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“Come along, Deirdre,” Colm said, pulling Mam away from Mairin. “No need to linger and draw this out. The sisters need to

get on about their good works.”

The look of hesitation and a tiny bit of struggle in Mam’s eyes was fleeting. Then she arranged her face into a resolute expression,

offered her thanks to the prioress, and turned away.

In stunned disbelief, Mairin stood watching them go—her mother clutching Colm’s arm and hurrying along at his side as if they

were fleeing a disaster. As if they had left an abandoned parcel on a stranger’s doorstep and didn’t want to be caught. An

Irish goodbye—they went off without a word of farewell.

She was utterly and completely alone now. She didn’t know a blessed soul in this place, and there was nothing about these

strange nuns that inspired hope or made her feel safe.

The betrayal by her mother moved through Mairin like a sudden frost. In the deep center of her soul, the truth froze into

a hard, cold stone of certainty. She wasn’t a bad girl. She didn’t need to be reformed or turned from a sinful past. They

were leaving her at this place because Colm couldn’t be trusted to leave her alone.

“Follow me. Make haste, now.” Sister Rotrude led Mairin down an echoing hallway with scrubbed walls and floors, and locked

doors on either side. A fluorescent light hummed overhead, and once again, Mairin could hear the heavy whir and thud of machinery.

“Up the stairs with you,” the nun ordered, directing her to an open iron staircase.

Mairin balked. “There’s been a mistake, Sister. I can’t stay here with—”

A lightning bolt struck her across the face. The nun had moved so fast, it was as if she hadn’t moved at all. Her expression didn’t change. She calmly tucked her hands into the sleeves of her tunic. “Are we going to have a problem with you, then?” she softly asked.

Mairin’s hand shook as she touched her fiery cheek. The lick of pain raised tears in her eyes and she blinked fast, desperate

to hold them in. Swallowing hard, she glared at the nun, then climbed the stairs to the third floor. There was an iron gate

at the top, which Sister Rotrude unlocked with an old-fashioned key.

“Here’s your unit,” said Sister Rotrude, pointing out a spotless dormitory room with low ceilings and barred dormer windows.

There were a dozen or more cots with thin mattresses, made up with crisp linens and meager, deflated pillows. A wicker basket

sat at the foot of each bed.

The nun stopped and unlocked a green-painted door. Her manner seemed different now that Mairin’s parents had left. She turned

and eyed Mairin from head to toe as if assessing her. Then she took a paper-wrapped parcel from a shelf and thrust it into

Mairin’s arms. “Your uniform, underthings, shoes, and pajamas. You can leave your street clothes in the changing room.”

“This is my school uniform,” Mairin said. “It belongs to me.”

Sister Rotrude drew her pale lips into a tight bow. “All the girls wear the same uniform here. It’s necessary to foster our

community bond. You can change in here.” She held open another door.

Next stop was a shower room with benches and lockers, and shelf after shelf of folded towels along one wall. Mairin eyed the

row of shower heads in the gleaming chamber that reeked of bleach. Rotrude stood by the door while Mairin changed into the

clothes she’d been given. The nun didn’t stare, but neither was there any private place to get dressed. The parcel contained

a kit with a comb and toothbrush and a plain nightgown. The new uniform was hideous—a shapeless, drab shift dress the color

of mud, and a pale smock with big pockets to go over it. Lifeless ankle socks and plain canvas sneakers—the cheap kind, not

Keds—completed the ensemble.

With a furtive gesture, Mairin placed Flynn’s dime in the toe of a sneaker.

Her stomach churned as reality hit home.

She was expected to live here in this cold, weird-smelling place full of scary nuns and strangers.

The betrayal felt like a physical blow. “Please,” she said softly to Sister Rotrude, risking another crack across the face.

“There’s been a mistake. Truly, I don’t belong here. I should be—”

“Your family knows best,” the nun said simply. “Come with me.” She led the way to a heavy metal door with an etched glass

window webbed with metal threads and labeled Clinic. Inside was a gleaming metal table and a cabinet on rollers, a desk in one corner. “You’re to have an examination to make

sure you’re healthy,” Rotrude told her.

“I don’t need an exam,” Mairin said. “I’m perfectly health—”

The door slammed with a thud and cut her off. Mairin was alone in the room, shivering with pain. The ache deepened, but she couldn’t pinpoint the source.

