Chapter 4
Chapter four
Claire
Claire couldn’t sleep. She lay awake on her narrow cot staring at the cracked ceiling. Around her, the other nuns breathed softly. There were five of them, and the chorus of snores assured her that everyone was asleep.
She had tried for hours to fall asleep, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else in the cathedral, something that wasn’t supposed to be there, and the fact that Sister Margaret dismissed it so casually didn’t sit well with her.
Claire was very observant of her surroundings, and if she said she saw something then, damn it, she saw something.
But of course, she had no way of knowing that unless she sneaked out of the convent and headed back to Notre-Dame.
She wasn’t sure she could do that, not when there were eyes everywhere.
Although… the eyes were sleeping now. If she wanted to leave, this would be the perfect moment to do so.
She pushed back the thin blanket, careful not to wake Sister Camille beside her. The younger woman stirred, grunted, and turned to the wall, pulling the sheets over her head. Good. Claire didn’t need witnesses.
She reached for the worn, oversized coat her father had given her—his last gift before sending her away—and wrapped it tightly around her nightgown.
It smelled faintly of hay and smoke, and for a fraction of a second, it reminded her of home.
Her fingers trembled as she laced her boots.
She shouldn’t be doing this; she shouldn’t be sneaking out, but her curiosity was too much to hold in.
She told herself she wouldn’t take long. She would just take a quick glance at what was by the stairs, maybe in the towers, and go back. If there was nothing to worry about, she would be out in less than an hour. Knowing how heavily the other nuns slept, it would be plenty of time.
She left the room quietly, closing the door as slowly as she could before heading to the exit.
The convent door groaned when she opened it, but the cold air swallowed the sound.
The streets of Paris were restless, and the cobblestones were slick with rain.
Claire kept her head down, her steps quiet and swift.
She could make it to the cathedral in twenty minutes, maybe less if she hurried.
Notre-Dame rose before her and, to her surprise, the doors were ajar. Candlelight flickered faintly within, and her heart raced as she stepped inside, lowering her hood.
The cathedral was transformed by night. The candelabras glowed dimly with gold against the shadows, their light reflected in the eyes of marble saints. Claire’s breath came in shallow bursts, the echo of her footsteps spoken by the immensity of the hall.
No priests, no guards, no sisters. She was alone.
The nave stretched before her, and the altar gleamed slightly under the moonlight filtering through stained glass, casting fractured colors across the floor. Perhaps it was foolish to wander here. But she had to know. Someone was living in this church, someone who was always watching.
Her fingers brushed against the pews as she moved forward. The polished wood was cold to the touch. At one column, she paused. The placement of the benches made it climbable, barely. Her pulse quickened. If she was caught here all alone… if she hurt herself doing this…
Claire pressed her hand to her chest, trying to steady her breath. “For curiosity,” she whispered. “Only curiosity.”
Then she climbed.
It was awkward and graceless, her coat catching on the edge, her boots slipping. But she managed to pull herself up onto the narrow ledge overlooking the nave. The air was cooler here, filled with dust and the faint cooing of pigeons.
If she’d been thinking clearly, she might have gone back. But she was dying to prove to herself that she wasn’t insane.
She walked along the shadowed corridor, her steps echoing faintly. Ahead, a narrow staircase spiraled upward into darkness. The smell of feathers and incense grew heavier as she climbed.
At last, she reached the chamber beneath the great bell. She leaned against the wall, catching her breath and taking in the eerily quiet place. There was a pulse in the air. Someone lived in this space; there was no doubt in her mind.
Her eyes adjusted to the dimness. A straw bed covered by a patchwork quilt. Folded clothes stacked neatly in a corner. Books, sketches glued to the walls, bits of color scattered like offerings. Candles burned low; their wax pooled into tiny rivers.
It was disarray, but an intimate disarray.
Claire knelt when her foot brushed against a notebook. It was mostly shut, but the pages peeked out. She hesitated, then opened it.
Her breath caught.
The sketches were beautiful. There were gargoyles, angels, and the ribs of the cathedral ceiling.
Whoever drew these had a sharp eye for detail.
Turning the page, she found drawings of the congregation below.
She saw faces she recognized: the old widow who prayed for her dead husband, the merchant’s wife with her red shawl, the child who left flowers by the Virgin’s feet.
And then she saw herself.
Claire froze.
