Chapter Seven

It is a warm day, and something about that fact feels right to Samantha. A cool breeze allows the scattered array of tiny leaves and pockets of pollen to dance and twirl in the air. A few of those seed pods she loved, the ones which whirl and spin as they find their way to the ground, make her feel nostalgic in a way she couldn’t, and wouldn’t explain. Though, it was entirely possible that the grips of mild melancholy and fond memories which nestled against her were not the seeds’ doing. 

It had been difficult to stare up at the small, square, upright stone. She’d sat in the grass for what must have been a quarter hour before she could truly take it in. She had visited before, of course, but it had been years. She stopped letting herself count the anniversaries some time ago, though was never quite sure when. She hadn’t brought flowers, or left a note since before even then. 

Samantha pushes the air out of her nose, feeling, on the one hand, dejected for neglecting this duty, and on the other, peaceful to honor it again today. She tugs at the strands of grass peeking up through the small rows of gravel around her, wondering and wondering why it feels so different this year. She knows why, of course, but it feels right to be sure. 

 

Here lies Susanna Holm, 

Mother, Servant, Friend. 

Taken too early by illness. 

God be with her. 

 

It wasn’t the fanciest gravestone, but it was a miracle. When the fever had swept her mother out from the world which she so loved, the world which she still had business in, it was an unfathomable kindness that Katherine Jones did not kick Samantha out upon the street. She and Susanna had been great friends, just as her daughter, Cordelia, and Samantha were. Katherine, the mistress of one Lord Hastings, petitioned him to purchase a plot to bury her longtime servant and friend, and to Samantha’s surprise and relief, he was willing. 

“Oh, what would you think of me?” She says aloud. It feels strange, and if the graveyard had not been tucked away into a quiet part of Bellchester where she could be alone and unheard, Samantha would never bring herself to speak at a stone. She sighs and shakes her head, wondering if the Sister’s were really right that her mother was still out there somewhere, existing in Heaven or whatever it might be. Her voice tickles as it leaves her throat, soft and shameful in its wish to be heard.

“I’m not a collar, I didn’t stay in the life of a servant,” she says like it was an accomplishment. In sight of her mother’s name, it feels hollow. “I used to think you’d be so proud I was a Lady. I escaped the hardships we faced.” Samantha pauses, shaking her head only slightly as she thinks. “Now? Now, I’m not so sure. Maybe you’d be glad I left that world.” 

Left… Even at a grave she still struggles to admit the depth of her failure. Her mother would understand, she tells herself. Though, Samantha never was much good at hiding things from her, her honest eyes always pulling the truth out of her one way or another. How wretched it would be to allow her mother to discover the person nobility turned her into, how painful it would be to admit she never found love, or joy, or happiness, or any of the things Susanna would have respected. She never quite felt wrong for having cheated on her husband, Revier was never much a person who cared for her beyond appearances either, but there’s pangs of remorse for all the women she picked up and discarded. 

“Sometimes…” She attempts to continue, pausing for a moment until the inertia of speaking resumes. “Sometimes, when I was with Revier, just lying there and resenting him… not even sex, just listening to him snore… I’d wonder if that feeling in me was what you felt with my father. Maybe you were also secretly glad to be rid of him.” 

She tucks her legs under herself, sitting with them crossed and her back bending forward a little. “Were you also like me?” Samantha asks, narrowly avoiding the words catching in her throat. She doesn’t need to cry, at least as far as she can tell, but the whispers of tears threaten an appearance. “When things first began with Cordelia and I…” She furrows her brow, tilting her head to the side as she thinks. “I wondered if you and Katherine felt the same about one another, wondered if that was just what friends did. Looking back, it feels impossible to know. 

“Did I inherit this from you?” Samantha drops her hands down frightfully into her lap, laying them down with her words like an accusation. “Is it passed along like some sort of disease? Was your mother also always struggling to find her place in this wretched world of men?” She can feel her throat constrict, her mouth drying out as she croaks, “Did she also only feel alive with a woman’s touch?” 

The tears do push forth now, gentle and steady, tickling her cheekbones and causing her to wipe them away hastily, as though in leaving them there the gravestone would scorn her sorrow. She swallows, trying to keep up appearances, though she wasn’t sure for who. “You would have liked Esther, I can tell. The two of you have the same optimism, the same belief in the goodness of people,” she says fondly. “I don’t know if you would have approved of… of this… but the child in me thinks you would.” She gives it a moment of thought, then nods resolutely. “I like that idea. I think you would. You believed in love enough that you wouldn’t care who it was, so long as I loved her. 

