Our Lady of the French Quarter

Chapter II. Monday

All the bedrooms were on the convent's second floor. These "cells", as they used to be known, were small and basic with just a bed, a nightstand, and a desk in the way of furniture. The only remarkable feature of these identically appointed rooms was their huge windows, depending on the location, either overlooking the courtyard to the east or the garden to the west.

Louise lies in bed, still sleeping as morning light pours into her east facing room, bathing her in orange-tinted warmth. There is a gentle knock on the door. Louise doesn't even flinch. After a moment with no answer, the door opens. It's Rose.

"Louise?" Rose whispers as her acquaintance's eyes begin to flutter open. "I'm sorry to wake you, but Mother sent me to check on you."

At this, Rip Van Winkle springs up. "What time is it?"

"Almost 7. You missed mass."

"Oh no!" Louise hurries out of bed.

Rose resumes her whisper, "I wouldn't worry. Mother doesn't seem mad."

"That means she's furious," the girl laments. "I'll be ready in a second. Could you wait outside? If you go down with me she might not yell as much."

With a nod of understanding, Rose withdraws into the hallway. This corridor, narrow and dimly lit, is lined on both sides by rows of closed doors, most of which lead to empty rooms. It is divided at its center by a staircase landing, its balustrade the only element of architectural interest on this floor, and punctuated at one end by a window and on the other by a giant painting of Saint Louis King of France. Alone in the hallway, standing in silence, but for the sound of Louise shuffling around in her room, Rose feels the dread of monotony reach its tendril under her ribs and begin to tug as a nauseous feeling awakens in her. No sooner does a pang of regret sound in Rose's consciousness than Louise's door flies open and, a bit disheveled, the postulate races out, nearly tripping over herself. "Slow down!" Rose calls from a few steps behind. Louise halts for a moment, waiting for Rose to catch up with her so they can begin the descent into the foyer side by side. As they reach the first tread, Louise explains, "I promised I wouldn't do this again."

"'The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.'" Bernadette answers back from the foot of the stairs, glaring up at Louise. Rose glares right back, either unnoticed or ignored, while Louise drops her head and offers a sheepish, "I'm sorry."

"You always are," Bernadette remarks with a breathy exhale before turning on her heel for the dining room. Louise is about to follow her before Rose pulls her back, wrapping her porcelain fingers around the girl's slender cotton sheathed forearm. With a quizzical look, Louise tries to tug her arm away. Rose stops her, silently putting up her free hand. With fingers spread, she mouths a countdown, "Five. Four. Three..." folding one of her childlike digits down with the recitation of its corresponding number until only the index finger is left. Then, she opens her grasp on Louise and shepherds her into the dining room only half certain of its direction. Once they reach the room, after their tiny rebellion, they discover Bernadette seated at the head of a large oval table. Next to her is Sister Marguerite. Rose was introduced to this woman before mass, but, beyond a compulsory greeting, said nothing. The postulates sit opposite her. With a detached sense of duty, Bernadette is about to reintroduce the two, before she is reminded that they have, in fact, already met. Marguerite isn't one for idle conversation and likes to nip it in the bud when she can.

After a few moments, a painful silence descends upon the table with the only noise coming from the metallic pings of flatware hitting china. Rose pushes food around her plate until she can bear it no longer. "Sister Marguerite, do you teach at the school?"

The nun lets her fork drop onto her plate with a loud clink as she raises her eyes to Rose, their amber centers blazing from milky white sclera. With no effort to hide her annoyance she answers, "Not anymore." The shortness of her expression contrasts the velvety smoothness of her voice.