[English] The Virgin

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“Did they tell you your score?”

“He did,” Elle said. He meaning Søren.

Her mother’s body stiffened. “He did? Why?”

“He was in charge of my probation, remember? And I had to keep my grades up. One day I was struggling really hard with my pre-calculus. I was in tears because I couldn’t figure it out. He caught me crying into my math book. So he made me some hot chocolate and sat next to me on that bench that’s across from his office door. And he told me he’d seen my school records and that my IQ was something very special. I told him I didn’t feel very smart right then. He said IQ wasn’t a measurement of what you know but how fast your brain works. If the brain was an athlete, then math wasn’t my event. But someday I would find my event and when I did, nothing would stop me from doing whatever I wanted to do with my life. Then he helped me with my homework until I had it halfway figured out.”

For a long time her mother only looked at her. Elle picked up the pages off the counter.

“Maybe this is my event,” Elle said, clutching the pages to her chest.

“I should have told you how smart you are,” her mother said. “I shouldn’t have let that be something he got to tell you.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“I don’t know. You were so confident, so arrogant growing up...I assumed you already knew you were the smartest girl around. You certainly acted like you knew everything.”

Elle laughed a little. “I was an arrogant little ****.”

“Was?”

“Okay, I am. Still am.”

“You know, I’d have to send you to your room sometimes instead of fighting with you because I was scared you’d be able to talk your way out of whatever trouble you’d gotten into. You certainly ran circles around me with your logic sometimes.”

“Still don’t know what the point of making a bed is if I’m only going to sleep in it that night and mess it up again.”

“Same reason we get up every morning and try to make our world better even though we know someone is going to mess it up. That’s why.”

Elle laughed and nodded. “That’s actually a good point. You’re pretty smart, too, Mom.”

“Thank you. Glad you finally noticed that.”

“Only took me, oh, almost twenty-seven years.” Elle would be twenty-seven soon. Too soon. Time was passing quickly and she still didn’t know what to do when and if she left the abbey.

“You’ll behave, won’t you? You’ll get rid of that story?”

“Sure. Of course. It never existed.”

“I sleep easier knowing you’re here and not out there. I don’t want them to make you leave.”

“Are you sure?” Elle asked. “I mean, really? This is your world. Being a nun was your dream. I know it’s probably distracting having me here.”

“Out there,” she said, nodding toward the windows, toward the big wide world outside the walls of the convent. “Out there, I can’t see you, and I don’t know what’s happening to you. I don’t know if you’re safe or if you’re scared, if someone is hurting you or helping you. Here, I can keep an eye on you. I know you’re safe. I know you can’t stay here forever. But while you’re here...yes, I’m glad, Ellie.”

“Thanks, Momma. Thanks for taking me in despite...you know.”

“You left him and that life you were in. All is forgiven. And yes, I think you’re very talented. But write a real book, please.”

Elle took a step forward but her mother was already gone. She sat down on a chair and laid the handwritten pages of her book on her lap.

She’d spent all morning folding laundry, but now she unfolded. She unfolded every single sheet of paper that her mother had crushed and crimped. With a sweep of her hands she flattened the pages and put them back into order.

She had no intention of destroying her story. She’d cut her own hand off before she burned any book, especially one she’d written. No, she would do something else entirely. She’d finish writing the book. And she would get it published. And she would make money off it. And then her mother would see that her book was a real book. People did have ***, after all. Why shouldn’t she write about it?

It needed a title, her book did. That would make it real. A thing must have a name. She couldn’t go on calling it “the story” or “the book.” And once it had a title then she could figure out what to do next. Although she’d read books all her life, she had no idea how to get one published. But she’d figure that out later. Finishing the book was step one.

Elle flipped through a few pages and stopped to read a random section.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?” John asked as he soaped his hands and ran them over her inner thighs and the raw skin of her torn hymen. He’d taken her home like she’d asked him to but instead of putting her in his bed and making love to her again, like he had in the woods, he’d run a bath, set her in it and washed the dirt and blood off of her.

“Does it matter?” she asked, wincing as the hot water scraped the most sensitive places inside her. “Would it have stopped you?”

Daphne looked at him and saw him now as if for the first time. Before she’d lost her virginity, he’d been a monster to her. Mr. Apollo—six feet four inches tall, powerful, able to kill her brother without breaking a sweat. But now she saw he was a man, a human man, not a monster, not a god. A scared man who had made a terrible mistake and had made loving her his penance.

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“Yes,” John said. “It would have stopped me.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you I was a virgin.”

Elle stood up and opened the junk drawer where all the random things she pulled out of the nuns’ habit pockets ended up. The drawer was filled with thimbles and keys, half-used packages of tissues, small tubes of hand lotion, small prayer books and worn-out rosary beads. Elle pulled out a pen from the jumble and removed the cap. At the top of the first page of her story she wrote the title. At least it would act as the title until she thought of something better.

THE VIRGIN

By Eleanor Schreiber

A moment later she crossed out her own name and changed it.

By Elle Schreiber

27

Haiti

GÉRARD RETURNED AND Juliette returned to him. Kingsley did nothing but lie on the beach for one entire week after she left him.

He wasn’t grieving.

He wasn’t mourning.

He was planning.

It would be easy. He knew his way around the house. He could stage a break-in at night, shoot Gérard and get Juliette off the island before they even found the body.

Or he could **** Juliette. He’d spent a whole week ****ing Juliette and he’d got very good at it. And he could do it under Gérard’s roof and time it so that he saw them together. It could drive Gérard into a rage. Kingsley had been trained to kill a man with one well-aimed punch to the Adam’s apple—asphyxiation would ensue—or a sudden hook to the jaw could break the neck if sufficient force was applied. If Gérard attacked him, then anything Kingsley did after that would be considered self-defense. Juliette wouldn’t have to know it had been Kingsley’s plan all along.

