Usually, the bell settled her.
That morning, every note seemed to ask a question.
Sister Esperanza sat at the long kitchen table with Miguel on her lap and Tomás beside her.
Sunlight poured through the high windows, warming the stone walls and turning the steam above a pot of milk into pale ribbons. Sister Lucía stood near the stove, slicing bread while keeping an affectionate eye on the children.
Tomás had decided that his wooden spoon was a horse.
He galloped it across the table, making soft clicking sounds with his tongue.
“No riding near the milk,” Lucía warned.
Tomás stopped immediately.
“Horse thirsty.”
“Then the horse must wait until after breakfast.”
Esperanza smiled and kissed the top of his head.
“He is learning patience.”
“He is learning how to negotiate,” Lucía replied.
Miguel stirred against Esperanza’s shoulder. He was a quiet baby, round-cheeked and content whenever he was held. His fingers curled around a fold in her habit.
Sister Lucía placed two slices of bread on a plate and sat across from Esperanza.
“You look pale.”
“I did not sleep well.”
“Because of the baby?”
Esperanza glanced down at her stomach.
There was no visible change yet, but she had already begun touching it unconsciously, as if protecting something hidden.
“I suppose so.”
Lucía lowered her voice.
“Are you frightened?”
Esperanza hesitated.
“No.”
It was the same answer she had given each time before, but this morning it did not sound convincing, even to her.
Lucía studied her face.
“You are allowed to be frightened.”
“I know.”
“Mother Caridad will find answers.”
Esperanza’s smile weakened.
“She has been trying for years.”
“That does not mean she has failed.”
Esperanza looked toward the kitchen door.
Through it, she could see part of the cloister garden. A narrow path curved between rosemary bushes and white roses. Beyond the garden stood the old infirmary wing, closed most days except when Doctor Paloma visited.
A strange uneasiness passed through her.
She remembered waking there once.
Or believed she remembered it.
There had been a lamp above her. A cold cloth on her forehead. Someone saying, “You are safe.”
But when had that happened?
During her first pregnancy?
Her second?
Before either of them?
The memory dissolved whenever she tried to hold it.
“Esperanza?” Lucía asked.
She blinked.
“Yes?”
“You went somewhere far away.”
“I was only thinking.”
