Sweet Salvation

by Lily Miles

  Sweet Salvation

  Lily Miles

  Copyright © 2019 by Lily Miles

  Published by Written Warrior Press, New York writtenwarriorpress@gmail.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1-951346-07-2 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 978-1-951346-12-6 (ebook)

  Cover design: Najla Qamber

  Connect with us at: lilymilesromance.com

  Facebook: Facebook.com/LilyMilesRomanceAuthor

  Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/lilymilesromance/

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/LilyRomance

  Contents

  1. Margaret

  2. Trevor

  Chapter 3

  4. Margaret

  5. Trevor

  Chapter 6

  7. Margaret

  8. Trevor

  Chapter 9

  10. Margaret

  11. Trevor

  Chapter 12

  13. Margaret

  14. Trevor

  Chapter 15

  16. Margaret

  17. Trevor

  Chapter 18

  19. Margaret

  20. Trevor

  Chapter 21

  22. Margaret

  23. Trevor

  Chapter 24

  25. Margaret

  26. Trevor

  Chapter 27

  28. Margaret

  29. Trevor

  Chapter 30

  31. Margaret

  32. Trevor

  Chapter 33

  34. Margaret

  35. Trevor

  Chapter 36

  37. Margaret

  38. Trevor

  Chapter 39

  40. Margaret

  41. Trevor

  Chapter 42

  43. Margaret

  Also by Lily Miles

  About the Author

  1

  Margaret

  Through dank, dark halls and over cobbled floors, we walk together in a long line. The heels of our black shoes tap in synchronous time, our hands folded gracefully at the center of our chests, our chins tipped down, piously.

  As we march down the hall, rays of sunlight spill through the stained glass windows that cut through the stone walls; the battered base of the ancient convent seems to glow red and blue and green. Through my cracked eyelashes I watch the rainbow of light swirl and spot the feet of Mother Superior Antonia Humilitas ahead of us.

  I swallow hard, my nerves fluttering.

  The reverend mother doesn’t call us to her personal office chamber for pleasant talks. Then again, no conversation with the mother superior is ever pleasant. With a shake of my head, I chastise myself for being critical of the reverend mother. It wouldn’t do for a nun to think ill of her superior—I’d have to pray on this later. Being a sister of the Benedictine order, I should hold myself to higher standards than criticizing my mother superior.

  Heaps of black fabric flutter as we fall to our knees on the floor of the mother superior’s office; the room smells vaguely of sage and dust. We keep our hands primly folded, our eyes now carefully squeezed shut. I can feel the mother superior examining us closely to make sure our holy Catholic garb is perfectly in place. I'm glad now that my best friend Sister Catherine and I looked each other over before we were called down for the meeting, otherwise Mother Antonia would’ve punished me for the wisps of black hair curling across my forehead, now safely concealed—it wouldn’t do for a wife of God to be immodest and show her hair. I’d had to push Catherine’s own strawberry blonde locks into her black veil because she hadn't cared enough to do so herself. Unlike me, she enjoys pressing the reverend mother’s buttons, like a child testing a parent’s limits.

  Not every nun is perfectly saintly, it would seem, but I do my best. After all, at our core, we are all flawed. We can only hope to become beautiful and immaculate by the light of the Holy Spirit. And though Sister Catherine may be more flawed than the rest of us, she is kind and my only true confidante in the halls of this Gothic castle of a convent. I may be surrounded by sisters here, but Cat is one who truly feels like family.

  Even our breathing is in perfect time, as the reverend mother’s black shoes click against the cold stone digging into our knees.

  Mother Antonia’s office is a small one, with stark gray stone walls and a lone crucifix hung on the wall. Jesus writhes across the wooden cross, crimson blood beading on his palms and feet, his half-open eyes seemingly able to follow you, no matter which corner of the office you’re in.

  The Convent of the Blessed Virgin has been my home for almost a year and a half now, but I'm still barely able to keep track of myself among the spiraling stone chambers and corridors. I much prefer the outside walkways, where I can feel the sun warming the ebony cotton of my habit. When possible, I escape out there to study my Bible.

  Though the huge convent is home to over a hundred nuns, the ones gathered around me now are the youngest, freshest bunch. Because we’re so new to the holy order, we don’t often get to mingle with the older sisters. According to our reverend mother, it is because we still have so much to repent for and so much to learn.

  “Sister Margaret,” Mother Antonia suddenly barks, her voice as cold as the stone walls surrounding us. “Are you listening?”

  The hair on the back of my neck stands up and my back straightens stiff as a board. I open my eyes to find the rest of the sisters, still hunched beside me, looking on silently. Most are just grateful not to be the ones called out, no matter where their minds might have been wandering. Sister Grace’s lips are pursed and Sister Eva looks rather content that I'm getting scolded, but Cat looks concerned, her glass blue eyes flashing. The only one who isn’t paying attention is Sister Monica, whose eyes are playful slits and narrowed right on Sister Eva. As usual, she probably has something up her sleeve. Quite literally, if I know the mischievous young woman enough.