“I do,” she croaks, mildly embarrassed to feel it summon forth such depth of emotion from her. She gives up the battle of wiping away tears. “I feel almost ridiculous saying it but I love her so much it aches. To see her across a room and not kiss her, not hold her so tightly we can’t breathe… it feels like the greatest sin I could possibly commit.

“Speaking of which,” she mutters, chuckling to herself in disbelief. “Maybe you wouldn’t have approved of my ascension to nobility, but would you have blessed my entrance into cloistered life?” 

Samantha laughs a little more, letting herself fall onto her back and lay on the ground. She stares at the sky, bemused and baffled that this was the decision tearing through her defenses, setting her heart beating like there was monument to even the consideration of the idea. To be with Esther, to love her and hold her and kiss her, that made sense to Samantha. It was natural to her mind. The offer Sister Pullwater made her was alien. 

A few moments later she finds herself sitting up again, reading the chiseled stone over and over again. “You were always so happy,” she muses. “I never understood how. Even with all the money and status and influence I could acquire I felt empty.” She shakes her head again, shrugging only to drop her shoulders back down. “But, being with Esther, being around the children… Jesus, it’s almost embarrassing to admit it all makes me happy.

“I feel maternal,” she grumbles. “Christ, I thought I killed that wretched instinct ages ago. Maternal,” she chews on the word, spitting it out like it was an insult to be wielded. “Esther is exciting and sincere and beautiful. I understand why she makes me happy. The kids?” 

Samantha thinks of the orphanage this morning, excited to see her bring breakfast out to each one of them. She’d sung a little jingle as she did it, and not even one that her mother had repeated so often it lodged itself forever in her mind; she’d made one up on the spot. And then she joined them to eat, laughing and talking and asking Wendy if she ever thought she’d travel and telling Judith the secrets of how to act poised and… 

“It feels an embarrassingly trivial answer, ‘Just have kids, that will give your life purpose,’” she mocks, baffled by all the women around her who insisted on having children if only to occupy their empty, vapid days. None of the noblewomen even raised their kids, they outsourced that work to their collars. “I cried with relief when I learned I was barren. Best news I ever received.” She looks away, once more spitting out, “Maternal.” 

She sighs. “It’s just the way it makes me feel like you,” she tells the stone, hoping the sentiment made sense. “Your husband was a piece of shit who left you; you were happy. You sold yourself into servitude just to feed the daughter I never knew if you planned on having; you sang to me constantly anyway. You were poor as can be, far from your birth home, estranged from your family… your life meant nothing in the grand scheme of society. Revier’s friends… and my friends, we all would have mocked you endlessly.”

Her legs grow stiff from being tucked underneath her and she stretches them out, muttering, “And you were content. All of that against you, all the reasons I’m supposed to think less of you for…. But the more I act like how I remember you did, the better I feel.” 

She sits forward and drops her head into her hands, massaging her palms across her temples. “Christ, do I actually want this? I’d hate the robes, I’d hate the rules, I’d probably even hate most of the rituals… but…” She allows her sentence, and her brief confidence in the idea, to fade away. “No. No, it’s foolish,” she decides. 

Taking a final comforting look at the gravestone, Samantha rises to her feet, resolving to see what the rest of her day had in store for her. She gazes up at the sky, looking past the clouds and the patches of blue, and declares, “If that doesn’t count as a prayer I don’t know what does.” 

 

– – – 

 

Samantha takes the long walk home, arriving back at 167th Mill Street just in time for the noon bells to toll out across the city. It’s grown into a proper spring day, warm and light and fragrant, and there is an optimism in the air that she finds infectious, if only to indulge for nothing more than a simple moment. She’s even more delighted to find Esther, in her white robes, and Judith, in a lovely blue skirt, sitting upon the stoop of her front porch. 

“If there were ever two guests I was more excited to see, I never knew it,” Samantha chimes, placing a warm smile upon her face as she steps through the small wrought iron gate in front of the home.

Judith rises with great purpose to her motions, placing herself into a carefully constructed curtsy. “Miss Deveroux,” she squeaks. 

