Clara was sleeping, curled up in her blanket. She was the only one who had a real blanket, because Maristela had bought it for her.
Because Clara was the only real orphan, just like her. She was the closest thing to "family" that she would ever have.
The novices saw Maristela enter. There were no lights in the room, not even candles lit. The only light came from the corridor and the oil lamps.
Maybe less light was better. Some noticed the dried blood on Maristela's hands. Others saw marks on her neck that the habit and veil didn't hide. But all of them saw the blood on her fingers.
None of them said anything. They didn't dare interfere.
In the corner of the dormitory, where the wall met the floor, a loose board. Beneath it, a deep hole dug in the dirt — "The well." Where the novices hid what they didn't want the nuns to see.
Maristela went to the corner. Lifted the false board.
Maristela opened the envelope, took the money out. Counted it.
There was 1,000,000. One full conto de réis.
"Don't do it, orphan" the voice whispered.
She began to count the notes. It would be so much easier not to like them.
"You'll go hungry and cold because of other orphans."
It would be so much easier not to think about Clara.
She put the money inside. Left 900,000 réis in the well.
Maristela didn't answer. She simply took a piece of paper and a splinter of charcoal.
She wrote a note and put it in the well too.
"Sorry. I should have done this before. Use the money."
She folded it. Closed the board.
She kept the remaining 100,000. That would cover a month of food if she found some free shelter or started living in the trash.
The Orphan's voice sounded in her ear.
"From convent novice to sewer rat out of love. You disgust me."
Maristela heard footsteps behind her.
"Mari?" The voice was a thread, but it was sweet and childish.
That damn little brat always wakes up at the worst moments.
"Clara, it's past 8:00. You should be sleeping."
Clara, nine years old. Thin. Big, scared eyes. Her parents had died a year ago. Spanish flu.
Clara approached, grabbing Maristela's sleeve.
"I couldn't." Clara bit her lip.
"I had a nightmare. You were in it. The walls said a shadow was coming to get you. And I saw the shadow in my dream. It was ugly. It had shark teeth. In the dream, you were leaving."
Her face was pale. Paler than usual.
Maristela didn't answer.
"Are you leaving, Mari?" The girl's voice broke the silence.
"Don't you like the convent anymore? I'll stop asking you to steal candy for me."
Maristela's heart tightened. She knelt. Held Clara's face between her hands stained with dried blood.
The girl must have been sleepy. She didn't notice the blood on Maristela's hands.
"I would steal all the candy in the world for you, little rat," she said. Her voice was firm, but she wanted to break.
"Promise? Pinky promise? Chocolate too?" Clara's face filled with a silly smile, the kind a child who believes everything has.
"Pinky promise." Maristela extended her pinky.
Clara took her pinky with her hand. She had small hands. And then she hugged Maristela.
The hug was long. Clara's last hug, and she was half asleep while Maristela was covered in dried blood with marks on her neck.
But she couldn't cry now.
She couldn't take Clara.
She also couldn't stay.
She couldn't do anything that would make her minimally happy.
Happiness was the kind of thing for innocent people.
Maristela hadn't been innocent for years.
Maristela stood up, lifted Clara off the floor. She wasn't heavy. With the food they were given, no novice was.
Being fat was a luxury for rich people.
She walked to the bed, other novices were crying softly.
She couldn't talk to them. She couldn't make noise. She wanted to talk to them, she wanted to make noise, she wanted to cry.
She wanted to be seen. She wanted to be protected.
But that doesn't suit murderers.
And she was that now.
Maristela placed Clara on the bed carefully. Tucked the blanket. Combed her hair with an old wooden comb.
"Tell me a story," Clara asked.
"The one about the little rat."
Maristela smiled. Sad. It was her favorite story.
"Once upon a time, there was a mischievous little rat who played hide-and-seek with an angel. She knew she couldn't be found. If she was, she would lose all her gold coins."
"Gold coins?" Clara murmured, her eyes closing.
"Each coin bought one day on earth. She wanted to live every day, so she couldn't lose any. Because if she did, she would leave all the younger little rats behind."
"And the toad?"
"One day, the evil toad who limped on one leg said that if the little rat didn't go with him to the dungeon, he would take the smaller rats. So she went. To protect the smaller ones."
"She went?"
"She went. And when she arrived, she waited for the toad to croak and shoved a stick into his eye. He screamed and fell, and dropped all the coins. The toad never hurt anyone again."
Clara opened her eyes.
"Wow. That little rat is mean."
"She is."
"I love your stories, Mari. I love you."
Maristela swallowed the lump.
"I love you too, you ugly little rat. Now go to sleep."
She began to stroke Clara's hair, slow movements. It helped Clara sleep and, more importantly, helped Maristela not remember Father Dan's empty eyes.
