‘He’s come to talk to Sister Elena.’
The name shot through Ella’s body like an electrical charge.
‘Sister Elena?’
‘One of our most blessed, cherished sisters,’ Mother Magdalena positively glowed when she spoke of her. ‘She has a gift for healing the sick of heart. That poor man lost his family. He’s been without hope.’ Reaching out, the older woman touched Ella’s face compassionately. ‘You also look troubled, my dear, if you don’t mind my saying so. Perhaps Sister Elena could help you too?’
‘Oh … I don’t know about that,’ said Ella, flustered.
She wasn’t supposed to confront the target directly. Nikkos had been unusually insistent on that point. But she was supposed to ID her from a safe distance, and take a mental photograph if at all possible. This might be her only chance. Fatima had just said she wanted to leave soon, and Gabriel had made it crystal clear that Ella’s future with The Group would be in jeopardy if she wasn’t on that boat with the others.
‘You know that you and your colleagues are welcome to stay here and pray with us today, or for as long as you’d like,’ Mother Magdelena said, sensing the girl’s hesitation.
‘Thank you,’ said Ella. ‘But I think the others are eager to get back to the bakery. The feast day’s busy for us on Folegandros too.’
‘Well,’ the Mother Superior smiled. ‘Perhaps another time, then. But I know it would be Sister Elena’s honor to offer comfort, if she can.’
Nodding farewell to Ella, she wandered away, disappearing somewhere into the recesses of the convent like a ghost. Once again Ella was alone.
Mother Magdalena’s words rang in her ears: ‘That poor man lost his family.’
Just like me, thought Ella. Was that what had made him seem familiar? Was there some look in his eyes, some unspoken connection that helped loss recognize loss; that made kindred spirits of the suffering?
Hurrying over to the spiral staircase, she began to climb.
Sister Elena’s room was at the very top of the tower, set into the eaves of the turret roof. It was circular, and must have been small, although Ella could see almost nothing of the interior through the inch-wide crack in the door. It was only the low, growling sound of the man’s voice and his intermittent sobs of anguish that let her know she’d found the right room. Pressing herself back against the stairwell wall, Ella listened.
They were speaking in English, not Greek, and it was a second language for both of them, although Sister Elena’s fluency far exceeded the man’s. Frustratingly, Ella could only make out every third or fourth word.
‘Pain myself … lose … a child …’ The woman was saying. ‘Unknowable … only God …’
The man’s responses were angry, sometimes incoherent. ‘God? NO! … kill them … my family … I can’t!’
Ella edged nearer, till she was right outside the door. What about ‘a child’? She must hear more.
‘Marta! Maaaar-taaaaa!’
Goddamn it! Below her, Fatima’s raucous, irritated voice drifted up the staircase, ricocheting off the walls, making it even harder to hear. Clearly she and Helen were ready to leave and searching for Marta. Already?
‘You can,’ the woman’s voice was saying, clearer now. ‘God himself saw his only son die on the cross. I saw my son die. Only through suffering can we be redeemed, my son.’
‘NO!’ The man’s voice was rising. ‘You don’t know—’
‘I do know. I wear the face of suffering.’
‘No, no!’ And then, as clear as day, Ella heard a roar of pure rage followed by heavy feet pounding. He’s running at her! He’s going to attack her!
In panic, and not knowing what else to do, she kicked against the door. She’d expected it to be locked but instead it swung fully open, slamming hard against the inside wall. The man who’d run into her earlier turned and stared at her, the carving knife in his right hand still pressed murderously at Elena’s throat. Then, without warning, he stepped back and suddenly sank to his knees, sobbing. Turning away from Ella, he gazed bewildered up at the nun, like a pilgrim looking reverently up at a statue, or a savage struck down in awe before an idol. But then Ella looked at the nun’s face herself and she realized it wasn’t awe on her would-be assassin’s face. It was horror.
Like the other nuns at the Sacred Heart, Sister Elena wore a full habit, although hers came with an additional veil, almost like a Muslim hijab, so that only her eyes were visible. In the instant Ella walked in, however, she was pulling off this veil, yanking it upwards over her forehead and hair to reveal a face so grotesquely disfigured, it could hardly be described as human.
‘I wear the face of suffering.’ Ella gasped. Jesus Christ. She obviously meant it literally.
Apparently unperturbed, either by the knife-wielding maniac at her feet or by the bakery girl standing in the doorway, the disfigured sister looked from one to the other before focusing her attention wholly on Ella. Ella stared back, aware of the danger but unable to look away, like a cat mesmerized by the sun.
Was this creature Athena Petridis? This monster? This gargoyle? Surely it couldn’t be …
Slowly, too slowly, Ella came back to her senses.