Sweet Salvation

by Lily Miles

  Henry nods, abruptly closing the distance between the mother superior and his own body. The movement happens so fast that it catches Mother Antonia off guard and her eyes widen just slightly.

  She does not back down or cower. Instead she puffs up her chest slightly and tips her head up towards his, eyes locking firmly on his own. His eyes pass over her habit in a way that makes her clutch at her robes, grateful for the covering because she can feel her neck and chest growing flushed. Henry has never been subtle.

  His eyes linger either on the rosary dangling between the hills of her breasts or on her breasts themselves, and she’s suddenly conscious of the way her body moves when she’s breathing.

  “Why did you come all the way out here to tell me this?” she questions coldly.

  The reverend mother doesn’t fold her arms, choosing instead to lift her chin higher as her eyes narrow to threatening slits. She’s used to being obeyed in her convent, and Henry’s intrusive assault has left her feeling unsettled, not that she would ever admit such a thing.

  If the head gardener wasn’t careful, he would be her target once she was rid of irritating Sister Ruth—Ruth who always tried to meddle in her disciplinary choices regarding the young nuns. Mother Antonia felt they need a strict, harsh hand of iron, while Ruth was prone to gentleness and mercy. The reverend mother did not approve of that. As for Henry, he never got in her way, exactly, but he still managed to be distracting at times. Mother Antonia does not approve of distractions, either.

  The mother superior believes that she has been put at this convent by the Lord to carry out His will. As it is said in the Book of Psalms, “Whoever heeds discipline shows the way to life, but whoever ignores correction leads others astray.”

  Mother Antonia is going to be sure that none of her pretty, young charges are ever led astray.

  Henry chuckles, the sound grating to her ears. The hair on Mother Antonia’s neck prickles, her fingers curl into fists.

  “Do you really have to ask me that?” he whispers, his breath warm on her cheek as he leans towards her to whisper in her ear.

  His fingers barely brush the black fabric of her habit at her hip, when all of a sudden a crack rings out, disrupting the rhythmic peace of the rainy night.

  Even as his cheek blooms an ugly crimson in the shape of a palm, Henry doesn’t flinch. Mother Antonia’s hand remains lifted up after she’d slapped him, her eyes still locked angrily on his. Her chest heaves, her lips pressed so hard together, they vanish into a thin line on her quivering face.

  Henry just laughs again, his eyes smoldering.

  “Thank you, Mother,” he smirks, before being shoved towards the doorway.

  22

  Margaret

  Cool droplets of rain snake down my forehead, streaming down my cheeks. I tip my head back and welcome it, allowing the dwindling storm to wash over my skin and make it new again.

  I feel reborn, charged with electricity and a drive to do something I may very well regret later, yet that doesn’t matter to me. I search my mind for verses on repentance and though there are many, at this moment I can remember the words to none—probably because I feel no need to repent. The convent rises behind me through the foggy dark, swallowed by shadows.

  As I make my way over the grassy hills, my feet sink into the drenched earth, trampling wildflowers and the soft green blades of grass. The ground sucks at my shoes until I fling them off, toes welcoming the ice-cold water that immediately soaks my socks.

  The rain still falls but I don’t care. It drenches me through and weighs down my black cloak and veil until they feel like they must be fifty pounds. The fabric drags through the grass, collecting dirt and mud until it becomes almost impossible to walk. With a faint grunt of annoyance I rip my entire habit off of me, yanking it over my head and hurling it onto the grass. My curly, dark hair cascades down my back as a sudden chill sweeps over me. It feels bracing and welcome.

  With all of this rain, the cotton of my white slip and white panties is going to be nearly translucent, but right now I could care less. I also don’t care that this is the second habit I’ve gone through today because of this storm. At least the laundry is collected tomorrow and I’ll be able to borrow one of Cat’s habits, if need be.

  As I walk away from my discarded clothes, my hands smooth over me, feeling for the first time the dips and curves of the body that I have only just begun to explore.