  Meanwhile, plump Sister Isabelle clasps her hands and pretends to be deep in her prayers, while at her side biological twin sisters Lucy and Genevieve hastily follow her lead. Sister Lucy and Sister Genevieve are perfectly identical, from their almond-shaped, hazel eyes and dark blonde hair, down to the cinnamon mole on their right cheekbone.

  “Oh, you know Maggie, Mother,” Catherine offers with a convincing sincerity to her tone, “I'm sure she was just deep in her afternoon prayers.”

  “Maggie?” gasps the reverend mother, dramatically, one hand clutching at the silver cross on her aged breast as though Cat had stripped off her habit to show off her nude body. “Sister Catherine, you’ve forgotten your place. To call this holy child by such an unceremonious name, you are dismissing the vow that Sister Margaret made to the convent.”

  “I apologize, Mother,” Catherine blurts out hastily, realizing she’d made quite the opposite impression she’d intended to make.

  Unfortunately, the reverend mother’s expression has gone stormy, threatening clouds of gray fury floating over her countenance.

  Sometimes I like to imagine what stocky Mother Superior Antonia, now in her early fifties, must have been like as a young woman of my own tender age. I’ve caught occasional glimpses of tendrils of faded, gray hair under her veil, but I imagine she had dark hair like I do. And her gray eyes—now hooded with age—seem like they could have once been attractive. But even though her mouth is a harsh, cold line now, surely there was a time she once knew mirth and laughter? Well, perhaps not.

  Occasionally, I worry that I may turn into someone like her. Is this what being in the convent does to a woman? Having the joy sucked right out of your bones until everything has crumbled away from your spirit, everything except devotion?

  “Your Reverence,” another voice says from the corner of the office, her tone much more gentle and kind. Sister Ruth Ellen emerges from beside the crucifix
, her hands clasped in front of her to mirror our own stiff stances. “I think that our young sisters are just a little worn out from the fast you ordered last week. It’s been over six days since they’ve had anything but water and occasional sips of vegetable broth.”

  As assistant mother superior, Sister Ruth is only the mother superior’s inferior by a hair, but it’s not a hair that Mother Antonia would let any of us—including Ruth—forget. Though she has been at this convent longer than anyone else, unfortunately for all of us, compassionate Sister Ruth had never felt the calling to climb the nun hierarchy as high as Mother Antonia Humilitas had.

  Mother Antonia trains her cold, gray eyes on us once more. We all flinch except for Sister Eva, who beams any time the reverend mother even coughs in her direction.

  “Clearly a week-long fast was not enough to show you all how important it is to remain pious and devoted to your vows,” the mother superior snarls in a low voice, her wrinkled jowls quivering.

  At my side, Grace shrinks slightly as though trying to hide behind me. A small girl with an even smaller personality, pretty Sister Grace Sabina rarely speaks. Instead, she chooses to adhere to a staunch vow of silence only periodically broken. Never without her Bible, she is often found kneeling on the stone floor in front of the church’s altar, sometimes until her knees bruise. Grace is the epitome of piety, and even she fears the mother superior's often cruel retribution. Though she tries to hide behind her Bible, her saintly cloak can barely conceal the ample swell of her breast or the supple curve of her hips—neither her devotion nor her habit can hide her beauty.

  At the mention of the fast that had left all of us with growling stomachs and dizzy heads, a few of the other nuns glance towards rascally Sister Monica, who is slowly nudging some kind of small pouch under Sister Eva’s habit with her toe.

  The redheaded young woman had not only dared to sneak into Mother Antonia’s office. She’d stolen a box of fine chocolates from a gift basket the mother superior had received from the principal of the nearby town’s elementary school, where some of us occasionally volunteered. Though Mother Antonia hadn't set foot in that school for years, it was she who’d claimed the entire basket of treats for herself. Until now, no one had confessed to being the culprit, and even our snitch of a sister, Eva, hadn't managed to sniff it out. When the fast was swiftly implemented to punish us and smoke out the wrongdoer, Sister Monica covertly returned the half-eaten box in the hopes of getting our punitive starvation sentence reduced. But Mother Antonia had extended it instead, just to rub our noses in the punishment. Just because she could.

  For the past six and a half days we’d had nothing but water, our communion and the occasional bowl of broth, and my stomach ached and my body felt feeble. Sister Catherine had snuck me fragments of a chocolate bar from God only knows where, which I’d hungrily devoured after offering Sister Grace some, who’d declined with a simple shake of her head and a disapproving grimace. Judging by the rosy glow of Sister Eva’s face, I have a sneaking suspicion she’d managed to pilfer food from the kitchen.

  Mother Antonia strides nonchalantly back to her desk. “Your Reverence …” Sister Ruth whispers grimly, sensing something bad is going to happen before the rest of us do. Mother Antonia frowns at Sister Ruth, who immediately goes silent and lowers her gaze. Again the hair on the back of my neck begins to rise.

  This isn’t good. We’d all known this meeting the mother superior called wasn’t going to be a cheerful one, but now I get the feeling that it’s going to be worse than expected. I join the rest of the nuns in secretively scowling at Monica, though she doesn’t appear to notice. She’s still busy forcing some kind of small paper bag under the hem of Eva’s habit; a sniff tells me whatever is in that tiny bag is disgusting.