“Excellent form, Miss Velore,” Samantha returns the gesture, beaming as she looks over at the nun beside her. “And good afternoon to you, Sister Levy.” 

“Miss Deveroux,” Esther responds quietly. She remains seated with her knees pulled up close and her arms resting across them. There’s a tiredness and failure written along her face, and she looks as though she has either cried recently, or was holding back tears. “Judith and I were trying to talk through some difficult feelings she was having, and she decided you would be the best person to speak with,” she explains. “Are you able to spare some time?” 

Samantha wraps an arm around Judith’s shoulder. “For the two of you? Anything.” She tilts her face towards the young girl. “What is the matter, my dear?” 

Judith wears a look of uncertainty, and her eyes flick back towards Esther as though asking for help. The Sister smiles weakly, with a sadness tucked behind her gaze. “She was hoping to speak with you alone.” 

Nodding, Samantha allows herself to gaze back out at the nearby world. Passively worried about Esther’s somber disposition, she replies, “Well, I suppose it is still a lovely day for a promenade. Why don’t you take my arm, Miss Velore?” 

Judith grins and accepts it, wrapping her reaching hand up through the crook of Samantha’s elbow and tugging along it enthusiastically. The former noblewoman glances back at Esther, who mouths a “Thank you,” just as Samantha blows a kiss back to her. 

She takes Judith out onto the street, strolling along the crisp cobblestones and enjoying the ways the good weather brought people out onto the town. It was like ants emerging with the sudden good weather, and she’d always enjoyed how lively it would become with the season. She guides them towards one of the nicer neighborhoods nearby, where a small park was tucked away between the larger homes, and waits for Judith to speak, which takes some time. 

“Whenever you are ready,” Samantha assures her, “I am eager to listen.” 

And Judith nods, but keeps her silence for a few minutes. Her tiny lips open and close a few times, breath sucking in with an attempt to speak, but it isn’t until they’re in the park proper that the girl finally states, “Sister Minnerva is leaving because of me.” 

“Is that so?” Samantha feigns surprise. 

Judith looks down. “She doesn’t like the twice-born.” 

“Well,” she squeezes the girl’s arm, “She’ll just have to accept that’s what you are.”

“But I’m making her leave,” Judith insists, as though guilty of a crime. 

“Esther is twice-born, too.” 

“She didn’t like that, either,” she confirms, building her case. 

Recognizing Judith’s worry, Samantha decides to interrupt the line of thinking, replying instead, “Might I let you in on a secret?” Judith nods. “I never liked Sister Minnerva. I think she’s a mean, cranky woman.” 

Judith battles the mischievous and pleased smile flashing onto her face. She hushes her voice low, delightedly warning, “You’re not supposed to say things like that.” 

“It’s simply the truth,” Samantha shrugs. “I didn’t think you liked her, either. Why are you so concerned she’s leaving?” 

“Because it’s my fault.” 

“It isn’t your fault that she hates-,” Samantha begins, then stops herself. “Ah,” she hums. “You know the rest of us adore you, don’t you?” 

Judith halts their walk, kicking her small button shoe into the gravel path. “But she hates me.” 

Samantha inhales a long breath, watching the ways the young girl’s face scrunches up into a frown. She’s so young to wear fraught wrinkles across her forehead, to be feeling such concern for the distaste of adults around her. Summoning forth an idea, she steers Judith out of the park, directing their path down a row of the wealthier houses in this area. It feels a little unnerving to return to this street, once her social grounds, but she marches forth until they reach a large and yellow gated home. 

“See that house?” Samantha points at it from across the street. She watches Judith take it in, observing the primroses, the fanciful decorations, the way it insisted upon its place. “My former friend Lady Gallway lives there. I used to attend her summer brunches on the weekly. They were admittedly miserably awkward, but her taste in decor was unmatched and everyone was jealous of her husband’s fortune.” She squeezes Judith’s arm. “Do you know what she told me when I was leaving the gentry?” 

“What?” 

Samantha sighs. “That I was not nearly as pretty as everyone professed me to be. Friends for years, and that was all she could say to me.” She shakes her head, guiding them a half block down and pointing at a large copper colored estate. “And there, the Fendleton home. Each year, all the members of their family put on a concert, and they played some of the worst live music I’ve ever heard. The Lord of the house, David, well, he fancies himself the best composer in the country. Nevermind the fact he’s tone deaf and none of them can read music notation.” 