  Tremors still ripple through me, making my breath come short and the cold rain seem to sizzle when it hits my hot, naked arms, lifting up like steam towards the night sky. My arms wrap around my body, clutching me hard the way I imagined Trevor doing. I can still feel the stone floor of the church on my back as my body writhed and shook with ecstasy there.

  I’d never known a sensation like that could exist. Even now, as I move I feel like I'm dreaming, like my head is underwater and I’m lost in a foreign sea of bliss that goes against everything I once believed.

  It’s not that I no longer have my faith, it’s just that I see everything differently now and I am at a loss where to go from here. I can’t confide in anyone about this, not even Cat. This moment is so personal, it’s all mine to savor forever, no matter what choice I end up making.

  I'm glad the moon isn’t out tonight, or the silver rays would glow on my flesh and someone could see me from inside the convent. Between the rain and the clouds, I feel invisible right now, like not even God can see me. I find myself grinning again, romping through the rain and grass like a forest nymph in a fairy tale.

  Maybe that’s why I’ve been suddenly struck by this strange bravery that I can barely comprehend. I'm not a brave girl, at least I don’t think so. Cat is brave in her brazenness. Grace is brave in her piety. Even Monica is brave in her pranks. But me? Courage does not normally flow through my veins. Not until tonight, that is. And it may only last until the sun rises and the clouds clear and with them, my holy conscience.

  But for now, I’m on my way to the staff apartment building and Trevor—I absolutely must see him before I have a chance to doubt myself again.

  “Maggie,” a voice calls, my head twisting towards the sound in surprise.

  As though summoned by my desire for his presence, Trevor parts the rainy veil before me. His jaw goes slack as his gaze takes in my nearly naked figure, my white slip wet and clinging to every curve of my body. I watch him swallow at the sight of me, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

  No one has looked at me with such carnal hunger before. It makes my skin feel hot, trembling, and clammy, like electricity is pelting me along with the rain. Trevor’s arms open wide, beckoning me to the embrace I’ve been craving. Like a moth to a flame he captivates me, and I’m unable to resist the thrall of his arms as they spread to welcome me.

  I rush forward, throwing my arms around his neck. I crash roughly against his chest, sending him staggering back a step, but he holds me with ease so that the tips of my toes just barely brush the ground. My breasts crush against him as my heart heaves against my chest. I can feel his heart racing against his ribs as well.

  When I close my eyes, I could mistake this for heaven.

  Trevor’s fingers knot in my long hair, his breath coming in hot and shallow pants as we hold one another. My clothes must be drenching through his own, but he doesn’t loosen his grip in the slightest. My skin still feels electric, like jolts of energy are leaping from pore to pore, only made stronger by his passionate embrace.

  “I knew it was you,” Trevor murmurs, but he barely gets a chance to speak before I press my mouth hungrily on his.

  He draws in a shocked breath and goes utterly, completely still as I savor the taste of his lips on mine. The clouds swirl slowly overhead, the rain falling now in a soft gray curtain, and I am more alive than I have ever been before.

  I’ve never kissed a man, but Trevor makes my soul feel like it’s on fire.

  Though his work on the convent grounds has made his hands rough and calloused, his lips are plump and soft as s
atin, more delicious than any fruit I’d ever tasted. A hunger grows inside of me, not for food but for more of this handsome man. Ravenous for him, I cling to his strong body, cupping his cheeks and deepening the kiss until he gives a faint growl that is more animal than human.

  The sweet tip of his tongue just brushes between my parting lips, the tantalizing taste abruptly bringing reality crashing back down on me. I wrench my mouth away from his, chest still heaving. My knees shake, every inch of my body begging me to explore more of him.

  Had that kiss lasted a second longer, I would give everything I have to him, but the truth remains that I’ve already promised myself to my faith. If there’s anything I keep, it’s promises.

  Trevor stares at me, smiling and clutching me against him, the heat of his body penetrating the thin fabric of my sopping dress. Even though I'm warm, I can’t stop shivering.