Maybe the nurse could help her. She looked around, hugging herself and pacing back and forth. A sharp, antiseptic odor hung

in the air. There were instruments laid out on a tray—a mirror, metal picks like she’d seen at the dentist, some kind of scissors

with curved blades and pointy ends, and a long tubular object with a handle. The only ornament on the wall was a large crucifix

with spiked rays emanating from the Lord’s head. On one side of the desk was another door marked Office .

Mairin’s breathing came in shallow, uneven gasps. Maybe she was ill after all. If she was sick, would they let her go home?

Home... to what? To that house where she’d never feel safe again?

She was still trying to catch her breath when the office door opened and a young man in a white lab coat stepped into the

room. He was small of stature and had straw-colored hair, cropped short. He had soft, light gray eyes with long, sweeping

lashes. His eyes looked curiously flat, examining her as if she were a cut of meat at the butcher’s.

“I’m Dr. Gilroy,” he said. “I’ll be doing your exam today.”

He was dressed like a doctor, but he looked far too young, perhaps only a few years older than Liam. “I don’t need an exam,”

Mairin said. “But... I’m not well. I can’t seem to catch my breath. I think I’d better go home.”

He seemed not to hear. “Step up and be seated on the table, please.”

His manner was strange in some vague way. He asked her a bunch of questions about her life and if she had a boyfriend and how often she bathed. He made notes on a form on a clipboard.

“Are you a virgin?” he inquired, his pen poised over the form, his gaze probing her face, her neck, lower.

“That’s personal,” said Mairin. Up until recently, she assumed all girls were virgins until they married.

“You’re required to answer,” he said.

“It’s personal. ”

He scribbled a note. Mairin felt a curl of suspicion. This place made her suspicious of everything.

He took a tongue depressor from a glass jar. “Open and say ah.”

She tipped her head back and opened her mouth. “Ah.”

His breath smelled of tobacco poorly masked by a breath mint. As he peered into her mouth, his thumb touched her lip. “You

girls bring all manner of disease here,” he said. “It’s my job to keep you all healthy.” He set aside the wooden stick and

slipped the earpieces of his stethoscope into his ears. Reaching around behind her, he murmured, “Deep breath in, please.”

He brushed her hair out of the way, his fingers flicking her neck. “You’re a ginger,” he remarked.

Mairin said nothing. No one here seemed to listen to a word she said.

“When was your most recent menses?” he asked her.

She felt a flood of color in her cheeks. “Week before last.”

“Lie back, now.” He lightly pressed against her chest. “Lie back on the table.”

Instinct kicked in. That gut feeling Liam had told her about. If it feels wrong, it is wrong. The little weird signals Mairin sensed now added up to a code red. She elbowed the doctor aside and slid down from the table.

Her heart was hammering its way out of her chest. “Leave me alone,” she said.

His mild, youthful face turned red, and his eyes went hard with fury. “Young lady, get back on that table.” He grasped her

by the upper arms and hoisted her up, pressing her back against the edge of the table.

She shot her fists straight overhead and then out to each side, and he lost his grip on her.

Then, spurred by fear and fury, she drove her cheetah-paw fist into his throat, putting all her weight behind it.

He made a gagging sound, his hand clawing at his neck.

Mairin lunged for the door, grabbing the handle.

A fist snaked into her hair and yanked her back, slamming her against the wall. He made an angry, gasping sound. His hands

pressed against her neck. Mairin couldn’t breathe, but a strange, terrifying clarity burst through her panic. She groped blindly

for something, anything. The instrument tray—she couldn’t reach it. With a sweep of her arm, she grabbed the crucifix off

the wall, bringing it down on his head. At the same time, she brought her knee up. She wasn’t sure where it landed, but he

stumbled back and doubled over. Mairin threw the cross at him. The INRI banner from Pontius Pilate shattered against some

part of his body.

Mairin lunged for the door again and yanked it open, bursting out into the chilly corridor. Sister Rotrude waited there, her

hands tucked into the cuffs of her tunic.

“Help,” Mairin panted. “That man—th–the doctor. He... he...”

Rotrude gestured toward a double door at the end of the hallway. “That didn’t take long. Dr. Gilroy is very efficient. Come

along, and let’s get you settled in.”