Free The Devil's Door by Sharan Newman Page A

door to let out the smoke.
    In silence they changed their wet robes. In silence they walked to the chapter house for the daily conference, a practice not omitted at the Paraclete even on Good Friday. Catherine sat silently next to Paciana in the back with the lay sisters. Her decision to return to the world had removed her from a place with the other nuns. But all here could listen to the conference, a short spiritual talk given by Héloïse or one of the other sisters.
    Héloïse entered and all the women rose.
    “I had planned today,” she started, “to speak to you on the Book of Luke, chapter twenty-three, verse forty-four. However, my original thoughts have been superceded.”
    She smiled at them tenderly.
    “We are a young house and have lost few of our own since our founding, for which we thank God. Yesterday, a woman died among us. She was only one of our community for a moment. Yet she was our sister, and our benefactress, and it is right that we mourn her on this solemn day and also rejoice that she came to us in time to die surrounded by our love and prayers.”
    Catherine felt the resentment rising to her throat again.
    Stop this, Catherine! her voices rang in her head. Charity, forgiveness! Anyway … you’re being hypocritical admit it. It’s not what was done to Alys that upsets you. It’s the fear that it might happen to you.
    No! Edgar would never hurt me! Catherine thought.
    Of course not. She knew he wouldn’t. It was true they had only spoken a dozen times, but the circumstances had been optimal for complete understanding. She hated those voices, that part of her that had been trained to line up arguments on both sides of every question. They bored through everything she said to comfort herself and illuminated the smallest shred of doubt.
    “Therefore,” the abbess concluded, “on this day of grief and hope, let us all pray that the soul of our sister Alys be granted the true peace, which is unknown to any of us still on this earth.”
    Héloïse handed the list of daily duties to the prioress and left. Catherine looked about, embarrassed. She had missed most of what the abbess had said. Catherine took a deep breath, the first all day that didn’t smell of smoke or decay. Peace. There were small sounds in the room; the creak of the wooden chapter seats, the rustle of clothing, a gentle click of beads, the patient elderly voice of Prioress Astane, who had grown up in a convent and come with Héloïse from Argenteuil, going over a few rubrical details concerning the Good Friday afternoon liturgy.
    This was contentment. This was what she knew, where she belonged. To Catherine, heaven was a convent, one with no novice mistress and an infinite number of books.
    And Edgar?
    “By the thundering vengeance of Saint Emerentiana, stop!”
    “Catherine!” Prioress Astane stared at her reproachfully. Sister Bertrada started toward her, stick raised.
    Catherine looked up in horror, half expecting a thunderbolt to strike her down and half hoping one would. Those stupid voices, changing sides on her so suddenly that she had spoken aloud. She was too embarrassed even to apologize. She just buried her face in her hands and hunched over. Someone nearby giggled.
    Thwack! The giggle was replaced by a yipe of pain.
    Catherine felt a wisp of comfort. God may choose his own time and place for revenge, but the blows of Sister Bertrada were swift and certain.

    As they left the chapter, Catherine managed to pass near Emilie and Sister Bietriz. Emilie shook her head at her, trying not to laugh.
    “If you must carry on arguments with demons, Catherine,” she teased, “couldn’t you at least use a softer voice?”
    Catherine sighed. “The demons were winning this time.”
    Bietriz put a hand on Catherine’s shoulder. She was a tall woman who moved with more resolve than grace. Her face was all wrong for the standard of beauty extolled in the songs of the jongleurs. Her nose was straight and large, her hair almost