“That’s silly,” Judith giggles.

“Indeed,” Samantha continues, directing her towards a final home with white marble columns. “And there. The Lord and Lady of that home, Marian and Juliet Heathrow, they never once addressed me by my proper name. Instead, they’d call me the ‘peasant’s gold,’ or ‘Lady Dirt-reax.’” She snorts, closing her eyes and recalling how wretched it all was. “It wasn’t very clever, but it irked me to no end. I only learned later that Lord Heathrow had gambled away all their money and his insecurity was leading him to vitriol.” 

She exhales, once again taking in the world which she had cared so deeply for, the one which cast her aside as nothing more than a ruined woman and delicious scandal. When she speaks again, she’s surprised by how deeply it weighs in her own chest as well. “Never accept injury from someone who will never see past their own failings,” she tells Judith. 

They resume their stroll, and Judith seems tucked away into her own thoughts. It’s unclear what consumes her ruminations, but after some time she simply summarizes, “So… you’re not upset that Sister Minnerva is leaving.” 

“Good riddance,” Samantha confirms. “You deserve to be around those who recognize how wondrous you are.” 

“Like you,” Judith pips happily.

“Like me,” she responds, moved by how confidently it was asserted. “And like Sister Levy.” 

Judith releases a sigh of relief, content in the knowledge that someone indeed cared for her. It’s touching to witness her comfort in the idea, and for a moment Samantha can hardly feel anything but adoring concern for the young girl, willing to do anything to protect her heart and steward her joy. 

“Do you ever think I would be adopted?” 

Samantha beams. “With your charm and poise? Undoubtedly.” 

“Miss Baker never was,” Judith rebuts. 

“Well, she’s a rowdy sort, prone to seeking out trouble” Samantha says fondly, wondering how Annette and Cordelia were getting along in Kereland. Knee-deep in trouble, assuredly. “And if you aren’t,” she says carefully, “you’ll still have Esther and I, and Sister Pullwater, and the rest of the Sisters.”

“You won’t leave?” 

Samantha pauses, realizing that she truly wished to stay. “Not if I can help it, no.” 

Content, Judith’s feet patter along happily. “I wish you’d be one of the Sisters,” she remarks like it was nothing, “It’d be so much fun.” 

Pursing her lips, Samantha grins. “Well, I’ll be sure to give it some thought.” 

 

– – – 

 

Esther remains on her porch, her veil hiding her hair while her hands hide her face, buried between her palms. She rouses at Samantha’s approach, looking up as her eyes semi-frantically dart around. “Where’s Judith?” 

“Back in time for Sister Mabel’s afternoon lesson,” Samantha says calmly, lowering herself down onto the step beside the nun. She watches out onto the street, separated from them by a dozen feet and a small gate. 

“Oh, good,” Esther nods, dropping her face back into her hands. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Esther swallows dryly, and Samantha notices her fingers trembling. The nun sighs, “I should have been there for her, but I wasn’t.” 

“You walked her over here-,”

“Because it didn’t know what to do!” She raises her hands into the air, clenching her shoulders. She shakes her head, looking around like things were in tatters in every direction. “Sister Minnerva made the announcement this morning, and while she didn’t say it’s because she doesn’t support rebirth, she implied it. And Judith took it personally.” Esther drops her hands down between her thighs, clamping them between the folds of her habit in an effort to steady herself. Samantha lifts her own palm to Esther’s knee, only for the nun to harshly shoo her away. “Not here, sorry.” 

“It’s quite alright.” 

“It isn’t-!” Esther interrupts herself with a loud exhale. “I understand what she's going through better than anyone else can. If-if…” She pauses. “She was upset and I froze and I didn’t know what to say. Judith had more sense than me and asked to speak with you, so I brought her here and then you were away… and then I just spent the entire time thinking about you and was distracted and couldn’t figure out what to say or…” She groans, plopping her face back into her hands. 

“It’s entirely okay, Esther,” Samantha coos. “She’s much happier after we talked, and she’ll be right-as-rain. There is no need to be so hard on yourself.” 

“I’m still burning,” Esther replies gravely. As she lifts her head to gaze at Samantha, there is a fright blossoming in her eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop thinking about us…” She looks away, hanging her head. 

“I…” Samantha isn’t sure what to say. “Do you think this needs to end?” 

“Please don’t ask me that.” 