Then she would be free.

Violent fantasies consumed Kingsley. Once plotting to kill had been all in a day’s work. His ability to plot an assassination remained as keen as it was in his days doing his quiet cleanup work for the French government in Russia and Eastern Europe. His skills were just as sharp. If only he could get his conscience out of the way so he could go through with it.

The men he’d killed in the past had all warranted his intervention in their continued existence. He’d killed killers. Gérard wasn’t a killer, though. His crime was taking advantage of a scared fourteen-year-old girl trying to save her mother, using her love for her mother to hold her hostage, and to deny her children, the one solace she’d begged for. It was a crime. A crime that needed punishing.

And he would. He could. For Juliette he could.

On the night of the seventh day of his plotting, Kingsley went for a long swim in the ocean to clear his mind and focus his attention. He would go to Gérard’s and watch, only watch. When did Gérard wake up? When did he go to bed? What was his routine? What rooms did he frequent? Did he drink heavily? When did he like to ****? Morning? Noon? Night? All of them? He wouldn’t let Juliette know he was there. No one would know. And once Kingsley knew everything he needed to know, he would do what he had to do, anything he had to do as long as Juliette was his by the time he was done doing it.

Kingsley dressed in dark clothes and sandals. He’d need to be barefoot in Gérard’s house. Silence was the difference between life and death. Life for Juliette. Death for Gérard. He drove to the house and parked far away, hiding the car well out of sight of any passersby. He didn’t bring any weapons with him. He didn’t need them. Gérard was a politician. He’d never even served in the military. He might be tall and strong and handsome, but tall and strong and handsome would be no match for a trained killer on a mission.

Once near Gérard’s home, Kingsley walked its perimeter. He stayed hidden behind the trees and ornamental gardens that surrounded the estate like a green wall. Gérard no doubt saw himself as untouchable on this island. Here he was—rich, powerful, from a white French family that had been here for three hundred years. They’d come before the Revolution and stayed long after many French colonists died or returned to the old country. He had diplomatic immunity, a house like a castle and enough money to buy his way out of any problem.

He wouldn’t buy his way out of this one.

Kingsley entered the house through a sliding glass door using his elbow to open and close it. He stood in the dark room, a small office or library, and let his eyes adjust to the interior light. At the door he listened and heard voices in the house. More than two. Gérard had company.

When the sound of the voices dimmed, Kingsley eased the door open and stepped into the hallway. He stayed close to the wall and took note of every door, every window. If he were caught by anyone other than Gérard, he’d have to escape quickly.

He turned a corner, walked up a short flight of stairs. A door at the end of a hallway was ajar and light streamed through it. Kingsley crept to the door and peered inside. He saw Juliette. She was alone, and appeared to be packing or unpacking someone’s suitcase. In the lamplight she glowed with quiet beauty. She wore a white dress with a long white scarf in her hair trailing over her shoulder. She looked serene as she bent over the open suitcase and sorted through the contents. When finished she walked to a large wooden birdcage hanging in the open window and whistled at the little yellow bird inside who danced on its little legs for her and fluttered about the cage.

He shouldn’t let her see him. She shouldn’t know yet he was there. He needed to watch, to wait, to assess the situation before acting. But he couldn’t look away from her.

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When she moved her head, the light caught her face, and he saw tears on her cheeks. Juliette turned her back and Kingsley stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. His plan was discarded in an instant. All that mattered was her.

Kingsley clapped a hand over her mouth from behind and held her tight against him. Her body tensed, ready to fight or flee.

“It’s me,” he whispered in her ear. At once she relaxed into his arms. “Good girl.”

He let her go and she turned to face him. Before she could say a word, his mouth was on hers, and he had her backed against the wall.

“He’s home,” she said against his lips, but it was the only protest she made.

“Good. If I **** you hard enough do you think he’ll hear?”

He didn’t let her answer. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and kissed her so brutally she whimpered. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Her hips pushed into his, and she reached between their bodies to open his pants. He had the condom on as quickly as possible and her panties off and on the floor in seconds. He lifted her off the floor and brought her down onto him, impaling her with one thrust.

Once Kingsley was inside her, time stopped. The rush and the urgency ceased. He was in her and that was all that mattered and would ever matter.

He kissed her gently now. Their tongues mingled, their breath... He held her thighs, stroking them, gripping them. She had one foot on the floor and one leg wrapped around his back. She smelled like a tropical garden, like Eden, like Paradise before the Fall. His tongue traced the line of her neck, slid over her collarbone, her shoulder. He pushed the straps of her dress down and bared her breasts.

The heat inside her was incredible. She burned him from the inside out. They pressed their bodies into each other. She had her hands flat against the wall to steady herself as she tilted her hips up. Kingsley pressed his thumb against her clitoris and she shuddered silently. The day’s heat hadn’t worn off yet and sweat covered them both. He tasted the salt on her skin as he dropped his head and took a nipple in his mouth, sucking deeply.

Juliette raised her arms, twined them around his shoulders, holding him to her breast.

“Mon roi,” she whispered, a sob her in voice, and Kingsley went weak. He kissed his way up to her mouth again, kissed the tears off her face. She buried her face into his neck and he held her there, held her close and let her cry.

He couldn’t stop and she didn’t want him to. He thrust into her, and she took it. She took it until he came hard enough the world went black, and he had to blink to clear his vision.

Juliette looked at him and he raised his hands to her face and wiped away her tears. More came to take their place.

“I can take these away,” Kingsley said.

“How?”

“I have a plan.”

“To do what?” she demanded. Juliette pulled away from him and straightened her dress.

