"Thank you."
The word echoed in her mind, and each syllable was a punch.
The anger grew inside Maristela like embers fed by wind.
Anger at causing pain. At hearing the protector thank her for the courage she didn't have. At shoving that disgusting word back down her throat.
"Where were you?" Maristela's voice came out low, trembling, but sharp as a blade.
"Maristela, my child, you need to run…"
"Where were you? Why didn't you protect us?!" Maristela's voice rose.
The mother didn't look away. Didn't flinch. She just stared at her with tired eyes, eyes that had already seen everything the world could offer that was worst.
"I protected you, Maristela. I swear. In the best way I could."
She paused. Took a few steps into the room, stepping in Father Dan's blood.
She closed the door behind her.
Took a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was that of someone teaching an old lesson.
"Have you ever seen a piranha, Maristela?"
The question hung in the air, absurd.
"It's a horrible fish," the mother continued, without waiting for an answer. "Carnivorous. Lives in the Amazon River. The problem is they're small, they swim in schools of hundreds, they eat anything that's bleeding, alive, dead, doesn't matter."
Maristela frowned. She didn't understand. Didn't want to understand.
Mother Teresa sighed, took a few steps until she stood beside Maristela on the floor dirty with Father Dan's blood.
And she placed her hand on Maristela's shoulder. A small gesture of… affection.
"My family lived near the Amazon River. It had hundreds of piranhas in it. They devoured anything too slow to escape. Once a year, we had to cross the river with hundreds of oxen, taking them to graze on the other bank."
Her eyes lost focus for a moment, as if she saw something Maristela couldn't see.
"My father would choose a calf. A sick one, or ugly, disposable. He would make several cuts on the calf to make it bleed, then break one of its legs so it couldn't run away. And then…"
Maristela looked into the mother's eyes. She didn't want to understand the story.
"He would throw the calf into a distant part of the river. The piranhas never attacked the herd."
The understanding came like a punch to the stomach. Maristela wanted to vomit.
Like ice water down her spine. Like the truth she had always known, but never wanted to name.
She was the month's calf.
The bait.
"Father Dan is...was an influential man, who worked for even more influential things." Mother Teresa looked around, saw the body and the blood.
The word stayed with Maristela: "more influential things…"
Things.
"Do you know why he wanted to kill me?"
Mother Teresa denied it. And moved her away from the blood, to a corner of the room that was still clean, on top of the Persian rug.
"Even so, you should…"
"That would have been worse." The interruption was simple and raw.
"I would have been suspended. Expelled from here. And you would be dead by now, with no one to help you get out of this situation."
She lifted her head. Her eyes were watery, but firm.
"So I chose the calf. And I prayed to God every night to send me an answer."
She looked at Maristela. At the blood on her hands. At the body behind her.
"And God sent me you."
The mother moved closer, stopping in front of Maristela, so close they could feel each other's warmth.
She hugged Maristela tightly.
The hug was firm, warm, unexpected. The mother's arms wrapped around Maristela with a strength that didn't seem to belong to that gaunt woman. For a second — just one — Maristela felt what it was like to be held by someone who wanted nothing from her.
"He deserved it, he was going to…" the tears were in Maristela eyes.
"Yes, he was going to kill you. Yes, he deserved it."
Maristela squeezed the mother tighter. Her fingers dug into the habit like claws. Her body began to shake — not the cold shiver of fear, but something deeper, uglier. A collapse.
"It's not fair."
"Yes, my child, it's not fair, but…"
"It was just one bite," Maristela's voice came out high, almost a sobbing.
"just one bite, and then he fell. Even after talking about Cain and Abel. Even after saying horrible things. Silvane knew that he…"
"Dear, you need-"
"I just wanted to return the book. The book about the saints. Did you know that Saint Sebastian died full of arrows? I didn't want to die full of arrows. I don't want to die."
"Maristela, focus, we have to…"
"And all because, Silvane could have a birthday party before taking her vows. She would introduce me to a pretty boy so I could also kiss on the mouth on Sundays. Did you know that Sunday is the Lord's day? Is kissing on the mouth a sin? Everything is a sin. Breathing is a sin if you breathe too deep. I breathe deep every night. Am I going to hell for breathing?"
The mother opened her mouth, but Maristela didn't let her.
