins the process of opening the bar. He drops his keys to the floor as her footstep slips against the cobblestone road, and then he turns and reads the expression on her face. 

“That bad?” 

Samantha’s voice is frail as she replies. “Might I come inside?” 

“Of course, girlie,” Bill nods, bobbing his head sideways to gesture her inside. He retrieves his keys and throws the door open. “Have a seat, I’ll be there when I can.” 

She takes a few timid steps into the dark room and climbs onto one of the stools at the counter. Bill continues his process of opening the place, turning on the lanterns that hang along the walls, clearing off the tables from the night before, and sweeping the main walkway inside. Once completed, he meanders back behind the counter and pours her a pint, placing it in front of her as he starts to wipe down the wood surface with a rag he keeps tucked into his apron. 

“I… well,” Samantha taps her fingers on the glass, not planning on drinking any. “I would like to apologize, Bill.” 

“That’s a first,” he snorts. “What for?” 

“For everything, I suppose,” she sighs, pushing the drink away and laying her head down into her arms. “For complaining at you until closing. For always causing trouble here. For… whatever else I’ve done to you.” She pauses for a moment, then rolls her eyes up to look at the empty bar around them. “Well, for asking you to open early tonight so I might talk with you.” 

“Pain in the ass that you are,” he smirks, leaning his hip onto the table and crossing his arms over his burly chest, “it’s why me and the Missus do this.” 

“I appreciate it.” 

He nods affirmatively. A few moments of quiet find him returning to other tasks, and by the time he speaks again she hears the clinking of glass bottles as he rearranges the liquor cabinet above him. “I’ve not seen you in a few weeks. I was worried the nun had really done it, gone and converted you.” 

“For a moment, so was I,” she shrugs, then closes her eyes to rest. “Maybe I still am, I don’t know.” 

Esther had made change seem so easy. She must have been remarkably similar to Samantha before entering the clergy, but it feels impossible to believe. The woman she’d grown to know was frustratingly poised and patient, seemed calm and relentless in her dedication. She was good. She was good, and Samantha wasn’t. 

“Bill,” she sits up, folding her hands atop one another, “who do you think I am? Am I a person? Am I just a walking embodiment of vanity?” 

“Jesus, the nun has you doing philosophy,” he chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief. 

“Baffling as it is, these questions are intrinsically motivated now,” she purses her lips. “Who am I? Be honest.” 

“Honest,” he repeats in confirmation, trying to ensure she wasn’t joking. His raised brows say that he isn't sure. 

“I think I need to hear it.” 

He bobs his head and thinks for a breath. “You’re the woman who's broken more girls hearts here than anyone else I know.” A hand lifts to his beard, fingers pulling through the dark curls. “I think you’re chasin’ something, but nobody seems to have it so you drop them once they’re boring. I used to think of you as the entitled rich gal I’d only tolerate because you’d sneak us a hearty donation or two, though, that’s gone now.” 

“But I never seemed happy?” 

“Maybe,” his shoulders lift, then drop. “When you were fresh in the delight of a new girl to play with.”

“Shit,” she mutters, dropping her head back into her palms. 

“Some people are just like that,” Bill continues. “No matter what they have it’s never good enough. If they’ve got money already, they hoard everything that they can hoping it’ll be enough. If they’re poor, they steal anything not nailed down.” He clears his throat thoughtfully and adds, “Sometimes both do it with people, too. It’s just who they are.” 

Samantha doesn’t want to ask the question, sure she already knows the answer, but necessity brings it forth. She peeks out through her fingers and asks, “And that was me?” 

“‘Was?’” Bill looks at her. “You’re stopping?” 

“I’m thinking about it,” she grimaces. 

And then the realization storms into her mind, bursting through the portcullis that protected her inner self from making such connections. It settles in her throat like a dry weight, and as she swallows her mouth is suddenly parched. She throws back some of the pint in front of her and tries to fight the idea, trying to pretend it wasn’t true, but there’s simply no denying it. 

“Fuck,” she simply sighs. 

“Yeah?” 

She takes a long inhale, and hisses out, “I’m my father.” 

“Ain’t we all,” Bill snorts. He lifts his hand up to gesture for her to continue talking. 

“I never knew him,” Samantha recounts, “but my mother always said he was never content. He hated being tied down. He was convinced he was destined for something greater than us, so he left and never came back.” 

Bill preemptively fills a second pint glass and places it down on the table in front of her. “Well, knowing is half the battle.” 

– – – 

 

She’s banging on the front door, loudly. It hardly matters to her that it's raining. It’s barely a light drizzle, and she’d whole-heartedly rejected Bill’s offer to let her borrow an umbrella when she’d left the Faery. Samantha had been consumed with purpose and marched off, singular in her focus. 