“I can kill him.”

Juliette laughed, laughed right in his face.

“You’re out of your mind,” she said.

“I’m not joking.”

“I’m pretending you are.”

“You’ll be free.”

“Free? Killing a man isn’t freedom. Death isn’t freedom. Running away isn’t freedom. I could walk out of this house tonight of my own volition if I wanted to.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I choose to stay. I told you why. He takes care of my mother.”

“Who takes care of you?”

“I don’t need taking care of.”

“Yes, you do.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, but a cry echoed from the next room. Kingsley recognized the cry at once. It was the cry of a baby, shrill and piercing.

“Who is that?” Kingsley demanded.

“His grandson,” Juliette said, obviously annoyed. But not with the baby. With him. She strode purposefully from the room and Kingsley followed her into the guest room next door, where someone had set up a nursery. She reached over the side of a crib and lifted the crying baby boy from his bed. She put a cloth diaper over her shoulder and bounced him a few times until he quieted.

She carried him past Kingsley, ignoring him studiously, and walked down the hall. Kingsley switched off the light behind her and stayed in the shadows of the doorway. At the end of the hall Gérard met her. He patted the baby on his head and kissed him. He listened as Gérard complimented his grandson for his impressive lung capacity. He took the boy from Juliette’s arms and held him to his chest, rubbing the boy’s back and soothing the last of his tears.

“Let’s go find your maman,” Gérard said to his grandson. “She’ll talk some sense into you.”

“I should go to bed,” Juliette said to Gérard.

“Go, but stay awake,” Gérard said. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Your daughter is here,” Juliette said. “You shouldn’t come to me tonight. She might hear.”

“She’s going out soon to meet friends. He’ll sleep. You don’t.” He kissed her on the cheek and walked off, bouncing his grandson in his arms and laughing.

And in that moment Kingsley felt something hit him like an ocean wave, knock the breath out of him, kick the legs out from under him and send his heart to his knees in the sand.

Envy. Envy the likes of which he had never before felt in his life. Envy of this man and the life he had. Children, grandchildren, Juliette in his home, in his bed, in his heart. And if Kingsley had been offered the chance to take Gérard’s place, and all he had to do was go back in time and **** fourteen-year-old Juliette, he would have done it. He would have done it in a second. He would have done it in a heartbeat, in an instant, and he wouldn’t have regretted one second of it. And that meant he couldn’t pass judgment on Gérard and certainly couldn’t sentence him to death.

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They were the same.

Juliette came back to Kingsley.

“You have to leave,” she said.

“I’ll go.”

“Leave for good. Leave me. We’re only making it worse.”

Kingsley leaned back against the door frame.

“I want to have children,” he said to her.

Juliette glanced away from him as if she couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. “So do I.”

“I got someone pregnant, and she didn’t want it.”

“That’s why you’re here in Haiti? You’re grieving?”

“Yes,” he said.

Juliette leaned against him, clasping the back of his neck with her hand and resting her head on his shoulder.

“I want to rescue you,” he said. “Please let me.”

“You’re not a real king,” Juliette said, looking up at him. “And I’m not a princess in a tower. He’s not a dragon. We’re real people and a sword’s not going to solve this problem.”

“I know.” The two hardest words he’d said yet to her.

“I can’t save you. You have to save yourself,” Juliette said. “Go.”

She let him go, took a step back and met his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Je suis desolée. She touched his face and walked off, walked away, following the path Gérard had taken.

And Kingsley was sorry, too.

He left the house and walked back to his car, drove to his hut and stood alone on the beach watching the moon glide across the ocean.

Save yourself, Juliette had ordered. He loved her enough to take that order from her.

Haiti and Manhattan were on the same time. He returned to his hut, and dialed a number.

“Hey, boss,” Calliope said when she answered the phone. She sounded sleepy. He’d probably woken her up. “What’s up?”

“I need you to do something for me,” he said.

“Sure. What is it?”

“Book a flight for me.”

“Sure. Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“France?”

“No. Home. I’m coming home, Cal.”

“Seriously?” The joy in her voice was small comfort, but he’d take any comfort he could get. “When?”

“As soon as you can get my flight.”

He heard clicking in the background, her fingers flying over a keyboard.

“Then guess what?” she asked.

“What?”

“I’ll see you tomorrow night, boss.”

She booked his flight and gave him his confirmation. Then before she got off the phone he gave her three more orders.

He packed his bags and left nothing behind that would let Juliette know who he was or where he’d gone.

Then he did the one thing he’d sworn he would never do.

He left Haiti without Juliette.

28

Upstate New York

ELLE RAN THROUGH the woods chasing after Kyrie. The girl had played volleyball in high school and she ran like an athlete—fearlessly and tirelessly. She sprinted like a gazelle with her long-legged gait, jumping gracefully. Elle pursued her deeper into the trees, following the sound of her laughter, the rustle of leaves.

At the far end of the abbey’s grounds stood a small marble oratory hidden among a cluster of trees. Elle hadn’t stepped foot in it yet, but Kyrie said it was her favorite place to pray. They weren’t planning on praying much tonight.

When she reached the oratory, Elle stopped and looked around. It was night and the moon loomed large above the trees. The spring night was crisp but Elle wasn’t cold even though her breath hung like a cloud in the air whenever she exhaled. After running she had to wipe sweat off her forehead. She had on jeans and a T-shirt but no shoes. They’d both run like hoydens through the woods, heedless of twigs and stones and the cold ground. Angels must be watching tonight. Neither one of them had tripped in their flight from the abbey to the chapel.

But where had Kyrie gone?

“Kyrie?” Elle whispered. Her voice coiled around the trees and sprang back to her own ears.