Defaulting to concern for the Sister against her own desire for her, Samantha replies, “I want to protect your peace-,”

“I wasn’t at peace,” Esther cuts back, speaking it into being like it was a deep sin. “I was burying this feeling. And every feeling.” She holds back for a breath, only to add, “I… I was locking it all away, pretending like I didn’t need this like I needed air in my lungs. I only felt what I was supposed to feel and shut everything else away. And then you…” She shakes her head then drops her eyes to the ground. “God, I only want to exist at your side and nothing else, Samantha. Lately, I only eat because it recovers my strength to see you again. I only sleep because it hastens the time until we next meet. Without you, it feels like I cease to exist.” 

Samantha’s chest tightens. “A tremendous amount of pressure for me to be worth it.” 

Esther gazes up at her, her face contorting into a frown. “I know. Sorry.” She attempts a longer breath, though her nerves seem to cut it short. “What do I do?” 

“I’m the last person who should be trusted with giving you advice.” 

“I still want it.” 

Samantha pulls her face away from the worried pools in Esther’s eyes, instead staring down into the pavement and attempting to collect her thoughts. “Well… if you’re struggling with thinking of me too often, let’s…” She perks up, an idea suddenly sprouting. “Oh, you’ll love this. Esther Levy, I forbid you from thinking of me.” 

“Pardon?” 

“You’ve heard me.” 

Esther scowls. “I’ve heard you. I don’t understand you.” 

“You’re not to think of me, amorously or otherwise,” Samantha explains, a whiff of mischief budding inside her stomach. “When I see you for our usual time together, afternoon until dinner, then we will indulge your distractions. I will ask you when you arrive on my doorstep whether you’ve allowed yourself to drift away into fantasy of me. If you have, then you’ll find me nothing more than a conversation partner.” 

“That’s tremendously unfair,” the Sister pouts. “I think about you constantly. I’d never make it an hour.” 

“Perhaps an incentive, then?” Samantha considers a few ideas, then proposes, “If you behave for a week, I’ll convince Sister Pullwater to allow you to leave for a prayer retreat with me for a few days.” She smirks. “I don’t imagine there will be much prayer involved.” 

“It’s…” Esther shakes her head. “There’s no way this would work.”

“Not with that attitude.” 

“Samantha,” she complains. 

“Very well, I’m kidding,” Samantha concedes. “Though taking you out into the countryside for a few days would be nice.” 

“I’d like that,” Esther exhales. 

They’re quiet for a few moments, and Samantha wishes she could simply take Esther’s hand and squeeze it, then place a kiss on her forehead and whisper into her ear that it would be alright. The poor woman seems terrified, and it takes all of her self-control not to give her anything imaginable to help her. 

“Who knows?” Samantha says at last. “Perhaps you simply need to get it out of your system. You’ve been repressing for so long, your poor girl must be going crazy.” 

“And what do I do in the meantime,” she grumbles. “I can’t simply stroll about like I’m in heat!” She immediately hushes her voice, embarrassed to have made such a declaration so loud on a porch. She’s quiet, watching passerby carefully to ensure they didn’t think too much of the omission. “I’m a nun,” she whispers, “this is embarrassing.” 

“It will be alright, Sister Levy,” Samantha assures her. “Just take a few deep breaths and know that we’ll be alone together shortly enough. You need only make it through a few hours until you can see me again.” 

“A few hours…” Esther nods, closing her eyes and taking a breath. “I… I can wait a few hours.” 

 

– – – 

 

Esther had returned to St. Bartholomew’s to find that the few hours' wait would slip away from her beyond her control. First, Alistair succumbed to the sickness, spending most of that afternoon hunched over a bucket and trying not to vomit any more than he had. Then Wendy, then Sister Mabel, then the rest of the orphanage soon came down with the same illness. The Sister’s and children who were well at first took to caring for the ailing members, only to find themselves grow ill shortly thereafter. 

The whole ordeal lasts through the end of the week and well into the next, and the orphanage quickly closes its doors and resolves to quarantine until it is all over. Samantha spends the time passing meals through windows to the Sisters and trying to share brief moments with Esther as she does, but they hardly see one another for more than a few minutes each day. She offers as much encouragement as she can, but the overall feeling in the building is one of exhaustion. Samantha writes a few letters for Esther, and even a couple to Judith and Wendy, though she talks herself into understating the nature of her relationship with Esther for fear of someone else reading it. 

