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appointed circatrix of Dartford by the prioress—the enforcer of rules. From what I could tell, she considered herself the leader now, though Sister Rachel—ten years older and the actual owner of the house—also had firm ideas of how they should conduct themselves.
    We all stood in the same exact place every day, re-creating the hierarchy of our lost world. Sister Winifred and I, the two ex-novices of Dartford, were in front. The tense Sister Eleanor stood behind us. Next were the two nuns who also held office while at Dartford: Sister Rachel, the reliquarian, and Sister Agatha, the novice mistress. Then came the final three. Brother Edmund stood across the aisle, alone, continuing the strict division of man and woman.
    I struggled to hide my impatience as we waited for our assigned priest. The only sounds were the sizzle of an altar candleor one of Sister Agatha’s loud sighs. I turned around; her eyes met mine with a little nod. Of all the sisters, I missed her the most, my warm-natured, gossipy novice mistress.
    Finally we heard the shuffling feet of Father Anthony.
    “Salve,” he said in his creaky voice.
    A moment after he’d begun Mass, I looked over at Brother Edmund. This was not correct. My friend, who was as proficient in Latin as I, cleared his throat.
    “Father, forgive me, but it is not the beginning of Lent.”
    The priest blinked rapidly, his mouth working. “What day is it?”
    “It is the second of October, Father.”
    “What year?”
    Brother Edmund said gently, “The Year of Our Lord 1538.”
    Father Anthony thought a moment and then launched into an appropriate Mass.
    How far we had fallen. I ached to remember: Sitting in my novice stall, singing and chanting, the lavender incense so heady it made me swoon. Or plucking cherries from a tree in our orchard. Or leafing through the precious books of the library. This morning, I could feel the same longing from the others, pulsing in the very air. Yet what was to be done? The monastic life was extinguished in England.
    After taking communion, we walked together through the larger church. Because Father Anthony had made such a late start, the townsfolk were already trickling in for their regular Mass. One woman knelt at the altar, tenderly replacing the candlesticks with new ones she’d just polished.
    I heard a strange noise as we passed the center aisle: the sound of a man weeping.
    “Ah, it’s Oliver Gwinn,” said Brother Edmund. “His wife died yesterday.”
    I peered up the aisle. A large man stood alone, his shoulders shaking.
    “That is so sad—they were devoted,” said Sister Winifred. Because of their work in the infirmary, brother and sister knew the townsfolk better than I did.
    “We must try to help him,” said Brother Edmund.
    Sister Winifred said, “But what of the rules?”
    I winced. Brother Edmund had been told that he could not perform the work of a friar inside this church. Dominican friars chose a life that involved not just studying God’s wisdom but giving comfort to the people who needed it, the sick and poor and bereft.
    Brother Edmund stepped forward as if he had not heard his sister’s warning. I went with him up the aisle, fiercely proud, as always, of my friend.
    I heard the footsteps of someone hurrying to catch up—my heart pounding, I whirled around. Was a parishioner already trying to prevent us from providing counsel? But it was my erstwhile novice mistress Sister Agatha, her eyes bright with interest.
    “Master Gwinn, can I be of service to you?” asked Brother Edmund. “I grieve for your loss. Your wife was a wonderful woman, a good Christian.”
    Master Gwinn turned slowly. He wore the clothes of a prosperous man and had a thick black beard salted with gray.
    “Yes, she was, Brother,” he said, his voice rough and broken. “It is very good of you to make inquiry. I confess, it’s a bitter blow. I’ve spent every day with my Amy since I was twenty years old. Our children—our grandchildren—I