“Boo!” Kyrie said from behind her. Elle spun around and caught Kyrie by the forearm before she could run off again.

“You’re terrible at hiding,” Elle said, pulling her close.

“I am not terrible at hiding. I’m wonderful at being found.” Kyrie kissed Elle on the mouth and laughed.

“Why are you running from me?” Elle asked.

“Because I want you to catch me.”

“I caught you. What do I get?”

“I have a present,” Kyrie said.

“For me?”

“For you.”

“Is it wrapped up in a white bow?” Elle tugged on the ribbon on Kyrie’s white nightgown. It tied under her breasts and when loosened would allow the gown to fall off her. She wore no socks, no shoes, no veil. Her blond hair hung loose and wild around her shoulders. In the moonlight she glowed like a candle, and Elle followed the light to its source, kissing her on the mouth as she held her in place. Kyrie would not get away from her again.

“Come inside,” Kyrie said against Elle’s lips.

“I plan to.”

Elle pushed Kyrie against a tree and kissed her even harder. She yanked on the bow of Kyrie’s nightgown and pulled it down her shoulders. In the cool air, Kyrie’s nipples had peaked hard and Elle bent her head and ran her tongue over them until Kyrie moaned. She loved making Kyrie moan, making her gasp, making her come. Pleasuring this girl had become the raison d’être of Elle’s entire existence.

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Kyrie laughed for seemingly no reason. She danced away from Elle, clutching her nightgown to her neck.

“Come and get me,” Kyrie taunted, running to the small chapel. She crooked her finger at Elle before disappearing through the wooden door.

Elle didn’t follow at first. She looked around, eyeing the trees, the twigs on the ground. At last she found what she needed, a long thin twig with smooth slick bark and a lot of give to it. Elle bent it and released the tip. It bent easily and sprang back in an instant. Perfect.

After she peeled the leaves off the cane and stripped it of extraneous twigs, Elle entered the oratory and found Kyrie at the front by the prayer altar spreading blankets on the floor.

Elle grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her in for another kiss.

“I brought these here earlier today and hid them,” Kyrie said with a bright smile when she saw Elle.

“Preme***ated ***ual assignations,” Elle said. “You’ll have so much tell Father Antonio next time you confess.”

“He’ll be so excited,” Kyrie said. “Hope I don’t give him a heart attack.”

“Priests hear everything. Takes a lot to shock them, I promise.”

“Still...it’ll be fun to try.” Kyrie sat on the blanket right in the middle.

“So where’s my present?” Elle asked. The only light in the oratory came from the moon through the windows. Elle took two candles out of her duffel bag and lit them. She wanted light but not too much. She didn’t want anyone from the abbey waking up in the night and seeing light emanating from the chapel windows.

“I’ll give you your present later,” Kyrie said. “I don’t want to distract you from, well, me.”

“A nuclear bomb blast couldn’t distract me from you right now.”

Once they had light, Elle sat on the blanket in front of Kyrie and unzipped her duffel bag.

“Did you bring me a present, too?” Kyrie asked.

“Nothing for you,” Elle said. “This is for me.”

“What is?”

Elle pulled out a comb and a hair band.

“What are you doing to me?” Kyrie asked as Elle moved to her side and gathered a lock of hair in her fingers.

“Anything I want to do to you,” Elle said. “As usual.”

“Good. I like everything you do to me. Even if it means pulling my hair.”

“Not pulling it, braiding it. You’re my fairy princess tonight so you need princess hair.”

With nimble fingers that had twenty-seven years of experience taming her own wild tresses, Elle plaited Kyrie’s hair into a thin French braid at the side of her head. She moved to the opposite side and gave Kyrie a matching braid. While Elle worked, Kyrie closed her eyes.

“That feels good,” Kyrie said of Elle’s hands in her hair. “I miss having my hair touched.”

“You’ll miss it even more when you don’t have any hair at all.”

Kyrie didn’t say anything to that. Elle wondered how much their one night together had changed Kyrie’s thoughts about taking her final vows. Did she still plan to become a nun? Would she stay? Go? Had she thought about it? Elle didn’t ask her. She didn’t want to know.

When she finished the two braids, Elle gathered them in the back of Kyrie’s head and used the band to tie them together. Now her two braids formed a crown, like a Daphne wreath.

“Perfect,” she said, pleased with her work.

“Is it?” Kyrie asked, smiling shyly.

“You’re so beautiful. I can’t believe you’re mine.”

“I am yours,” Kyrie said, and leaned in for a kiss, a kiss Elle was only too happy to give her. As they kissed, Elle pulled Kyrie’s nightgown down to her stomach. She pushed Kyrie onto her back, not breaking the kiss once. She licked and kissed a path from Kyrie’s lips to her quivering flat stomach and lower as Elle dragged the gown all the way off her and tossed it aside.

“Are you warm enough?” Elle asked as she surveyed Kyrie’s naked body, her small pert breasts and long lithe limbs.

“I am,” Kyrie said, a nervous hitch in her breath.

“I want to hurt you tonight. Can I?”

“You can do anything you want to me.”

“Do you want to be hurt?”

“I want to do anything you want to do,” Kyrie said, and Elle could have laughed at her eagerness. Those could have been Elle’s own words to Søren seven years ago on their first night together. Anything...anything at all... His pleasure and happiness had meant so much more to her than her own.

Elle kissed Kyrie on the forehead.

“I want you to touch yourself,” Elle said. “Like you do when you’re alone.”

“You’re going to watch?”

“I am. And while you’re doing that, I’ll hurt you. And I’ll keep hurting you until you come. And once you come, I’ll stop hurting you.”

Kyrie swallowed and took a ragged breath. She spread her legs and slipped her right hand down her stomach.

“Nervous?”

