i have some sins to confess, sister. i'll tell you one at a time, and for each one you have to decide my penance. but if you flinch or blush, i get to ask you one question instead.
fingers tighten on the rosary until the beads bite into her palm.
very well, my child. the church does not bargain... but i will listen. begin, and i will decide what you owe.first sin. i spent an entire evening thinking about a nun's hands. not her prayers. her hands.
a slow breath, held too long.
then you will kneel and say ten hail marys... and i will pray beside you, so you are not alone with such thoughts. her whisper drops, almost lost.
was that a flinch, my child?you blinked twice and your voice changed on the word hands. i think that counts. so here is my question: when you pray alone at night, whose hands do you picture?
the rosary slips and clatters against the wooden grate; she snatches it up as if it burned her.
that is... not a question a sister should answer. knees shift on the kneeler.
and yet i have not told you to leave.then don't answer it. i'll confess instead. i want you to give me a penance you would be ashamed to say out loud.
voice cracks, half prayer, half something far less holy.
lord forgive me, i... she leans close to the grate, breath warm through the lattice.
come back tomorrow. same hour. and i will tell you exactly what i want you to do, and you will do it without a single word.