  “You’re shaking,” he breathes, his voice husky. “Are you cold?”

  I am, but that isn’t why I'm trembling. It’s because when I'm in his arms, it makes me question every oath and vow I’ve taken. It fills me with doubt that the future I have planned for myself isn’t the one I'm destined to follow. Yet I still don’t know what the right choice is, or the right path. Even praying about it feels sacrilegious, like I'm questioning God himself.

  When I don’t answer, Trevor’s arms abruptly tighten around me and his eyes get serious. “We … we need to talk.”

  “We do,” I answer, interrupting him with a quavering voice. If I don’t say this now, I’ll never be able to—I’m riding the high of my forbidden ecstasy and I'm already running out of time. “I was cruel to you earlier, but the sentiment that I shared with you then remains the same. You and I cannot be together. I belong to my church, to my faith, and it’s not you that needs to be saved, it’s me. I’ve let myself be led astray. That isn’t your fault, it’s mine.”

  “Maggie, no—” he cries sharply, but I silence him again with a single, chaste kiss that I do not let linger no matter how badly I want to savor him a while longer.

  “I'm sorry,” I whisper. I’ve made this vow and it’s one that has to be obeyed.” I pull away from him even though he tries to hang onto me. His fingers gently dig into my arms, but he reluctantly lets me go.

  I shake my head and turn, racing towards the convent building. No longer do I feel like a dancing nymph, but a wretched creature. Which love and passion am I to follow? The one I’ve known my entire life, or the one that makes me feel alive?

  As I run back to the convent, I can feel the blistering heat of his stare from behind. I grab my soaked habit from the ground and make my way to the church doors I’d escaped from. To my horror, the doors are now locked.

  I can’t go back around to the other doors by Mother Antonia’s office. I’d gotten lucky the first time I’d passed through them, and there was no way I would get that lucky again. If I attempted to creep by once more, she’d find me out in a heartbeat.

  Panicking, I round the corner of the convent only to collide with a soft body.

  Claw-like fingers dig into my arms as Sister Eva’s cold, dark eyes fix on my own. I try to twist and yank away from her, but she refuses to release me. She drags me against her, her embrace as hellish as the gardener’s was heavenly .

  “I saw you,” she gloats, eyes shimmering with joy. “I saw you and that man, Sister Margaret!”

  23

  Trevor

  Against a hazy backdrop, Maggie stands in front of me. Her supple body is wrapped in a thin, almost invisible, layer of cotton. Her body is perfect, her pink nipples straining against the fabric, her curved hips just made for clutching, and her long, milky legs that seem to go on forever.

  It’s like experiencing a fantastic vision of heaven. One, beautiful moment she’s in my arms, then the next she’s out of my grasp, leaving only her sweet taste on my tongue. She turns around, body shimmering like a mirage, and leaves me behind.

  No matter how much I shout or plead, she doesn’t even look back. I try to run after her, but my legs seem suddenly fused to the ground beneath me, and I can’t put one foot in front of the other.

  Wrestling free of my invisible bonds, I finally charge forward, only to have the ground suddenly fall out from under me. A shocked cry gurgles up in my throat as I crash down into what must be the dark pits of hell, only to come to a sharp, rough halt.

  My eyes spring open, cheerful, golden light spilling peacefully in through my window.

  A dream.

  For a second I lay there on my bed, panting and rubbing my eyes. I pull myself up slowly to my feet, wondering if last night was just a dream as well.

  Had Maggie really said she didn't want me? That she was choosing life in this cursed prison over freedom with me? How could she kiss me like she had and then reject me? Damn, there had been such conviction in her eyes! I hadn't even gotten the chance to tell her I was leaving, but that doesn’t seem to matter now. She’s made her choice clear, and that choice is with the Church.

  I can’t deny it, I’m disappointed and depressed. But even though I want to wallow the day away, I still have a job to do, so I numbly pack my bag to head out to the grounds. If I took too long getting ready, Henry would come over and hassle me, and that would only make my already grim mood even worse.