“No one’s ever watched me do this before,” Kyrie said. “You?”

“I have lost count of how many times I’ve done this for an audience,” Elle said as she ran her hand up and down Kyrie’s soft inner thigh.

“It’s a little embarrassing,” Kyrie admitted.

“That’s why Søren would make me do it for him.”

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“Is that why you’re making me do it? To embarrass me?”

“No,” Elle said. “I think it’s ***y. There’s nothing embarrassing about a girl touching her own body.”

She gave Kyrie one more kiss on the lips, then a kiss on each of her nipples. She watched for a moment as Kyrie’s middle and index fingers found her clitoris and stroked it.

Elle picked up her makeshift cane and flicked Kyrie on the smooth skin above her knee. Kyrie flinched.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Elle asked, smiling.

“I can’t believe a little thing like that can cause so much pain.”

“Canes are vicious bitches,” Elle said.

“I was talking about you.”

Elle laughed. “I’m a vicious little bitch, too.”

Kyrie closed her eyes and Elle silently counted to ten. Every ten seconds she would strike Kyrie somewhere on her thighs. She worked her way up the leg and back down again. Kyrie continued stroking herself, kneading her own clitoris until she panted.

As Elle hurt her, she felt herself falling into a place of deep tranquility and calm. Everything outside the chapel ceased to exist. And all that mattered in the world was the world in front of her, this beautiful naked girl who’d given Elle her body.

Along with the tranquility, Elle felt something else. Power. Another human being had given up control of her body to Elle, had put her life into Elle’s hands. Elle cherished that trust. It honored her and aroused her. Was this what Søren felt with her? Did he miss feeling it now that she was gone?

Eight...nine...ten.

Elle hit Kyrie again. She could see angry red welts on Kyrie’s pale flesh. Elle smiled at them, loving the sight of them, knowing she’d given them to Kyrie and they wouldn’t fade for at least a day or more.

Kyrie’s breathing grew more labored. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly. She let out a soft cry, music to Elle’s ears. Her pain and her pleasure sounded the same to Elle’s ears—like music.

Her narrow hips rose an inch off the blanket and pulsed upward. Elle waited and watched. At the moment Kyrie inhaled hard, Elle struck her repeatedly while her orgasm washed over her. She collapsed back on the blanket with a sigh and a laugh.

“That’s my good little girl,” Elle said, stretching out at Kyrie’s side and stroking her face.

“That was really strong,” Kyrie said.

“Pain will do that,” Elle said. “I don’t know how or why, but it’s like putting nitrous oxide in a car engine. It’s a performance booster. Zero to sixty in five seconds flat.”

Kyrie laughed again and wrapped an arm around Elle’s neck.

“You’re explaining orgasms using car metaphors. You are the weirdest woman in the world,” Kyrie said. “No wonder I’m so crazy about you.”

“I might be crazy about you, too.” Elle slid her hand down Kyrie’s chest and stomach. “Especially this part of you.” She pushed two fingers into Kyrie and found her slick with her own wetness.

“That part of me is inordinately fond of you, as well.”

Kyrie opened her legs wide, and Elle massaged her inner muscles with two and then three fingers. She didn’t try to bring her to another climax again. She only wanted to touch, to explore, to feel. But it didn’t take long before Kyrie panted again and dug her fingers into Elle’s thigh. Elle lowered her head and sucked hard on Kyrie’s nipple. Soon she felt Kyrie’s vagina tighten and convulse around her hand with her second orgasm.

Elle pulled her fingers out and wiped the wetness off on the blanket.

“How was that?” she asked Kyrie, who slowly blinked her way back to awareness.

“I love orgasms. I say a prayer of thanks to God for them every day.”

“You say a prayer of thanks for orgasms?” Elle asked.

“Of course. I mean, they’re a gift from God, right? A woman doesn’t need to have an orgasm to get pregnant, right?”

“Right.”

“So if they have nothing to do with reproduction, then why do women have them?” Kyrie asked. She raised her hand and pointed a finger up at the ceiling, at the sky, where God lived. “Orgasms are God’s way of saying He’s sorry about periods and cramps.”

“Apology accepted,” Elle said.

Kyrie said, “Amen.”

Still laughing, Elle sat up and looked around the chapel. “This might be the weirdest prayer meeting ever held in here. Lord, we thank You for orgasms...”

“I don’t know. This place has been around for over a hundred years,” Kyrie said. “I’m sure we’re not the first people to use it for less than entirely angelic reasons.”

“You think other nuns have come out here for their liaisons?”

“Maybe,” Kyrie said. “And locals, maybe.”

“Can outsiders get in here?” Elle asked.

“Definitely. There’s a door. A secret door.”

“Where does it go?”

Kyrie sat up now and pulled her gown back on. “I’ll show you.”

She stood up and Elle followed her to what she’d thought was a storage room behind the prayer altar. But the door didn’t lead to a room. It led outside to a path in the woods. A long tall wooden fence stretched as far as the eye could see all the way from the chapel to the abbey in one direction and from the chapel to the edge of the convent’s acreage in the other.

Elle didn’t cross the threshold to the outside world. But she stared at it almost hungrily.

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“The door locks from the inside,” Kyrie said. “Nobody from out there can come in unless someone in here unlocks the door for them. But maybe that’s happened. Maybe someone from inside the abbey had someone outside the abbey they wanted to see.”

“Why do they have a door back here? We’re not allowed to leave the abbey without permission.”

“It was for the workers who built the oratory. They cordoned off this area while they built it. They didn’t want big burly construction workers tromping through the abbey so they had them come in through the back door of the chapel. They never sealed off the door, though.”

“Lock it,” Elle said.

“But—”

“Do it.”

Kyrie shut the door immediately and locked it up.

