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was the way it was done. One, everyone was sure, had been asked to leave because there was something not right about her, but … but not Breda. Not today! Please .
    â€˜Only kidding!’ Breda whispered. ‘You seriously think I’d want to miss out on Babs’s slice?’
    Cecilia’s mouth fell open in relief and a giggle escaped before she could hold it back.
    Babs was Sister Barbara, the convent cook, and there was no more warm hearted and cheery soul in the world. Everyone loved her, but unfortunately that didn’t change the fact that she couldn’t cook. Her specialty was making meals out of thinly disguised leftovers. Not, of course, that any of the postulants or novices complained. To do so would be to bring the wrath of Mother Mary of the Holy Angels down on their heads. But just occasionally they’d stare down at the food in front of them and look at each other or give a small private sigh that the rest of the table understood. On special Feast Days Sister Barbara let herself go with an array of sweets that were nothing short of amazing: lopsided sponge cakes, soggy puddings with lumpy custard, trifles awash in so much port that a decent serve was liable to make a young Sister tipsy. But it was with the slices that she outdid herself. The chocolate ones were bitter and the lemon slice so sweet it made their teeth ache.
    â€˜We might get the bruise today if we’re lucky!’
    â€˜Shhh …’ Cecilia was laughing so hard that tears were running down her face.
    On the Feast of the Sacred Heart, Babs had gone all out to make a marble cake, but instead of using pink and gold food dye, she’d used darker colours and it had turned out black and blue, and to top it off the icing was red, like blood. When out of the Novice Mistress’s hearing, the postulants referred to it as Bab’s bruise .
    Once Cecilia started giggling she couldn’t stop. Every time she caught Breda’s eye gleaming at her from under the pillow a new spasm of laughter would ride up from her belly into her throat, until the two of them were curled up under their bedclothes biting their fists to stop from shrieking.
    â€˜Shhh.’ Cecilia turned back to Breda. ‘Breda! Shut up, please.’
    The bell sounded on the floor above where the fully professed Sisters slept. It would be only a matter of a minute before the Novice Mistress was walking down between their beds, and if she sensed any shenanigans at all there would be hell to pay.
    Mother Mary of the Holy Angels had made it very clear over the last year that she saw it as her task to subdue any vestiges of ego in the postulants before they were received into the noviciate proper. As Mother put it, by then they’d better know what they’d got themselves into. After two years as novices it would be time to make their First Profession. A few years later came the Final Vows, a solemn commitment to stay for the rest of their lives.
    The aim was to become empty vessels open to God’s Will and that meant obeying every rule set out for them by Mother Superior, from how and when they were to speak, smile, pray, walk, or open a door, to the way they ate, knelt, and lay in bed. Any kind of laughter, giggling or gossip was actively discouraged, along with close personal friendships. Nothing about their lives was deemed personal or off-limits or, for that matter, above suspicion. At the end of every week each postulant was required to confess to the rest of the group her own shortcomings at the Chapter of Faults, always in the spirit of complete humility. Every misdemeanour, from an incorrect attitude to botched practical tasks like dusting or cleaning one’s shoes, to any unkindness or impatience towards another Sister, was considered serious enough to confess and sometimes worthy of chastisement and punishment.
    The Novice Mistress was finding Breda an unusually hard nut to crack. The short, bright girl was very devout and