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Still, I press my fingers to her neck, feeling for a pulse, then lower my bloody hand to the center of her chest where I find a braid of hair. It can only be Emeline’s.
Simon’s silhouette hovers in the doorway, a black shape against an only slightly lighter background. “Where are you, Cat? Did you find anyone?”
“It’s Mother Agnes,” I moan. “She’s dead.”
“What about the killer?” he asks. “Where did he go?”
I reach for the cord tied around Mother’s waist and immediately find her ring of keys. “The gate is still locked! He might be in the abbey!”
The shadow that is Simon vanishes.
Suddenly I’m alone in the darkness. What if the killer hasn’t left this room?
Terrifying as that thought is, a second quickly makes me forget it: Where is Marguerite?
I sit up on my knees, looking around, though I can see nothing. “Marga?” I use her childhood nickname without thinking. “Marga, where are you?”
I knew I knew I knew this day would come, repeats MotherAgnes. Her blood won’t stop talking to me; I wipe my hands clean on her habit until it’s barely a whisper.
“Marga, please answer me!” I crawl around the room, knowing she can’t hear me but unable to stop calling her name. “Marga, it’s me, Cat! Please! Marga!”
The bell in the chapel rings out, not with the gentle call to prayer, but in a loud, urgent rhythm of alarm. Simon probably scared the life out of the sister up there.
I still can’t find Marguerite. What good is being able to see and hear so much better in moonlight when the moon is gone?
Understanding hits me like lightning. I heard Marguerite from the Sanctum because she was in moonlight. She’s outside.
I jump to my feet and run for the door, tripping on the leg of a chair and lurching outside. The ringing bell echoes off walls, making it sound like a second has joined it. Sisters are stirring. Many were probably already awake out of habit. Moonlight streams almost horizontally through trees outside of reach but after the darkness of the sitting room, it’s bright enough to see by.
Not twenty feet away is a shapeless pile of wool with two bare feet sticking out of it, reminding me sickeningly of the night I found Perrete. She’s lying on her side, where she either crawled or was dragged from the covered walkway. I scream and throw myself at Marguerite’s body and roll her onto her back.
She still has her eyes, but the left side of her head is bloody and misshapen. What remains of her hair sticks to the red and black mess at odd angles. As I cradle her limp form, Marguerite’s lips move almost like she’s speaking.
I know what will happen if I touch her blood, that it will only be my friend’s last, terrified thought I hear, but I can’t fight the need to hear her voice while I still can. My fingers tremble as I place a hand on the side of her face, then slide them gently back into the wet, matted hair.
Cat.
She thought of me?
Cat. Help me. Help Mother.
She heard me outside? Was she still alive as I ran past her, focused on the door?
“Marga,” I sob. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what was happening until it was too late.”
Where are you? Everything is so dark.
It’s more than I’ve ever gotten from anyone else, but somehow it’s worse. I press my forehead to hers and let the tears fall on her face. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I love you, Marga.”
I love you, too, Cat.
I flinch away. That was too much like an answer.
“Marga?” I whisper. “Can you hear me?”
Yes, but I can’t see, and my head hurts.Her voice fades a little.I’m sleepy… so sleepy.
Slowly, like I’m in a dream, I pull my bloody hand down to her neck. A weak, unsteady pulse pushes against my fingertips.
Grace of Day, she’s still alive.