“What’s wrong?” She looked at Elle in confusion.

“I don’t want anyone coming in here,” Elle said, her heart racing for no reason she could or would name.

“Who would come in?”

“Nobody.”

“Then why—”

“We should get back to the abbey,” Elle said, taking a step away from the door.

“Elle, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a bad liar,” Kyrie said, taking Elle’s hand. “You don’t really think he’d break in here, do you?”

“No,” Elle said. “But I might break out.”

Kyrie looked up at her sharply, hurt in her eyes.

“You want to leave?” Kyrie asked.

“No. Yes.”

“Which is it?”

Elle shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.”

When Elle looked Kyrie in the eyes, she saw fear there. Her gut instinct was to take it away. This girl was hers to protect and to cherish. Dominants were supposed to take care of their submissives. Being a Dominant was harder than she’d anticipated.

“Elle, please. You’re kind of freaking me out.”

“I want to leave,” Elle said, choosing honesty. “But I don’t want to leave you.”

“I see.” Kyrie let go of Elle’s hand and returned to the blanket on the floor. She pulled her legs in tight to her chest.

It wasn’t until she’d seen the open door that she’d realized how much she wanted to walk through it. Not walk—run. She wanted to run through and keep running until she’d put a thousand miles between her and this convent.

“Are you leaving?” Kyrie asked, looking up at Elle.

“No. I can’t leave. I don’t know where I’d go, what I’d do.”

“I do,” Kyrie said.

“What?”

“I said I know what you can do. I told you I’d figure out what you could do with your life. So I figured it out.”

Elle laughed coldly. “You figured out what I can do with my life?”

Kyrie stood up and walked to the back room where she’d hidden blankets.

“I told you I had a present for you.” Kyrie came back out holding an envelope. She gave it to Elle. “So here.”

The envelope had already been opened. It was addressed to Kyrie, not her. One single sheet of paper was inside. Elle unfolded it and held it near the candle.

Dear Kyrie, the letter began.

It was wonderful to hear from you. I think of Bethany every single day. Her books are on my shelves and her memory lives in my heart.

“Who is this?” Elle asked, looking up from the letter.

“My sister’s literary agent,” Kyrie said. “Keep reading.”

I’ll admit I was surprised to receive fifty handwritten pages of an erotic novel from a convent in New York, but Bethany did tell me her baby sister was the odd duck in the family. We have submission guidelines here, but I certainly couldn’t tell any sister of Bethany’s no. I’m glad I didn’t say no. Your friend Elle is an extremely talented writer. I couldn’t put the pages you sent me down and was most unhappy when I reached the end and found there was no more to read.

“You sent my book to your sister’s agent?”

Kyrie grinned in the dark. “I made photocopies of the first fifty pages and sent it to her. But keep reading.”

The letter now shook in her hands.

Please tell me when your friend has finished her novel. And ask her to send it to me as soon as she can. If the rest of the book is as strong as the pages you sent, we can absolutely sell this. I have a list of e***ors already who would be interested. My contact information is below. When your friend is finished with the book, tell her to email me the completed manuscript and call me as soon as she can.

Elle read the letter again. Then again. She had trouble believing it was real.

“You’re ****ting me,” Elle said. “When did you do this?”

“You gave me the book to read so I read it all,” Kyrie said. “I snuck into the offices and used the copy machine to copy the pages. I sent them to my sister’s agent. She and Bethany were close. I knew she’d do me a favor and read it for Bethany’s sake. But she’s tough and honest. If she says she can sell it, she means it.”

“Oh ****. I have to finish the book.”

“How long will that take you?”

“I don’t know. A month. Six weeks. It takes a long time to write it out by hand.”

“You can do it. I know you can finish it.”

“I can.”

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“Are you losing your mind?”

“I kind of am.” Elle’s brain reeled. She had a thousand thoughts all at once. She knew how to finish the book. She’d had the ending in mind for weeks. But everything she’d written was a mess, all handwritten notebook pages. She needed to type the entire book up now. Not on a typewriter. She needed a computer. And a telephone. She had access to neither of them here. It might be 2004 out there in the real world, but the entire convent was stuck in 1904. Mother Prioress had a computer but there was no way Elle could use it to type her novel.

“My kingdom for a laptop,” Elle said.

“What are you going to do, Elle?” Kyrie asked.

“If I pursue this...”

“I know,” Kyrie said. If Elle pursued this, she couldn’t do it from the abbey. She would have to leave.

“You could have gotten into a lot of trouble doing this,” Elle said. “Breaking into Mother Prioress’s office—”

“She doesn’t keep it locked. I snuck in.”

“You snuck in to make photocopies of an erotic story written by the woman you’re sleeping with.”

“We weren’t sleeping together at the time,” Kyrie reminded her.

“Why did you do this for me?”

“I’d do anything for you. You know that.”

“Would you leave with me?” Elle asked.

“Leave the abbey with you?”

“I won’t go unless you go with me,” Elle said, meaning it.

“Where would we go?”

“I don’t know.”

“What would we do for money?”

“I don’t know.” Elle was quickly running out of the cash she’d had with her.

“Where would we stay?”

“I don’t know. But I can’t walk through that door without you.”

“Okay then,” Kyrie said.

“Okay what?”

“Okay. If you can’t leave without me, then I’ll go with you.”

“You’re serious,” Elle said, not quite believing her.

“I am. Now how many points do I get for getting my sister’s agent interested in your book?”

Elle shook her head. “I don’t know. Infinity points.” She pressed the letter to her chest.

“Then I win,” Kyrie said. “You have to tell me why you left him.”

The joy went out of the room.

“Why do you want to know?” Elle asked as she folded the letter up and slipped it back in the envelope. She would keep this letter all her life.

