Sister Lemoine moved swiftly along the corridor, breathing heavily. Every now and then she wiped her damp forehead with the sleeve of her habit and flinched as thunder echoed in the distance. A storm was approaching.
The massive stone walls of the old citadel carried the heavy thud of her boots all the way beneath the high rib-vaulted ceiling.
The hiss of gas lamps along the walls mingled with the rattling of the tall, narrow windows, which struggled to withstand the force of the rising gale. Sister Lemoine quickened her pace. The ghostly whistle forcing its way through the old panes sent a shiver through her. The wind was soon joined by heavy rain. The world disappeared behind a dull, lifeless curtain.
The orphanage of Saint Lazarus in Cove Bay, near Aberdeen, was watched over by nuns. It was not a warm place. Nor was it a welcoming one. And it was not the fault of the capricious weather of Scotland's northeastern coast.
Strict discipline and punishments for disobedience left their mark on everyday life within its walls.
One child in particular drove Sister Lemoine to the brink of madness. The sight of her marching towards Mother Superior Forsyth's office had become a common occurrence there.
At the end of the dimly lit corridor stood the massive ebony doors of Sister Forsyth's office. Sister Lemoine entered without knocking.
"Again! Again in my lesson! This is the third habit this month!" Sister Lemoine complained from the doorway.
"But..."
"Last week she burned one of mine with her bare hands as well!" cried Sister Lemoine, holding the hole in her habit, shaped like a small child's hand, almost beneath Mother Superior's nose.
"And what am I supposed to do with her?!" asked Sister Forsyth, helplessly placing her hands on the oak desk behind which she sat.
"You must send her away!" Sister Lemoine said hysterically.
"Where?!"
"Anywhere!"
"Whoever left her here was truly inspired! They knew exactly what they were doing!" Sister Forsyth angrily closed the thick ledger she had been filling in.
"To their own fortune and our torment!" Sister Lemoine added, standing over Sister Forsyth. "Isn't it strange that this child never cries? I shall never forget the night when I looked into the basket she had been abandoned in. Not a scream. Not a tear! How is that possible?!"
Sister Forsyth did not answer and rose to her feet. The heavy oak chair scraped across the stone floor. She walked over to the tall, narrow window and gazed at the black cloud gathering above the sea. The downpour had passed, but it looked as though another one was coming.
Sister Lemoine leaned against the oak desk and wiped her forehead and flushed cheeks. Catching her breath, she let her eyes wander around the room. She did it every time she entered this place. Although she felt at ease throughout the vast building, there was a certain heaviness here, something left unspoken.
The dark walls of bare stone, the terribly cold floor, the scarce furnishings, the tall, uncovered windows without curtains, and the old chandelier creaking constantly above them created a feeling of being trapped.
"Mid-May, and yet day after day the rain pours as if it were October," said Sister Forsyth gloomily.
"Just don't tell me again that it's only the tricks of the climate because Aberdeen lies by the sea!" Sister Lemoine scoffed. "There has been no spring or summer here since she arrived!"
"There has never been spring or summer here! And I was told that when I was assigned to this place. No one knows why it is so. The sun has a habit of avoiding only this one stretch of coast. That is the nature of this place."
"It is a wicked nature! How is it possible that in the whole country there is one piece of it forever shrouded in mist and tormented by storms?"
"As they say here, if you don't like the weather, wait a minute."
Sister Lemoine fell silent. She had heard that saying often. Too often. As if it were a cure for every oddity of this place.
Lately, Sister Forsyth had seemed absent and distant from Aberdeen. Yet she had always given the impression of someone who knew more than she said. That day, she appeared deeply troubled.
"Has something happened?" asked Sister Lemoine.
"I was sent a letter informing me that a storm had capsized the Admiralty's ships returning from the Indies, and that they will send us more children."
"We have no room left!" protested Sister Lemoine.
"That is our smallest concern," said Sister Forsyth, approaching the desk. "I am far more worried by the children's hostility and the recent conflicts."
"It is Erie! I keep saying it!"
"That does not excuse mocking and tormenting the weaker ones!" Sister Forsyth raised her voice, and her pale face, lined with deep furrows and wrinkles, visibly flushed with anger. "I know perfectly well which of the girls provoke the most conflicts! We must put an end to this!"
"We impose plenty of punishments already."
"Apparently, they are not serving their purpose!"
Sister Lemoine fell silent. Whenever Mother Superior lost her temper, all arguments and excuses came to an end.
"You and Bloom talk too much! The children overhear you, and then they repeat it!"
"I don't know what you mean…" Sister Lemoine stammered.
"I know about Jane Follows' ruined notebooks. About mouse droppings in Sarah Nicholas's hair. About the knocks and taps at night. About things constantly disappearing. They get these ideas from somewhere! Both of you are forbidden from talking in the corridors! Is that understood?"