She’s in the middle of her second loud volley of thumbs against the wood when the lock clicks open behind it. A second later, it pulls open with a mousy squeak, revealing Father Billings, looking as though he was just about to be preparing for bed. His eyes flick over her quickly, trying to account for what might be wrong, and he asks, “Miss Deveroux, what are you doing out so late?” 

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” she slurs. Her head isn’t quite spinning, but it feels like it should be. “It’s been… since my last confession, since my last confession,” she chokes out, throwing a hand up to the opened door frame to steady herself. “I’d like to confess the sin of being my father, Father.” 

Simon’s lips press together into a fine line, and for a moment he seems to be debating whether or not he’d send her home. His compassion wins out, and he steps aside. “Why don’t you come inside?” 

He guides her to a comfortable reading chair in the library that was his conversation room, a chair which feels warm and recently occupied. She notices Peter Thornbry, Simon’s roommate-who-was-actually-his-secret-lover-but-people-

weren’t-supposed-to-know-that, stepping out from the kitchen in a comfortable tunic and slacks, eyes flicking up to Simon with concern. 

“Peter,” Simon pips up, “Why don’t you bring Miss Deveroux some tea?” He takes a seat in the chair next to her. “We just had a fresh pot,” he tells her, then looks up to the sky and smiles, “Providence.” 

Peter returns a few moments later with a warm teacup of some herbal blend she could surely recognize if she wished to pay more attention. He looks to Simon and wordlessly asks if he should remain, but the priest shakes his head and nods for him to head to bed without him. 

“I figured out who I am,” Samantha slurps loudly, coughing slightly as the hot tea hits her throat. “And who I am is my shitbeat father.” 

Simon lattices his fingers together and sits forward to show he was listening. “Perhaps you could tell me more of-,”

“I’m never going to be happy, am I?” She interrupts, allowing the teacup and saucer to chime out as she places them onto the end table. “I’ll always want more and more and it’ll never end. All I am is a whirlpool - I suck things in but I’m never full.” 

The priest looks as though he is racing to catch up, and he softly replies, “The scriptures say that trusting in the Lord brings unending peac-,”

“Is she here?”

Simon furrows his brows and tilts his head in confusion. “She?” 

“Esther,” Samantha answers, as though it was obvious. “I need to tell her to go away.” 

“You wish for me to bring her here… simply so you can tell her to go away?” 

“Go away from me,” Samantha huffs impatiently. “As in, forever.” Then adds, to cement her point. “Whirlpool.” 

“Well, I am sure she is sleeping at the moment,” Simon responds patiently, and a little part of Samantha wishes he would just yell at her. “But you can speak with her when she wakes, if you’d like.” 

“Fine,” she grumbles. “I’m no good for her.” 

“I didn’t realize the two of you-,”

“My father loved no one,” Samantha continues, wishing he’d just let her speak. “I love no one. I’m incapable.” 

Simon is quiet for a moment, then says, “I see that the penance I assigned you has not borne out.” 

“And it won’t,” she snips back. “So tell Esther to stay away from me.” 

“Samantha,” he says her name softly, trying to steady her. “Have you always felt like you were incapable of love? Is there anyone you have loved before?” 

“I loved my mother.” 

He smiles, proud she’s proving his point. “And do you still love her?” 

“She’s dead,” she pulls her legs up onto the chair, tucking them neatly underneath herself and keeping her body in a tight ball. “She died when I was fifteen.”

“But do you still love her?” 

“Sure,” she sighs and shrugs. “Yes.” 

He claps his hands together gently. “Then you are capable of love. Penance completed.” He looks as though he’s trying to cheer her up, and a small part of her resents it. “Is there anyone else you loved?” 

“I’d have to confess a sin,” she mutters. 

“For our purposes, preemptively forgiven.” 

It takes a little effort to stifle the strange feeling in her stomach as she answers, “Cordelia.” 

Simon nods, absent of judgment. Considering Peter was upstairs, surely waiting for him, it had better been without judgment. “And do you still love her?” 

“She left me,” Samantha complains, a bustling frustration igniting. “She- she said I wasn’t good enough for her! I’m never good enough for anyone. They always leave me.”

“Which is why you believe you’re no good for Esther.” 

“I’m not,” she spits back, resolute. It takes a few breaths to let the heat in her cheeks dissipate, then she mumbles out, “It’s my father’s fault, isn’t it? That’s who broke me?” 

“Perhaps,” Simon shrugs noncommittally. “But, you can be whole again. There is another Father who loves you.” 

Samantha shakes her head and nips the evangelism in the bud. “I promised Esther that if I did convert, she could do it.” 

Simon laughs, warm and full, and rests his back into his chair. “Then I’ll not steal her opportunity.” He watches her, studying the discomfort written across her body. “It seems as though it’s been a long evening. Would you like to sleep here tonight and continue this conversation tomorrow?” 