There she was, rendered in graphite. There was her veil, her lips, the tilt of her head as she sang. It was unmistakable. Whoever lived here had not only seen her but studied her.
She turned another page, and there were birds this time. Pigeons, crows, sparrows, all caught in flight. As if summoned, a gray pigeon fluttered through the rafters, scattering dust and loose papers.
Claire gasped, falling on her bottom.
“God Almighty,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her racing heart. The bird ignored her, waddling across the floor as if it too lived here.
And then there was a sound behind her.
Claire turned, clutching the notebook to her chest. Her eyes widened as a woman stood in the shadows. Tall, red-haired, with eyes of two colors: one teal, one white. Scars marred one side of her face, twisting faintly in the candlelight.
Claire’s blood ran cold. She didn’t move, simply stared. It wasn’t until the other woman tilted her head with curiosity that she managed to find her voice.
“Hi,” she whispered. Her fingers tightened around the drawing she’d stolen.
The woman said nothing. Her gaze dropped to the paper, then lifted again, sharp as glass.
“I—I didn’t know someone lived here,” Claire stammered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched your things. I was only curious.”
The woman’s lips parted slightly, and she took a step closer, her eyes narrowing on Claire. She wasn’t sure if it was anger in her face, or if the other woman was just surprised to see someone there. But then she got even closer, and Claire pushed herself away.
The other woman stopped, hesitating, as if not wanting to scare Claire. Then she spoke, her voice low and husky from disuse.
“Emerald…”
Claire blinked, confused. “What?”
The stranger reached out, her scarred hand trembling as she tilted Claire’s chin upward. “Your eyes,” she murmured, her mismatched gaze softening. “Emerald.” Her eyes then shifted to the top of Claire’s head. “Raven hair.”
Claire’s breath caught. She was looking at her. Taking in her details. Maybe for another drawing? Claire focused on the white eye. If she had little to no vision in that eye, and she was still able to draw these amazing sketches, this woman was blessed.
“I—I’m Claire,” she managed, her name barely more than a sigh.
A red eyebrow arched. “Sister Claire,“ the woman corrected quietly.
“Right. Sister…” Claire paused and hesitated. “And you?”
The other woman paused, her face contorting almost in pain. “Mirela.”
“Mirela,” Claire echoed, her voice gentler now. “It’s… nice to meet you, Mirela.”
Mirela didn’t reply. She turned away, picking up her notebook and a stub of graphite. Without another word, she sat near the straw bed and began to draw. Claire watched, spellbound, as her likeness bloomed again on the page, this time more vividly.
When she finished, Mirela tore the page free and held it out. “Here,” she said simply. “For your voice.”
Claire accepted it with trembling hands. It was stunning.
“Thank you.” Her hair was loose, her eyes bright. “This is…beautiful,” Claire said as she further inspected the sketch.
She swallowed hard and looked once more at Mirela who was making herself smaller, as if hiding away, not wanting to be seen. She looked uncomfortable.
“You’re the one who listens to us sing,” Claire said, half question, half statement.
Mirela nodded, her left hand rubbing her right forearm.
“You have a beautiful voice,” Mirela murmured.
“Thank you.”
“I am sorry if I scared you.”
“You didn’t! I thought I was going insane. I knew someone was here,” Claire said again, her cheeks warming. Silence pressed between them until she glanced around the room. “Do you live up here?”
Mirela’s jaw tightened. “I do.”
“All alone?”
Mirela shrugged. “The pigeons and gargoyles keep me company from time to time.”
Claire nodded, looking down at her boots. “Do you need anything? Food? Clothes, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? I could maybe—“
“I am fine.”
“Oh.” Claire’s smile faltered quickly.
Mirela sounded annoyed, fidgeting as though agitated, like someone doing something she wasn’t supposed to.
“Right.” She turned toward the stairs. “I should go.”
Mirela’s head snapped up. “You should.”
“I…”
“Go,” Mirela said softer this time, but it still felt like a dismissal.
Claire clutched the drawing to her chest and nodded. “Then…goodnight, Mirela.”
She started down the corridor, but Mirela followed.
Her footsteps were so light that Claire wouldn’t have known she was there if not for the warmth of her presence behind her.
When they reached the stairs. Claire hurried her step, almost tripping in the process.
But Mirela quickly grabbed her hand, helping her down.
The touch was brief but lingered long after Claire’s feet met the final step.
She turned back once, catching the faintest quiver of Mirela’s lips before she slipped into the darkness once more.