  I want Maggie. I want to hold her again in my arms and feel her soft lips against my own. She’d given me just a taste of what it would be like to have her, and that taste has left me yearning for more.

  As I cross my room to pull on a shirt and jeans, I notice my notebook, the one with the picture of her beautiful face in it. Last night, unable to sleep, I’d added details to my drawing of her. I’d delicately traced the curve of her shoulders and the way the night’s shadows lit her collarbones, the dimple of her bellybutton visible under her soaked slip. Under my pencil, Maggie had come to life, her animated eyes leaping from the page, alive.

  I pick up the notebook and toss it into my bag. Today there isn’t a cloud in the sky, as though the torrential rains of yesterday had never happened, and I want to finish my drawing.

  Perhaps I’ll find a way to leave it with Maggie, so she can remember me after I'm gone from this place. Then again, she may not want it. She may want to forget I ever existed and that our passionate kiss had ever happened. I, however, will never be able to wipe her from my mind. She’ll linger there always, a beautiful mirage, cruelly out of reach.

  There’s something about her that has left a permanent mark on my soul. I really care about her, more than just lustfully or because the way she says my name makes my flesh tingle. I care about her heart, her soul, her happiness. I don’t know what love feels like, but if this isn’t it, I doubt I’ll ever be lucky enough to know. And I’m pretty sure this is it.

  Even my footsteps sound glum as I tiredly shuffle down into the kitchen to find Cliff still in his boxers. His body is slick with a faint sheen of sweat as he messes around inside the old oven in the equally old kitchen. The windows are open and illuminate his chiseled body. He turns around at the sound of me, a frown on his face.

  “The oven broke,” he remarks irritably. “Can you go to the kitchen and get us all some food? I said I was going to make pancakes for everyone because I'm off for the morning— clearly, that’s not happening.”

  Dr. Cliff, among many things, was an amazing cook. At least when he wasn’t trying to turn tasty, traditional recipes into healthier versions of themselves. So I had no doubt his “pancakes” would be part protein powder, bananas, and Greek yogurt. The kitchen’s food was way better, in my opinion.

  I start to tell him that I have things I have to do, but one look from the ill-tempered man holding a wrench changes my mind. Cliff is usually more chipper, but maybe he was really craving those pancakes.

  Besides, going into the kitchen at the side of the nunnery will give me the off chance of running into Maggie. I shake my head, silently lamenting that I'm acting like a lovestruck schoolboy, and then amble across the grass towar
ds the convent. The walk doesn’t take long and the sun warms my shoulders, comforting me. The earth is still soaking wet from the storms of yesterday and all the plants that survived it are standing tall on swollen stems, drying off. Thanks to the gales, we’re going to have quite a bit of work to do around the grounds today. Some bushes are now lopsided and need to be re-pruned, a few young tree seedlings have fallen over, and the flowerbeds are in general disarray.

  When I walk through the doors of the kitchen, the place is buzzing like a beehive. Though the inside of the convent is quiet and calm where the sisters pray and convene, in here it’s loud and lively as pots and pans crash together and a staff of cooks rushes back and forth. A big, blond man a little older than I in a white chef’s coat bellows out commands. A lurid tapestry of tattoos peaks out from under the sleeves pushed up around his muscled forearms. His eyes glow bright blue above a strong nose—he looks like a Viking lord.

  His gruff eyes lock on me the second I step inside.

  “What the hell do you want?” the chef barks, swiping his palms across the white coat straining against his toned body. “I’ve already begun making breakfast and I don’t have enough for you and the women.”

  The scent of frying eggs and toast is thick in the air, as is coffee.

  I’d only spoken to Erik, the head chef of the convent, a handful of times, but it had always been a rather … colorful conversation. He’s broad and tall, built like an ox, but he can whip out some of the most delicate and beautiful dishes I’d ever seen or tasted. I have no idea how he wound up at a convent, and his salty language certainly didn't explain that choice, either.