“I want to pray,” she replies, surprising everyone in the room. It was only the two of them. 

“Oh?” 

“I have some choice words for my father,” she explains, “but if I cannot say them to him, I’ll say them to your guy.” 

“He can take it,” Simon chuckles. “Come, you can pray in the sanctuary, should you desire. The acoustics are perfect for shouting.” 

– — – 

The sanctuary was a quiet place to be. However, once Samantha spends more than a few minutes in the silence, she realizes it is actually quite noisy. The bell tower atop the church creaks in the wind, and while it only ever chimed to signal noon, the bells almost seem to hum in the still air. A little drip of water splashes onto the stone in some hidden corner, a gentle and rhythmic occurrence, almost like a metronome on its slowest possible setting. 

Her eyes creep open, drowsy and heavy, gazing upon the world before her sideways. She couldn’t remember falling asleep, nor could she really remember much of her time shouting into the stone-and-wood hall the prior night. She can recall bits and pieces of her conversation with Simon, and most of her time with Bill, though the walk between the two locations slips past her memory. She takes a long inhale and stretches her legs out from their curled position, enjoying the warm and comfortable place her neck rests upon. 

She only just realizes that her head is not resting on her arms, as she believed, but is instead carefully placed into the lap of another person, when a voice sweetly whispers to her, “Good morning, Miss Deveroux. I was told you wished to never see me again?” 

Samantha closes her eyes and rests her head more deeply into Esther’s robes. “I… I was inebriated,” she explains. 

“That is a relief,” the Sister says. “I was hoping to stop by for dinner this evening to speak with you.” 

The patters of guilt in Samantha’s chest push forward, and she’s only a little surprised to hear herself mumble, “Please don’t leave me.” She pushes her face down and inhales the gentle scent of the cotton. “Please.” 

“Don’t fret,” Esther coos, her fingers now gently pulling through Samantha’s hair. “I was going to tell you that I felt refreshed and recentered, ready to be alongside you once more.” 

“Thank God.” 

“Speaking of which,” her hand begins another journey through Samantha’s hair, playfully ruffling it as she goes, “you implied to Father Billings that you wished to convert?” 

Samantha smiles and sits up, turning her face away so Esther could not see her embarrassment. “Don’t get your hopes up,” she says from the corner of her mouth. She immediately misses the warmth of Esther’s touch. 

“Alas, they are sky high, my dear,” the nun smirks. She flourishes the trail of her habit, “Soon we’ll be giving you your own set of robes.” 

“You would have to suffer the embarrassment of no longer being the most beautiful Sister,” Samantha warns, the feeling of shame slowly withdrawing from her stomach. 

“And what a punishment, to see you overtake me so,” Esther lifts her legs up onto the pews, curling up against the backboard. “I’m sure I'd never recover.” 

Samantha meets Esther’s eyes, which gaze upon her like she was the greatest companion a person could have. The Sister is very nearly glowing, comfortable in her presence like nothing had occurred between them, and that they were closer than ever. There’s a timid part of her that welcomes the compliment from her, thrives upon the banter, and she carefully tries to push it away. She would not allow herself the false expectation of spoiling Esther’s commitment to her peace. She would not risk cutting open their friendship for sport or for affirmation. 

“I’d never wear the veil,” Samantha declares, looking at the white semi-hood which hides Esther’s hair. She wears her white robes today, which are slimmer and tie around her waist with a simple rope cord. Samantha likes the white ones better on her. “It’s too gaudy and I love my hair too much.” 

“True to form,” Esther nods, “not even a nun and you’re already asking for special treatment. Mother Superior would throw a fit.” She smiles at her and rises to her feet, extending a hand to Samantha to help her up, which she takes and then quickly drops. “Come, we’re in the middle of breakfast for the young ones. You’ll love it.” 

The main floor of the orphanage, housed in a building which nestles up against the west side of St. Bartholomew’s, served a wide variety of purposes. A row of bunk beds line the far wall, with neatly folded blankets and sheets, with large chests at the base of each of them. A row of low-hanging bookshelves sag alongside the wall which touches the church, sporting a rugged array of tomes which the nuns use for educating the children. There were a variety of stacked papers and sticks of charcoal for the children to practice writing, but the tables which they typically sat upon have been moved to a single-file line through the center of the room to serve as a makeshift breakfast table. 

The number of children fluctuates constantly. There were a handful who lived there permanently, and whose corresponding beds had scraps of artwork or personal effects to signify their status. Others would stay only temporarily, a few days or weeks, sometimes months, usually because their families did not have enough food to support them or who needed to travel for work and could not bring them. Sometimes children would be adopted, though, according to Esther, that was often a rare occurrence. At present, there are twelve children seated amongst the Sisters at the table. 

