Chapter 6
Chapter six
Claire
Claire should’ve known better than to do what she did.
Not only had she stolen from the convent, but she had done it for her. And for what? To be told to leave. Again.
The day she met Mirela had shaken her to her core. Never in her life would she have imagined someone living inside the bell tower, much less a woman. Yet despite the tremor that ran through her, it wasn’t fear that made her body quake. It was something tender, dangerous, and holy in its defiance.
She could not stop seeing her.
Mirela.
Even her name was music. Beautiful. Not only that, the woman had a talent for art that Claire hadn’t seen in anyone. The way she captured the soul of those she drew was…mesmerizing.
Claire remembered the burn scars along her arm, neck, and cheek. But she had not looked away. The marks told a story, and Claire found herself aching to know every word of it.
She had wanted to stay, to ask why she lived there, how long she’d been trapped in that cold tower, how she survived such solitude? Claire could barely stand the quiet of the convent, though she was surrounded by other women. She could not imagine what it meant to be truly, utterly alone.
That night, Claire couldn’t help but slip her fingers into the pocket of her habit. She took out the folded sketch of herself.
The faint candlelight from the corridor brushed over the parchment revealing every reverent stroke.
Claire’s breath hitched. Mirela had drawn her with precision.
Her emerald eyes were captured mid-song, dark hair spilling from beneath her veil, lips parted in the shape of the song.
The likeness was too perfect. It was as though Mirela had studied her for hours, memorized every small imperfection, every breath, and Claire found that to be amazing.
“For your voice,” Mirela had said.
Claire traced the lines of her own likeness with trembling fingers. To be seen like this, made her chest ache.
Claire decided right there and then she would help her.
She would give her something, anything. But being stuck in the convent, Claire didn’t have much she could give Mirela.
She had little to her name. Her habit, her coat, a couple of coins she had managed to keep.
What could she ever give Mirela that would help her open up to her?
She wouldn’t mind having a friend. Someone from outside the convent, someone she could trust not to tell her off if she talked about whatever was ailing her in that moment.
Food would do. Food always brought people together. They could share a meal, or Claire could give her some as a gift.
There was plenty of food in the convent. Too much if she was being truthful. Enough to go around Paris and give around to those in need, but they never did…
That was it. She would give Mirela a basket with some goods she could enjoy. But Claire wanted to make sure that she knew it was she who gave her gift.
It took her several nights to learn Sister Margaret’s routine.
She learned the hour she made her final inspection of the halls, and the moment her candlelight vanished beneath the dormitory door.
Claire waited patiently, counting each breath until the convent fell silent.
Then, when the world slept, she slipped from her bed and crept toward the pantry.
She wasn’t stealing. She was helping.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she filled a small basket with fresh bread, a wedge of cheese, a piece of fruit, and, on impulse, a bottle of red wine she knew was used during Eucharist. She tied the cloth carefully, hands shaking.
Pulling her hood over her head, Claire whispered a silent prayer for forgiveness, though she wasn’t sure if she wanted it. Then, she slipped into the sleeping streets of Paris.
The city was cloaked in fog. The scent of rain lingered in the air. Notre-Dame rose before her once more, just like the first time she had stood before it.
The doors were unlocked. They always were for those seeking sanctuary. Pushing them open, she stepped into the cathedral’s vast silence. The candles had long burned down to stubs, their faint light flickering against the walls. The air was thick with incense, dust, and moisture.
She crossed the nave quietly, her steps echoing between the pews, and climbed the narrow stairway to the tower. Her breath came fast, her pulse thrumming in her throat. When she reached Mirela’s chamber, she stopped.
Mirela was asleep.
She lay curled on her side; one arm draped across her chest, her face half illuminated by moonlight streaming through the slit of a window. The scars across her cheek and neck shimmered faintly. Her lips were parted slightly, her breaths soft and even.
Claire froze, basket in hand, her heart twisting.