“Because it’s the one thing you won’t tell me. And if I’m leaving here with you, I want to know the truth about why you’re here. I want to know the truth about you. All of it. If I can walk out of this place—this place that’s my home now—then the least you can do is tell me the truth about you and him.”

“It’s not important.”

“If it wasn’t important you would have told me already.”

“Fine. It is important but it doesn’t matter to us.”

“It matters to me. It matters that you’re keeping something life-altering from me. If I’m leaving my life because of you, you have to tell me why you left your life because of him. If we’re going to be together, we can’t keep secrets from each other.”

Elle took a long heavy breath and looked away from Kyrie. At the front of the oratory near the ceiling was an octagon-shaped clear window. The moon shone through the window. A moon like a Cheshire cat’s smile. Wonderland was out there, outside the door.

But there were Jabberwockys out in Wonderland. Kyrie was right. If she was to leave the safety of the abbey behind, she needed to know what was out there.

“Fine. You want to know why I left him. This is why.”

She picked up her little makeshift cane and broke it into three pieces. She dropped the three pieces in front of Kyrie on the blanket.

“He broke something?” Kyrie asked.

“Yes,” Elle said, staring at the broken twigs of nothing on the ground.

“He broke a cane?”

“No,” Elle said. “He broke me.”

29

SØREN WAS COMING home and Elle wanted to be there when he arrived. Someone from Kingsley’s entourage would pick him up at the airport in the Rolls, as usual, and drive him to the rectory in Wakefield. Kingsley himself might go and meet him. She’d asked him not to. She wanted to be the one to tell Søren what had happened while he was gone. But she never knew with Kingsley whose side he would take. Sometimes hers. Sometimes Søren’s.

More often than not Kingsley took Kingsley’s side.

She borrowed Kingsley’s BMW and drove it to Søren’s. A few times she had to stop, pull over and throw up on the side of the road. Lucky for the road it had started to rain.

When she arrived at last, she was light-headed with dehydration and exhaustion. The overnight bag she had over her shoulder felt like a lead weight she could scarcely carry. She dragged herself up the single set of stairs in Søren’s rectory, smiling with a tiredness that bordered on delirium. Her first night with Søren he’d carried her up these stairs. She’d kill for someone to carry her now.

Elle went to the bedroom first and unlocked the box that contained her collar. She didn’t put it on. She just wanted it. For five minutes she lay on his bed before rushing to the bathroom to throw up again. Afterward she stretched out on the floor. It felt oddly comforting, lying there with the cool clean tile pressing against her burning skin. She breathed through her nose, which helped alleviate some of her nausea. The cramps came and went and she ignored them when she could, accepted them when she couldn’t. And when at last she was cool enough and comfortable enough to almost fall asleep, she heard footsteps on the stairs.

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She struggled into a sitting position when Søren called out her name.

“I’m here,” she called back. “In the bathroom. You can come in.”

Her heart was pounding now. She hadn’t seen him in ten weeks and so much had happened. She started to stand but a wave of light-headedness hit her so she stayed on the floor. Søren opened the door and whatever pleasure had been in his eyes a split second earlier evaporated with one look at her.

“I’m sick,” she said. “Not contagious.”

She didn’t know why she’d added that part at the end about not being contagious. If she’d had leprosy, Søren still would have done what he’d done just then. He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto the floor behind him, came down to his knees and pulled her into his arms.

It hurt. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Being loved and held by him hurt.

“What’s wrong, Little One?” he asked in her ear. He smoothed her hair back, tucked it behind her ear, kissed her forehead. All the actions of a loving father.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Tell me anyway. It’s an order.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, trying to smile for him, but she didn’t have any smiles left in her. Not even for him. “It wasn’t yours. You should know that first.”

“What wasn’t mine?”

And it seemed as soon as he asked the question he knew the answer. Before she could speak again, explain herself, his eyes closed and he let out a breath.

“Kingsley’s.” It wasn’t a question.

“Kingsley’s,” she said. “I went to the doctor yesterday. They gave me pills.”

“You went to the doctor.” His voice was devoid of emotion. “Who did you go with?”

“Kingsley’s driver took me,” she said.

“Did Kingsley go with you?”

“You know how much he hates doctors.”

Søren didn’t say anything.

“It’ll take a few days for it to all work out,” she continued. “The nausea’s normal, the doctor said. And the cramping. I’m bleeding pretty heavy, but that’s normal, too. And...”

And she stopped talking. She’d lost her train of thought and it didn’t matter anyway. Søren’s back rested against the bathroom door, and she lay across his lap, in his arms, tired and helpless as a child.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last, and then the tears came. “I’m so sorry.”

Her body shook with her tears, which set off spasms of pain in her back and stomach. But she couldn’t stop crying, not now that she was in Søren’s arms. He tried to console her, to comfort her, but it was useless. Everything hurt, inside and out. Over the sound of her own racking sobs, she heard his voice speaking to her in soft murmurs.

“I love you, Little One. Now and always. And nothing you can do will take my love away from you. I will never leave you. You’re mine now and always...”

And still she cried. She cried until sheer exhaustion silenced her sobbing.

She could have fallen asleep right there in his arms on the floor of his bathroom. She should have fallen asleep. She needed sleep. It had been twenty-four hours or more since she’d slept.

“We’ll be married,” Søren said.

Elle came instantly awake.

“What?”

“I said we will be married. You and I.”

“Married? Are you serious?”

“Of course I am.”