Samantha had met most of the Sisters at some time or another, but only a few of the children. She was most familiar with Judith, who sits at the end of the table with Sister Pullwater, and when all eyes in the room briefly turn to watch Esther and Samantha arrive, she quickly decides to join Esther in sitting beside Judith. 

“Apologies for my tardiness, Sisters, children,” Esther says to the room, bowing her head respectfully. “But, please welcome my friend, Miss Deveroux, who I am sure is quite nervous to be here.” 

Samantha waves timidly, and is relieved when Sister Pullwater speaks up, breaking the briefly awkward silence of her arrival. “Welcome, Miss Deveroux,” her wizened voice greets, and with its approval the table returns to its pleasant chatter as before. “Alastair,” the Mother Superior looks at a small redheaded boy across from her, “would you please inform Sister Mabel that we’ll require another bowl?” 

The boy nods and springs up from his seat, dashing off to the kitchen which sits behind a door in the back corner. Sister Pullwater supplies only one mildly disapproving glance at Esther and Samantha arriving together, but decides to say nothing of it. 

One of the Sisters, a middle-aged and studious-looking woman named Patrice, meets Samantha’s eyes and smiles. “Welcome, Miss Deveroux.” 

“Thank you,” she bows her head back. Unsure of what might be expected of her at the table, especially in her interactions with the Sisters, Samantha turns to Judith at her left and says, “Good morning, Miss Velore.” 

“Good morning, Miss Deveroux,” the twice-born girl chirps happily, her posture shaping up to match Samantha’s cool poise. “How are you?” 

“Better, I suppose.” 

“Father Billings said you slept on the pews last night,” Judith glimmers. “How holy!” 

Samantha raises a hand to her stiff neck, massaging it without much thought. “And uncomfortable.” 

“And your braid still looks lovely!” The girl exclaims, her own haphazard short-braid dancing as she speaks. “Could you teach me how to braid like that?” 

“Of course, I’d be delighted to,” Samantha says, fondly raising her hand to inspect Judith’s hair and flick it playfully. “Your hair is very nearly long enough.” 

Alastair returns with a bowl of porridge in hand and places it before Samantha, scurrying back to his seat on the table. It must have been his duty this morning to serve everyone, and the seriousness in his expression tells that he felt his duty was an important one. She gently pokes at the mush with her spoon without much interest or appetite. 

“Could you teach me as well?” A shy girl with deep brown hair asks, sitting to Esther’s right and across from Samantha. “None of the Sisters know how to braid like that.” 

Sister Patrice leans forward, propping her elbows up onto the table. Her eyes peer jokingly down onto Wendy, and she complains, “I’m a decent braider.” 

“Sure you are,” the girl huffs back. 

Patrice releases a satisfying puff of laughter. “I am!” 

“I’m sure the Sisters get less practice when their own hair is tucked into a veil each and every day,” Samantha says from the corner of her mouth. Wendy and Judith look delighted. 

Sister Chauncy, one of the oldest in the convent, shimmies forward and gazes down from the center of the table. “Mine is braided,” she contests, then snorts and adds, “Not very well, mind you.” 

Samantha finds herself with a pleasant grin upon her face, and she turns to Wendy and says, “I could teach you as well, if you’d like.” 

“Yes, please,” Wendy pips between bites. 

After a few moments of eating, with a scattered array of conversations across the table, Sister Patrice glances back between Esther and Samantha. “So, Miss Deveroux, it is lovely to meet the friend that Sister Levy is so proud of.” 

Samantha raises a brow and shares a look with Esther. “Proud of?” 

“My first friend in Bellchester,” she explains. 

“And here I was, worried you were instead proud of having a friend of notorious history,” she quips. 

Wendy interjects again, very narrowly avoiding speaking with her mouth full, “Are you not hungry, Miss Deveroux?” 

“I… erm…” Samantha turns her spoon through the unappealing mush once more. 

“She is used to the refined palette of a Lady,” Esther saves her, leaning over the table to take a scoop of Samantha’ food and eat it. “Or, of preparing the food to her specific and unimpeachable opinion. She’s oft relieved me of the duty of cooking midway, spuriously criticizing my poor technique.” 

“To speak in my own defense,” Samantha pushes the rest of her bowl to Esther, disinterested in it, “you are a lousy cook.” 

“Why don’t you cook here, Miss Deveroux?” Judith asks, her voice painfully genuine. “If you don’t like the porridge, maybe you could make it better?” 

And hearing the polite interest in Judith’s tone, the voice of a child asking for the attention of an adult they seemed to admire, and looking at Esther’s amused grin as she awaits Samantha’s reply, it’s hard to find a reason not to. She nods and smiles back at the girl, happily answering, “I think I just might.”