  Reverend Mother picks up a large, wooden cross that is always perched on the corner of her desk and holds it in her hands, turning it over a few times and inspecting it as though she expected to find the thief’s name printed on it in black ink. When no such proof emerges, her eyes lift to scan all of our faces.

  “Corinthians 6:10,” she states firmly, eyes widening with irritation.

  My heart beats faster, drowning out the whirl of my thoughts. What was the verse? I know this game, and the consequences of losing are severe.

  “Nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God,” recites Sister Eva smugly, before any of us get a chance to suck in a sharp breath.

  Mother Antonia doesn’t even glance at the young brunette, her eyes continuing to wander over the rest of us, looking for shreds of guilt. She’ll find none on Sister Monica, who might be to blame but has the ability to arrange her delicate features into an expression of perfectly pious innocence, one that would make even righteous Sister Grace look crude.

  Mother Antonia taps the cross again on her palm, holding it firmly in her other closed fist. I shut my eyes, dropping my chin as though I'm in prayer, which I am.

  Please let her leave me alone. Please let me be invisible.

  But I can feel the heat of her stare concentrating directly upon me. A red flush blooms over my cheeks, a blush that I know she’ll take for guilt. Even if she doesn’t actually think I’d committed the crime, she would punish me all the same as a message to the true perpetrator.

  “Ephesians 4:28,” the Reverend Mother continues, her tone growing more and more harsh.

  I know this one, I realize, and I scramble to put together the words, but it’s Sister Grace’s light voice that pierces the silence.

  “Anyone who has been stealing must steal no longer, but must work, doing something useful with their own hands,” says Grace.

  “I believe that’s enough,” Sister Ruth interrupts. My eyes fly open, relief surging through me. Hopefully, the game is over without a victim. “I think our sisters understand what they did was wrong. Whoever is guilty won’t do this again, I'm sure.”

  Sister Ruth looks directly at Sister Monica as she says this, who simply smiles pleasantly in response.

  “Oh, I do agree,” Mother Superior answers with a smile of her own. Though, then again, calling the twisted scowl on her face right now a smile would be generous. “Those who cause trouble must do something useful with their hands, just as Sister Grace detailed. It’s the Lord’s will, and who are we but sheep to His wishes? Sister Margaret, will you join me?”

  It’s not a question, but a demand—Mother Antonia’s tone makes that clear enough.

  I climb as slowly as possible to my feet, as though hoping that my lazy tempo will make the reverend mother grow disinterested in me, but she waits with uncharacteristic patience until I come stand at her side.

  “Hold out your hands,” she commands, shrilly.

  My fingers curl into fists, unwilling to extend. In front of me, the bowed maidens dressed in black are watching with looks of equal grim severity. Even Sister Eva frowns, and Monica shows just the faintest hint of regret for getting me in trouble for her actions.

  “Now, Sister Margaret,” Mother Antonia barks.

  This time, I do as I'm told. I stare down at my white palms splayed out in front of me, watching the light from the single candle flickering on Reverend Mother’s desk. There are no windows breaking through the stone dungeon of this room, and Mother Antonia has opted for candlelight over electrical light, making this all the more creepy. Outside, a strong wind blows and the Gothic convent groans.

  I close my eyes again as the mother superior begins to talk, trying to convince myself that I'm outside under the sun, the warm wind whipping at my ankles, and this isn’t happening right now.

  “You girls have had too much free time on your hands; that much has become apparent to me lately,” Mother Antonia informs us, coldly. This, despite the fact that we travel frequently to town to sell our hand-stitched quilts at the farmer’s market to raise donations for the poor—that is, when we’re not helping out at the local soup kitchen or school, or our own convent clinic. “Each of you will
have to come up with a personal mission for the next few weeks that will connect you not only with our Heavenly Father above, but with our treasured convent as well.”

  Fabric swishes as a hand is raised. I don’t open my eyes to look, but I recognize the smug tone of the woman speaking. “What sort of mission should we seek, Mother?” Eva asks.

  “The kind that keeps your devil hands free of idle time,” she answers sternly, inviting no further questions. As usual, the details of the mother’s requests are intentionally vague, so that at least a few of us will fail to please her.

  From beyond my closed eyelids, there’s a faint whistle and then a shock of pain jolts through me. My eyes snap open, bulging, as a thick red line appears on my extended palms. The pain has come so quickly and so intensely that it literally took my breath away. The rest of the sisters look on with various shades of shock on their own faces.

  Mother Antonia grips the hard wooden cross tighter, lifting it up again over my now throbbing hands.

  “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, my sisters,” Mother Antonia hisses as she lashes my palms once again, “and you must keep in mind that wickedness loves company and leads others into sin.”

  I fight tears as blood trickles over my stinging flesh. But only after the cross cracks across my palms two more times does the reverend mother place it back on the corner of her desk. The dark oak of the wood is now tinted the faintest sheen of red. I hold my breath, biting back a whimper that would only satisfy the brutal woman—I refuse to give her that.