Maristela looked at the scene calmly.
The room was simple. Like everything at the Santa Rosa convent.
It had Father Dan's desk. It had a small table for coffee and glasses for guests.
And it had a bookshelf.
Dan's body was still on the floor.
The blood still gleamed wet, spreading into an ever-larger pool around the corpse.
"They need you alive. Forgive me," Dan's words echoed in her mind.
"They'll find me if I run now."
"FIND ANSWERS, ORPHAN."
First answers, then survival
She rummaged through the papers on the desk — letters, receipts, notes. Nothing useful. In the drawers, more of the same: convent accounting, correspondence with the diocese.
In the bottom drawer, an object gleamed.
Pocket watch. Silver. Old. Beautiful. Still working.
22:46. 46 minutes before bed time.
She put it in her pocket. It was hers now.
On her way out, she went around to the left to avoid getting dirty with Father Dan's blood.
She stepped on the Persian rug near the fireplace.
Her foot sank — and something creaked. Not the floor. Something hollow.
She stopped. The rug was misaligned. Some of Dan's blood had already stained the rug.
She pulled it with her foot. The fabric slid, revealing the dark floor.
A thin line outlined a board. A crack. Some of Dan's blood was seeping through it.
The board creaked, but came out easily.
A safe.
"What could a priest with heretical tattoos hide in a secret safe?"
The Orphan's voice came quickly, "Answers."
The safe was old. Cast iron. Deep, attached to the floor. It had a large lock.
She needed the key.
The key wasn't on the desk. It wasn't in the drawers either. Only one place left.
"This is going to be dirty work," the Orphan's voice whispered.
Maristela approached the corpse. Blood stained her sandals. She turned the body over.
Pockets, cassock — he had nothing on him.
She sat in Dan's chair. The leather was still warm. She wanted to leave, but she stayed.
She looked at the scene with new eyes. The eyes of a liar, searching for the lies of another liar.
A memory surfaced. She was a child, before the convent. A man taught her how to play detective. The game was finding clues. She always won.
Maristela never remembered his face. Only his hands — large, warm, smelling of tobacco — and that she also bit him sometimes, but he never bled.
Maristela blinked. The blood-stained office came back into focus.
Her eyes scanned the mess. The safe was to the right of the door. No visitor would have reason to go there.
But there was also no reason to hide the key there, and Father Dan was careful enough to think about where the safe would be hidden.
The key would be in a place just as unlikely, but the place needed to be close enough for him to open and close the safe.
His desk was empty. He had no other furniture in his office.
His room was on the second floor of the convent. Maristela knew Dan limped on his left leg.
"Old injuries of the war", the nuns said on his behalf.
He wouldn't leave the safe key far away and wouldn't climb stairs with an injured leg just to get it.
She looked to the side. The bookshelf took up the entire wall.
Her eyes scanned the spines.
Nietzsche, Thoreau, Dante. But it was a Latin book — 'De Civitate Dei' — where the crooked spine caught her attention.
And then, the Latin books.
Dark leather spines, titles engraved in faded gold. Vatican provenance, from the diocese. Theology manuals. Treatises on sin. Instructions for saving souls.
They were all perfectly aligned. Straight spines, uniform heights, as if an invisible ruler governed them.
But one of them was…
Slightly crooked.
The spine tilted one centimetre to the left. The book had been placed with the spine upside down. As if it had been put back in a hurry.
Maristela frowned. Clever old man.
"De Civitate Dei – Aurelius Augustinus."
The City of God.
She knew Augustine. Original sin. Things the nuns taught with blind devotion.
She pulled the book, but it didn't come along. Something held it. For a second, she thought she was wrong.
Inside, there were no pages. The pages had been carved out. And at the bottom of the hollow, a key. Maristela held the key. Simple, made of iron.
She inserted the key into the lock. Turned. Click. The board opened.
The safe was shallow. Lined with stained red velvet. Inside, leather folders, documents with seals, property deeds, and a beautiful box.
At the bottom, a small wooden box. She opened it.
Maristela froze.
Gold.
Coins.
Seven gold coins.
They weren't like ordinary coins. They were older. Stranger. They weren't round. They were gold hexagons.
She picked one up. It was dull. Not new gold, gleaming, bright. It was old, as if it had been minted a very, very long time ago.
She turned the coin in her hand.
It had no value, no numbers, but it had a symbol.
She recognized the symbol.
She had just seen it.
On Father Dan's body.
A crucifix. With a loop at the top.
"Take it. We'll need it" — the voice whispered in Maristela's mind.
She kept the coins. They would serve to sell. To eat. To survive.
Now there were only documents in the safe. Only letters.