So, on this Sunday afternoon, Samantha finds herself calling upon Father Billings and his partner Peter in their home, seeking further advice and perspective. 

“I think you ought to consider it,” Simon tells her. 

“He’s supposed to say that,” Peter rolls his eyes, a warm and teasing grin on his face. They share a glance and laugh, each settled into their reading chairs in the living room of their home which seemed more and more of a library each time Samantha visited.  

“I mean it,” Simon complains. 

“I’m sure you do,” Peter places his teacup down onto its saucer and looks up to Samantha with a twinkle in his eyes. “It’s expected nonetheless.” 

“But convent life ought to be for the holy and devout,” Samantha argues, feeling a small pit of shame in the center of her gut. “I’m quite sure I count as neither.” 

“Jesus says-,” Simon begins, only to be interrupted by Peter.

“Oh, oh, allow me to guess,” the poet giggles. He squares his shoulders and adopts Simon’s more priestly posture, donning a voice in imitation of him. “Jesus says to come and seek him. He invites indiscriminate of past life. Even the most wretched amongst society could be welcome, nay, even considered greatest in his kingdom!” Peter drops the act, smirking at Simon. “Was I correct?” 

“The spirit of it, yes,” the priest shakes his head proudly. 

“I know you far too well,” Peter confirms. 

“And if I should never answer the call?” Samantha contests, not quite sharing their optimism and enthusiasm. “If I should never seek him?” 

“You could miss out on a beauteous purpose for your life,” Simon asserts. 

Peter recovers his tea and takes a sip, speaking with the tone and opinion of a scholar. “I think you would make a wonderful Sister, Samantha, if my option lends the idea any credibility.” 

Samantha turns her teacup around in her hand, hardly having touched it at all. She sighs. “There is the other complication…” 

Simon shuffles in his seat, slowly rising, “I believe I ought to-,”

“-recuse yourself, yes,” Peter completes. “I can carry out the rest of the conversation on my lonesome.” 

“Thank you,” Simon kisses the top of the poet’s head. “I ought to check upon our dear Sisters, see if there is any comfort I can provide through a window.” He nods to Samantha and steps out of the room, leaving just Peter and Samantha. 

Peter inclines his head and gestures to her with his saucer. “Please.” 

“We’ve already broken her vows,” Samantha confesses. “It would put us under significantly more scrutiny if we were also breaking vows I took as well.” 

“Alas,” Peter shrugs. “Laws are made for man and not man for laws.” 

Samantha frowns, a little annoyed at his cavalier dismissal. “I could cause her to be removed from this life.” 

“An important risk to consider,” Peter acknowledges, thinking behind a long sip of his tea. He takes a long breath, gazing out at the door Simon had departed from and considering his next words carefully. “Simon likes to defend his own lifestyle by saying he has not taken an oath of celibacy in his priesthood. It’s a convenient misdirection,” Peter shakes his head. “He’s allowed to marry and break celibacy in that context, and no other.” 

Samantha sits forward, placing her saucer down on the coffee table before her and considering him for a moment. “So how do you stomach the risk?”

“By measuring it against our happiness. Thus far, I’ve found it worthwhile.” He pauses, pursing his lips as he gathers his ideas into words. When he speaks again, his voice is full of a thoughtful consideration, weighed with a seriousness in his tone. “To live our lives in such a way, loving the same sex, requires asking a great deal of ourselves and our partners. Am I worth the risk? Are they? What shall we do if discovered? What happiness might I experience until then?” 

He takes another sip, holding it in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. “I am of the opinion that it is not worth exploring halfways. My decision to be beside Simon now is a rejection of allowing time to pass me by with my heart left wanting. If Esther is worth such a risk, then you ought not to let barriers stand between you.” He holds the saucer in one hand, adjusting his glasses. “Be smart about it. Keep your wits at hand. Don’t make foolish mistakes. But do not be deterred.” 

“Thank you, Peter,” she nods, taking in the advice. She sighs, allowing his words to settle the nervousness inside of her. Samantha allows her mind to think again of Esther trapped in the quarantined orphanage, and says, “It has been agony not to see her this week. I wish I could just whisk her away to the countryside and figure things out, away from the pressure.” 

Peter’s eyes light up. “Well, as luck may have it, I believe I can be of some assistance.”