Devious by Lisa Jackson

“Again.”
    â€œSorry,” Lucia said to the cook.
    The corners of Regina’s mouth turned downward a little farther, indicating that no excuse was good enough. Her glare was positively withering, but Lucia couldn’t worry about it today.
    â€œWe need more flour,” Regina said curtly, then turned to a pot that bubbled upon the massive stove.
    Both Angela and Devota glanced at Lucia. Angela rolled her expressive eyes and Devota shrugged, as there was still an unopened twenty-pound bag propped against the pantry door.
    â€œDid you hear me?” Regina demanded, bringing tense silence to the kitchen.
    Even Sister Irene stopped slicing berries to look over her shoulder. Tall and slim, Irene swore she’d been a ballet dancer before joining the convent, and she still knotted her straight hair into a tiny topknot, enhancing the sharp cheekbones of her pixielike face.
    â€œYes,” Lucia said, nodding to the cook. “I’ll get right on it.”
    â€œWe already have an extra sack,” Irene pointed out. She spoke with a small lisp but seemed fearless of everyone, including the reverend mother. She wasn’t concerned about arguing with the cook. “See . . . it’s over there.” With the blade of her knife, she pointed at the bag propped near the pantry door.
    Regina colored slightly but set her jaw. “We need more,” she said, her lips moving over clenched teeth. “Guests are expected and I’m going to be baking all day!”
    â€œThat’s no reason to snap at Sister Lucia,” Irene insisted. “We’re all on edge today. Upset. Worried. Heartsick over poor Sister Camille. Things might not go as smoothly as usual,” Irene said, her lisp more pronounced, her head bobbing as if agreeing with herself.
    Surprised that her authority was being challenged, Regina said, “No matter what happened last night, there’s still work to do. The Lord’s work.”
    â€œThen let’s do it together. Amicably. Spiritually,” Irene suggested, lowering her knife.
    Angela had trouble swallowing her smile, and even Devota arched her eyebrows at the confrontation.
    â€œNo problem. I’ll get it.” Lucia was already stepping toward the door leading outside as Irene turned back to her bowl of strawberries. Regina, tending her stew, looked as if she wanted to spit nails. Angela and Devota turned their attention back to punching the dough for the next day’s bread.
    You don’t belong here; you know you don’t. That nagging voice in her head kept reminding Lucia that her commitment was less than most of the other nuns, that her devotion flagged by comparison. Angela, Devota, Irene, Louise, and Dorothy seemed much more devout, their faith so strong it could never be shaken. Even Regina, the sourpuss of a cook, a layperson, appeared to have an unwavering dedication and trust in God.
    Not so Lucia.
    â€œForgive me,” she whispered, making the sign of the cross as she stepped along the gravel path through the herb garden to a storage building. The scents of lavender and rosemary wafted on the warm air, and sunlight caught in a few rapidly drying puddles that had collected on the path.
    It was a good day. A warm day. A day filled with God’s promise.
    And yet the darkness in her soul wouldn’t disappear.
    The door to the storage pantry creaked as she opened it. Inside, the air was cooler. Jars and cans lined the shelves while sacks of sugar and flour were kept in tightly sealed bins. Lucia opened the flour bin and hauled out a twenty-pound sack. She slung it over her shoulder and headed outside again.
    Steeling herself for another round with the dour cook, she heard the crow before she saw it, a shiny black bird eyeing her speculatively from the roof of the chapel.
    â€œSister Lucia?” a male voice asked.
    She nearly stumbled and stepped into a puddle as she rounded to find Father Frank standing at the garden