Maristela's gaze was glazed, lost, jumping from one thought to another like water on hot oil.
"And I was so jealous of her. I only have Clara and she is turning nine next month. She's still afraid of the dark. She still asks for stories before bed. She talks to the walls sometimes because no one plays with her. Why doesn't anyone play with her, Mother? Why does everyone pretend not to see? Why do YOU pretend not to see-"
"MARISTELA!"
The slap came dry. The crack echoed for a second.
Then the mother held Maristela's face between her trembling hands.
"Focus!" she whispered.
Maristela's hand found the brooch. The pin went into her fingertip — deep, familiar. The pain came hot, cutting through the veil of hysteria.
Maristela's eyes focused.
And they only saw the reflection of Mother Teresa's eyes.
In them, reflected back, was loss. Sin. Loneliness.
And the certainty that Maristela had killed a man.
Nothing would ever be the same.
"We don't have time. You need to run. They arrived too early," the mother said, her voice now practical, of someone who had already made a decision.
"There are things at the gate looking for you, and I can't protect you."
"Only you can keep us alive," the Orphan's voice whispered to her.
It had always been like this. Her for herself. Lying, cheating, stealing — until she arrived at the convent. And at the convent, she continued lying, cheating, stealing.
Nothing changed.
Anger swelled again in Maristela's chest. Her body trembled. With hatred.
With helplessness.
"Where do I… I can't… manage," Maristela sobbed, trembling in the embrace.
Mother Teresa squeezed the girl's shoulders. "There's a place. An acquaintance can help you. Do you have money?"
"I do. I have money. But I need to get my things. Say goodbye."
"Maristela, we don't have time to…"
Mother Teresa hesitated. The hesitation of someone who doesn't know the right answer.
Maristela saw the moment of weakness. And she struck.
"Don't you want me to be able to keep living?"
Low blow. She knew it. She knew that Mother Teresa cared about her well-being. She knew that, in normal situations, she wouldn't waste time getting her things.
But this wasn't a normal situation.
Maristela wouldn't return to the convent, so she had to do something to help the girls.
Mother Teresa's eyes closed for a moment, her fingers pressed deep into her eyes. She took a deep breath.
Maristela knew that face. She had been the reason for that face many times.
"I would need to check if the back exit is safe anyway before you run."
It was a Small victory, Maristela need at least one to make she calm again.
"Three conditions," the mother's voice came out hoarse, but firm.
"First: silence. You don't cry, you don't shout, you don't make noise. If any of them wake up, you leave without looking back."
Maristela swallowed hard. Nodded.
"Second: two girls. Only two. Choose well, because you won't get a chance to come back."
There were seventeen girls in the dormitory. She would have to choose two.
"Third: when you leave this room, you go down the back stairs. No delay. No hesitation. If you hear the convent bells ring, time is up and you should have already fled."
"Where do I go?"
"To the Pigs Hovel. It has the same hummingbird that's on the gate." Mother Teresa nodded as if that silly name explained anything.
"It's protected by the same thing that protected this convent until now."
The mother turned her back and kept walking. The matter was closed.
Maristela didn't ask anything else. She didn't need to.
But before reaching the dormitory, a question exploded from Maristela's mouth.
"Mother, who arrived?" she whispered, her voice still hoarse.
The mother stopped.
"Who are the people at the gate?"
She stood still for a few moments. When she turned around, her eyes were empty. Not sad. Not tired. Empty — as if they had seen something no prayer could wash away.
Not people, Maristela." The mother lowered her voice as if telling a secret.
"Monsters."
The word echoed in Maristela's mind.
They want your blood.
They need you alive.
Suddenly, the pieces began to fit together in a distorted way.
Father Dan didn't fear men, but he and Mother Teresa feared Monsters.
Monsters that are at the gate. That were sent by D.R. and were only supposed to arrive tomorrow or the day after.
Mother Teresa turned her back and kept walking. The matter was closed.
The answer was already forming in her mind, dark and cold as well water:
What things would be capable of corrupting a priest's faith to the point where he would prefer to kill a girl rather than hand her over?
What things demand blood in gold coins? That have symbols engraved on the skin of God's men?
Maristela didn't know the name. Didn't know the shape. She only knew one detail:
The convent had only two exits — and one of them went through the gate.
And the Monsters were outside, at the gate, waiting.