"What about you? Aren't you coming to sleep?"
Maristela was silent for a moment. And continued stroking.
"No, sweetheart. I need to talk to Silvane."
Maristela saw something adult in Clara's eyes. A silent understanding.
"Good luck, Mari. Watch out for the laughing shadows."
Clara frowned, sleepy, and then fell asleep.
Maristela stood up, walking between the beds like a sleepwalker, her eyes fixed on the bunk bed in the corner by the door.
The top one was empty – it was hers. The bottom one belonged to Silvane.
She stopped beside the bunk bed. Looked at the still body under the blanket. Silvane was on her side, facing the wall, her shoulders tense.
Awake.
Always awake on full moon nights. Waiting. Knowing.
Maristela knelt. Brought her mouth to Silvane's ear. Whispered, almost soundlessly.
"I always hated you for never fighting back. I wanted it to be you in my place. I wanted it to be you who had to go…"
Her shoulders were still tense. But then, under the blanket, her hand moved. Slow. Cautious. Searching.
It found Maristela's hand.
Squeezed.
A minimal gesture. Almost nothing. But it meant everything.
"You hate her for not fighting back, but in the end, you're the one running away like a rat. Who's stronger?" The Orphan's voice croaked.
There was nothing but Silvane's hand squeeze and the bell already beginning to toll outside.
She forced herself to continue:
"Use the money. It's in the well. Almost a conto. Take care of the girls. Buy real food. Buy medicine. Get Clara out of here before-"
BONG.
Maristela knew that pattern. All the novices knew it.
BONG.
Imminent danger. Take cover. Lock the doors. Pray.
BONG.
The sound vibrated in Maristela's teeth.
BONG.
The bell hadn't finished ringing when the horse neighed — it was in the inner courtyard, so close Maristela heard the metal fittings scraping the stone.
BONG.
Men's voices. No — voices of things trying to sound like men.
BONG.
The dormitory door opened violently.
Mother Teresa entered quickly. Her habit was torn at the shoulder, as if claws had tried to grab her but slipped on the thick fabric. She had a shallow red scratch crossing her collarbone.
She breathed in short gasps, but her eyes were dry, focused, and frighteningly calm.
Looking at her hand, it was black, covered with a black ink. The ink was glistening in the light of the corridor's oil lamps.
"Maristela," the mother's voice came out sharp, without the earlier tremor, "They're inside. We have to go."
Her eyes found Silvane.
"Silvane, get up."
Silvane's body stopped trembling. She sat up in bed as if pulled by an invisible thread. Her eyes were red, but dry. She already knew.
"Close the windows. All of them. Lock the doors. Don't open for anyone until sunrise."
Silvane didn't ask anything. She just obeyed. Her bare feet ran across the cold floor, closing the shutters one by one with quick but clumsy movements.
"Maristela, now." Mother Teresa repeated
Maristela moved.
Her body went into automatic mode. Her hands found the extra pillowcase she kept hidden under the mattress — inside, two changes of novice clothes and an old slipper. Always ready. Always waiting.
She slipped her feet into her sandals. Didn't look back.
At the door, Mother Teresa grabbed her arm. Squeezed. It hurt.
"When we leave, you close the door and don't open it for anyone," she said, her eyes fixed on Silvane. "No one. Not even if you hear my voice asking. Not even if you hear Maristela screaming. Not even if you hear God coming down from heaven. Swear."
Silvane swallowed hard.
"I swear."
Mother Teresa pulled Maristela into the corridor.
Maristela saw Silvane holding the door. In her eyes, there were tears, of someone watching a sister leave.
"Thank you," Silvane whispered.
"Go away and never come back."
"I love you too." Maristela said.
The door slammed behind them. The wood creaked — and then the sound of the lock sliding. Silvane had obeyed.
The corridor was empty, but the air was heavy. The saints' oil lamps flickered as if an invisible wind blew through.
"Do you want to keep them safe?" Mother Teresa asked.
She didn't wait for an answer.
"Give me your hand."
Maristela didn't move her hand. She didn't want to move her hand… She didn't want to help the woman who used her as bait for the piranhas.
But keeping the girls safe was more important than her anger.
The mother pulled something from her waist, from under the stained habit. A knife. Small, with a dark handle, but the blade gleamed in the candelabra light. The blade was strange, shining like bronze.
Maristela recognized the handle — carved in the shape of a flower. The petals opened like wings. A hummingbird. The same symbol that was on the convent gate.
"It's protected by the same thing," she had said.
The thing that protected the convent was now in her hand, pointed at Maristela.
"Mother, what are you-"
"I need you to die, Maristela," the mother interrupted.
"Just a little bit. Can you do that for us?"
Maristela looked into the mother's eyes.
Tired. Dirty. But truthful.
"And now what, orphan?" the voice echoed in her mind.