She should not be here. She should not be staring. But she could not help herself. Mirela looked so human, breakable, and yet so beautiful.
Maybe they could survive this world together.
Maybe.
After a long moment, Claire tore her gaze away, placed the basket near Mirela, and descended the steps, her pulse still fluttering. She sat on a pew far away from the altar, her thoughts spiraling.
The Virgin above the altar looked down on her, serene and unbothered. Claire’s hands clenched in her lap.
Was this madness? What was she doing, sneaking through the night to bring food and wine to a woman she hardly knew?
And yet she knew she would do it again.
She lingered, staring at the statue until the silence around her began to hum. She imagined Mirela waking up, finding the basket, even smiling. The thought filled her chest with warmth she hadn’t felt in years.
Then came the sound of soft footsteps above her.
Claire turned her head, and there she was. Mirela descending, hair unbound, cascading around her shoulders like a red halo.
Their eyes met, and Claire forgot how to breathe…
To have her sit so close, to see her smile and talk next to her, although she held back. Claire didn’t blame her for doing so. She was holding back, too. But their conversation was pleasant; until, of course, Mirela pushed her away again.
Now Claire was running through the streets of Paris.
The fog clung to her cloak, the wind cold against her flushed cheeks. The air was colder now, the night heavier. Paris slept beneath a pale moon, but the streets were not empty.
Halfway to the convent, Claire felt the weight of footsteps behind her. A shadow moved when she moved. The scrape of a boot too close to her own. She quickened her pace, and the footsteps followed.
Her pulse thundered as she turned the corner toward the convent gates. She didn’t dare look back. She stumbled up the steps, wrenched open the door, and slammed it shut behind her.
Safe. For now, at least.
Claire stood there, panting, listening, but there was nothing but silence. Swallowing hard, trying her hardest to calm her hammering heart, she peered through the small slit of the window.
She thought she saw a shape retreating into the mist. She pressed her back to the door, closing her eyes and for the first time, allowing herself to say a soft prayer of gratitude.
It was nothing.
At least she hoped it was nothing.
***
Morning came cloaked in rain. The sound of it against the convent’s old windows was soft. Although to anyone else the sound would be enough to lull them back to sleep, Claire could barely relax.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Mirela’s angry, and incredibly sad face.
She didn’t know why her sadness bothered her so much, why the fact that she was locked up would affect her in such a way, but it did.
She didn’t want to think that whoever kept her there did so because of her appearance.
There was nothing to hide. Mirela was attractive in a way that Claire wasn’t quite able to explain.
In her eyes Mirela was a woman. A young woman with a talent for drawing and a sadness so deep that it needed to be erased.
But how? Other than offering her friendship and companionship, what could make a woman such as Mirela happy?
Sighing, she willed herself to sleep. She would worry about Mirela tomorrow, not now.
As she was about to fall asleep, the door opened.
“Sister Claire.”
Mother Beatrice stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable, a wisp of gray hair escaping her veil. Behind her, Sister Margaret lingered like a shadow, her eyes full of satisfaction.
“Come with me,” Mother Beatrice said.
Claire’s blood ran cold. She rose silently and followed down the hall. They reached Mother Beatrice’s office, a small chamber that smelled of candle smoke and rain-soaked parchment. A single crucifix loomed over the desk.
“Sit,” Mother Beatrice said.
Claire stood still. Of course, she knew why she was there, but she needed to think of an excuse. A lie .Something. It wasn’t until Mother Beatrice’s brow arched that she snapped back to what was happening in front of her. She obeyed and sat down, the chair creaking beneath her weight.
Sister Margaret closed the door behind them, and a brewing anger formed in the pit of Claire’s stomach. Whatever the reason for being called up by Mother Beatrice, Claire was sure it was because Margaret had something to do with it…
Mother Beatrice folded her hands atop the desk. “Sister Margaret tells me she found your bed empty last night.”
Of course.
