It was time, now, for Mass. She who had been Annith sighed and pulled her habit close about her, hoping the wool will ward off the chill that seemed always to rise from the stones of this old church. She didn't know if Sister Angelica's God had noticed her yet. Like the little nun, she couldn't see Him.
She wore Sister Angelica's form now, and she lived Sister Angelica's life. No one questioned her; no one doubted. Even Annith could scarcely remember who she had been. Only the boy, Thomas Junior, knew the truth. She'd brought him here to the nunnery with her, a charity case she told them, the only survivor of a freak accident. The boy's eyes always watched her, but he would never speak. She went to pray to Sister Angelica's God, and she feared He would listen to her.
And in the heart of the ruby, deep in blood red cloisters, the soul of Sister Angelica knelt in a ruby walled cathedral and prayed to her God unending. But the strangest part of all her prayers what that sometimes—just sometimes—she prayed for me.