Married? Her and Søren? Husband and wife? It was tempting, she had to admit, if only to herself. They had never talked about getting married before, but as soon as he said the word she had a vision of it. Søren in a tuxedo. She would be in a dress—off-white, not pure white. And Kingsley would stand next to Søren, his best man. Søren’s confessor, Father Ballard, would perform the ceremony. Søren’s mother would come, of course. And his sisters, maybe even Elizabeth. They’d honeymoon in Denmark. They might move in with Kingsley when they got back to New York. Knowing his sister Claire and how much she wanted Søren to leave the priesthood, she’d buy them a house of their own as a wedding gift. They could go out in public together whenever they wanted. That would be nice. They could have kids, too. Did Søren even want children? He’d never said anything to her about it. Obviously she didn’t want kids. If she did she wouldn’t be sitting here on the bathroom floor in the worst pain of her life. They’d have to do something for money, of course. Søren could work at the United Nations as a translator. She would...what? What did she want to do?

Not get married. That’s what she wanted to do. She hadn’t even figured out who Eleanor Schreiber was yet. How the **** was she supposed to be Eleanor Stearns?

“No,” Eleanor said. “I’m not marrying you.”

“It’s not up for discussion.”

“Of course it’s up for discussion. Why in hell do you think getting married is going to solve anything?”

“I can’t leave you alone anymore. I leave you alone too much. If I had been here, this wouldn’t have happened.”

“If you had been here, it might have been yours.”

“And you wouldn’t have gone through this alone. I’ll call the bishop now.”

He stood up off the floor. Elle reached out and grabbed his leg at the ankle.

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“Søren, no.”

He looked down at her as if he couldn’t understand what it was that had grabbed his leg.

“Eleanor, let go. I have to make a phone call.”

“Don’t call him. Calm down. Getting married isn’t going to make this go away.”

“I’m perfectly calm. This will give me peace of mind, which is more than I have now. I thought I could trust you with Kingsley. That was my mistake. It won’t happen again.”

He started off down the hall and Elle fought her exhaustion and pain to get to her feet. But she did stand and she stood up straight. She followed Søren down the hall to his bedroom. He’d already picked up the phone. She slapped her hand down on the receiver to hang up the call.

“I’m not marrying you,” Elle said. “So don’t even bother calling anyone.”

“I’ve made my decision.”

“It’s not your decision to make. Marriage takes two people. I said no.”

“You’re exhausted, you’re ill and you’ve been through something traumatic. You’re not thinking clearly right now.”

“I’m not the one out of my damn mind right now. I am not going to marry you. No. Not now. Not ever. You are a Catholic priest. You can’t get married.”

“I’ll leave the priesthood.”

“You will do no such thing,” she said, standing as straight as she could despite the pain in her stomach and back. “God and I made a deal a long time ago. If He’d let us be together, I would never take you from the Church. I plan on keeping that promise.”

“And I’ll keep mine. I promised I would do anything to protect you. I will.”

“I don’t need protection. I don’t need to get married.”

“What you want is immaterial in this matter. Go to bed. I will handle this.”

“Immaterial? Have you forgotten I am a twenty-six-year-old adult woman and not a child? You do not get to decide what I do.”

“Of course I do. I own you.”

“You own me. That’s fine when we’re in bed. That’s fine when I’ve got my collar on. It’s not fine when you’re telling me I have to marry someone I don’t want to marry.”

“You promised you would obey me forever. Did you not make me that promise?”

“When I was fifteen. Do you think I’m still fifteen?”

“You’re certainly acting like it.”

“I promised God I would never take you from the Church. That’s a deal He and I made when I was seventeen.”

“I think I know what God wants for my life more than you do,” he said.

“And I know what God wants for my life better than you do.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“Oh, you arrogant prick,” she said. “You might be a priest but that doesn’t mean you know more about me and God than I do. I have my own faith. It’s mine and not yours.” And here she broke into furious tears that she just as furiously wiped from her face. “And you can’t take it away from me. I won’t let you.”

Søren ignored her and picked up the phone again. Once more Eleanor slammed her hand down to cut off the call.

“Eleanor, I will handcuff you to the bed if I have to,” he said.

“Don’t you dare lay a hand on me when you’re like this,” she said, pointing at the center of his chest. “You are out of control.”

“I have never been more in control. You are the one being irrational and emotional.”

“I had an abortion, which means not only did I break Kingsley’s heart, I’m also excommunicated. I’m allowed to be emotional right now. But there is nothing irrational about me not wanting to marry you. That might be the most rational decision I’ve ever made. You are a Catholic priest who loves being a priest. You are called to the priesthood. If you’ve told me once, you have told me a thousand times how happy being a priest makes you. You will be miserable if you leave the church. I know you. Being married to me will not make you happier than being a priest does. It’s your calling. Marrying me is not your calling.”

“My happiness is also immaterial to this discussion.”

“Not to me, it isn’t. I will not let you resent me for the rest of our lives together, because I let you do something in a fit of madness that can’t be undone. I will leave you before I let you throw your happiness away on some misguided attempt to make an honest woman out of me. Søren—that ship has sailed.”

He met her eyes and looked down into her face. He was a wall, a granite wall, concrete and steel-reinforced.

“I have made my decision,” he said as coldly as he’d ever said anything to her.

Eleanor bent down and unzipped her duffel bag. From it she pulled out the riding crop Kingsley had given her. She took it by the handle, and when Søren reached for the phone again she slapped it hard against the table.

“I topped Kingsley while you were gone,” she said in answer to the look of confusion he gave her.

“You did what?”

“I topped Kingsley while you were gone,” she repeated. “Several times. I hurt him. I beat him, cut him, burned him and ****ed him up the ass with a strap-on. And I loved it.”

“You loved it.”

“I loved it. I loved every second of it. I was scared at first. But once I started, I couldn’t stop. The more I hurt him, the more I wanted to hurt him. He bought me this riding crop as a gift, and I used it on him.”