“I—“ Claire began, but her throat closed. A mixture of anger and fear blocked her airways. She could barely breathe.
Mother Beatrice’s gaze was calm, unflinching. “Do you deny it?”
Claire shook her head slowly. “No, Mother.”
“Then perhaps you would like to explain where you were at such an hour.”
The air felt heavier now. Claire stared down at her folded hands, searching for a lie. “I had a nightmare,” she said softly. “I woke in a fright and walked the halls to clear my mind. I must have drifted longer than I thought.”
Mother Beatrice said nothing. The silence between them grew unbearable. Somewhere in the convent, a bell tolled the hour. With every toll, Claire’s chest tightened to the point of suffocation. She wasn’t good at lying but hoped it would be enough.
Finally, Mother Beatrice leaned back in her chair. “You have not been here long, Sister Claire, yet already I sense unrest in you. Tell me, was it truly a nightmare that led you from your bed, or the weight of doubt?”
Claire frowned and raised her gaze from her hands to Mother Beatrice. “I have no doubt in my faith, Mother,” Claire said.
“No?” Mother Beatrice’s eyes softened, but only slightly. “You were not raised in the cloth. Your parents, as I recall, were…poor people. Unfortunate. It is not uncommon for such families to offer a daughter to the convent when there is no dowry for marriage.”
Claire’s stomach twisted. The words were true but hearing them aloud hurt more than it should. She didn’t nod or agree, she simply stared at the older woman.
Mother Beatrice continued, “Many girls come here lost, angry, and aimless. But I must know that you are not among them. That you are not—“ she paused, as if searching for the word. “Wandering.”
Claire forced herself to raise her chin. “I am not lost.”
Mother Beatrice studied her for a long, heavy moment. “Then tell me, Sister. What is it you find in Notre-Dame that makes your heart so restless?”
Claire hesitated. She could almost hear Mirela’s rough voice in her mind. She saw the drawing again; her own face rendered through someone else’s eyes. She turned just slightly at the door, wondering if Mirela’s gift was safe.
Turning back to Mother Beatrice, she studied the older woman, wondering what her reaction would be if she spoke the truth. If she told her that what was keeping her heart restless was another woman who seemed as in dire need of rescue from her solitude as Claire was.
“I love serving the Lord there,” she said finally, steadying her voice. “I love the way my voice sounds in His house. I feel close to Him when I sing.”
Mother Beatrice tilted her head, skeptical. “You sing for the Lord.”
Claire’s lips parted before she could stop herself. “Yes…and for those who listen.”
Mother Beatrice’s brows drew together. “Those who listen?”
Claire’s pulse raced. “The bells,” she lied quickly. “Their echo carries my songs into the city. I imagine even they must like to hear a little music other than their own.”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then Mother Beatrice sighed, long and slow.
“Sister Margaret worries you may be…distracted.”
“I assure you, Mother, I am not.”
Mother Beatrice seemed to search for cracks in her composure. “Good. But you will forgive me if I trust Sister Margaret’s instincts more than your reassurances. I have seen many women falter when temptation whispers.”
Claire’s upper lip twitched. Her eyes trailed away from Mother Beatrice to the woman behind her, whose grin widened as they locked eyes.
“I wouldn’t trust someone who likes to hurt others with their words.
‘It is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but what comes out of the mouth; this defiles a person’,” Claire said, turning one last time to Mother Beatrice. “I will not falter, Mother.”
Mother Beatrice narrowed her gaze on her, and as much as Claire wanted to look away, she stood her ground. Sighing, Mother Beatrice waved her hand dismissively. “You may go.”
Relief flooded her chest. She rose, murmuring a polite farewell. She eyed Margaret from head to toe before she stepped into the corridor. When the door closed softly behind her, she exhaled, pressing a hand to her throat.
Temptation. Mother Beatrice had said the word so casually, but Claire felt it settle in her chest. Because she was tempted. Not by sin, but by an aching and longing she couldn’t shake off.