A simple letter caught her attention. Handwritten: "Convent of Our Lady of Conception. 1918. Content: Money for monthly sustenance. Amount: 1,000,000 Réis. Fr. Dan Carlo."
Signed: D.R.
The letter didn't have the diocese seal. It wasn't from the order or the church. It had no identification and no return address.
She pulled it out. Read.
"I arrive tomorrow. I want the girl. After that, you and your convent will be free, and you can become one of us. Do not disappoint me – or I will burn every soul in that convent until only ash remains. The Syndicate will not be denied.
— D.R."
The paper trembled.
The girl. Which girl? Her?
"The letter arrived today. He read it today. And today he called you to his room. You know what that means."
Father Dan's last words echoed in her mind:
"They want your blood. They need you alive."
The Syndicate. It was them. It had to be.
She opened the envelope. The notes were there.
1,000,000 réis. A whole conto de réis.
Real money. For food, coal, and new clothes, so the girls wouldn't be cold for an entire year.
Maristela could live well and start in a new place. If she didn't mind condemning all the nuns and novices to starvation.
Who was D.R.? Why would he give so much money to a convent priest?
Her hand trembled. With this, she could buy a house. Never need anyone again.
Take it," the Orphan whispered.
She hesitated.
"Take it. You need it more than they do."
"They need it more than I do."
"They'll have the convent. You'll have the street. Take it."
Her hand reached out, stopped in the air. On the other side of the corridor, eighteen girls slept. She closed her eyes and took the notes.
They would understand. They would thank her.
"Your soft heart will get us killed."
Finally, important papers.
A thin folder, with a single paper. A list. D.R.'s list.
"Expansion Targets." It had a black six-pointed star, each point of the star was a smaller hexagram.
Expansion targets? What syndicate?
Names. Few. Handwritten. Some crossed out.
In total, eight uncrossed names. Some were written in Portuguese. She could only identify three.
Otaviano Torres.
Khalil Hassan.
Dante Serrafini.
Isabela Cardoso 𝔓
Maristela read. She didn't recognize any.
Until the last one.
It was a simple name.
Isabela Cardoso. 𝔓
And next to it, engraved in ink, a symbol.
The stylized "P."
Maristela's heart stopped.
"What?"
"The brooch." She pulled the brooch from her clothes. Compared. It was identical.
Isabela. Who was Isabela? What did she have to do with her? With the priest?
"Someone worth finding." — The Orphan's voice came calmly.
Maristela moved.
She took the money. Took the letter, the coins, and the list.
She closed the safe and put the board back. She almost forgot to stretch the rug, staining it even more with blood.
She put the iron key back in the book.
She put Dante's book on the shelf…
Footsteps in the corridor.
Maristela froze.
The footsteps were fast, hurried, desperate. And they were coming toward the door.
"Father Dan?" The Mother Superior's voice, high-pitched, trembling. "Father Dan, did you hear the bell? There are two gentlemen at the gate to talk with..."
Silence.
One second. Maybe two.
Then:
"Maristela? CHILD, ARE YOU IN THERE?"
Maristela didn't answer. She couldn't. Her voice got stuck in her throat.
The Mother pounded on the door. Three times. Hard.
"Maristela! Answer me!"
Nothing.
And then the Mother saw it.
The blood.
Seeping under the door. Thin, dark, gleaming in the light of the corridor's oil lamps.
"NO!" The Mother's scream tore through the night. "FATHER DAN, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, OPEN THIS DOOR! WHAT DID YOU DO?"
She pounded on the door with her fists. One, two, three times. The wood creaked, but didn't give.
"MARISTELA! MY GOD, MARISTELA, ANSWER ME!"
Tears in the Mother's voice. Real desperation. Fear.
Maristela looked at the window. There was still time. Jump. Flee. Disappear.
But Maristela didn't move.
"Mother…" Maristela's voice came out hoarse, tired, but firm. "I'm okay."
Silence. Then, a muffled sob.
"Maristela? Thank God, thank God… Open the door, child. For the love of God, open it."
Maristela took a deep breath.
"I'm okay, Mother, but not because of you," she said slowly.
The Mother didn't answer.
"Open the door," the Mother repeated, now in a whisper.
Maristela unlocked it.
The door open, revealing the scene.
The Mother took a step back. Her eyes scanned the room in horror — the body, the blood.
"Maristela…" Her voice failed. "You… My God…"
Her eyes fixed on the horror, but also on Maristela. On the living girl, covered in blood, standing in the middle of the destruction and corruption.
Maristela waited. Waited for the scream. The accusation. The horror.
But the Mother straightened her body. Swallowed hard. Stared Maristela in the eyes.
And said:
"Thank you."