"Yes, Sister Forsyth."
"The recent poor harvest and these storms over Cove are, according to all that rabble, the result of witchcraft. In five days, there will be another trial in Edinburgh. Twelve people accused of making a pact with the Devil. I think it will not be long before we have to open those gloomy dungeons once again." Sister Forsyth said, and once again approached the window.
At that moment, a broad flash of lightning struck from the black cloud into the turbulent waters of the North Sea. The crack of thunder spread across the surrounding land, and the air trembled violently.
"A word spoken at the wrong hour can become a prophecy," said Sister Lemoine, and immediately made the sign of the cross before rushing out of Mother Superior's office.
Meanwhile, in the Latin classroom, a murmur spread through the room. The children waited for Sister Lemoine, joking and fooling around.
"Did you hear?! Jane Follows is going to have new parents!" said a slim, blonde-haired girl, leaning over her desk towards her friends sitting in front of her.
"What? Her?! Impossible!" cried the black-haired girl with shoulder-length hair, quickly turning around.
"Why do you think it's impossible, Lizzie? Are you jealous?" teased the girl on her right, smiling maliciously.
"Shut up, Sarah! You're the one who will stay here forever! Just like her." Lizzie added more quietly, pointing towards Erie sitting in front of her.
"She got under Sister Lemoine's skin again today," the blonde-haired girl added in a whisper.
"What happened?" Lizzie asked softly, hiding herself behind her book so that Erie would not hear what they were saying.
In an instant, a circle of girls gathered around them, whispering as if at confession about Sister Lemoine's ruined habit. Lizzie leaned forward and gave one of Erie's thick red curls a hard tug.
"Stop! Leave her alone! She'll do the same to you as she did to Sister Lemoine!" the other girls said, tugging at her sleeve.
"Erie!" Lizzie called out. "How do you do it? Does it happen by itself, or does Sister Lemoine just have that effect on you?" she asked, tapping her fingers against her desk.
Erie did not answer and continued studying her Latin textbook, her fists clenched on either side of it. The class began to laugh, which gave Lizzie more confidence.
"You know what they say about people like you, don't you? That they're witches. And then they burn them at the stake."
Once again, she received no reaction, so she pushed harder. She pulled Erie's hair so forcefully that Erie slid off her chair and nearly fell to the floor. In doing so, she knocked over her inkpot, and the book was covered in ink.
"Are you trying to say something?" Erie shouted, slamming her fists down on her desk and standing over Lizzie.
"Yes!" Lizzie said defiantly, rising to her feet and looking Erie in the eyes. "Lately, we are constantly being punished and given miserable dinners! Do you happen to know why?"
"Maybe because you never stop yapping!" Erie shot back.
"At least I don't destroy things and annoy Sister Lemoine! Recently, she didn't even want to brush your hair! She said you have the Devil's tangles!"
"And yours is so ugly that any day now, knots will hatch in it! And then all your hair will fall out!"
"Take that back!" Lizzie screamed, grabbing Erie by the head.
Sister Lemoine, standing in the corridor, listened to the sounds of the quarrel for a moment. However, when she heard Lizzie's scream, she ran towards the classroom.
She stood in the doorway, so out of breath that she had no strength left to shout at the uproar inside. In the middle of the classroom, Erie and Lizzie were fighting, pulling at each other's hair and clothes. The others watched the fight, surrounding them in a tight circle.
"Stop immediately!" the nun shouted, forcing her way through the solid ring around the brawl.
Her words went unanswered. The girls continued fighting. Sister Lemoine rolled up the sleeves of her habit above her elbows and grabbed one and then the other by the wide straps of their black dresses. She met strong resistance. She had not expected such ferocity from ten-year-old girls. She struggled with them for a long moment, until finally she planted herself between them.
"What do you think you are doing?! What is the meaning of this?!"
"She started it!" Lizzie cried.
"Erie, what do you have to say for yourself?"
"Nothing," said the red-haired girl defiantly.
"Don't lie! Something is always happening here because of you!" Lizzie shouted.
"Lizzie!" Sister Lemoine turned her heavy gaze upon the black-haired girl. "Do not accuse anyone without proof!"
"But those are your own words, Sister! And Sister Bloom's too! You always say things like that about her!" Lizzie cried, pointing at Erie.
Sister Lemoine flushed like a thief caught red-handed. Now she felt the weight of Sister Forsyth's warning to be careful what she said in the presence of the children.
"She's a witch!" Lizzie shouted, pointing at Erie again, and with one angry tug she freed herself from Sister Lemoine's grasp.
The rest of the class followed her lead. All the girls began chanting together, "Witch!" while glaring at Erie.
Sister Lemoine grabbed the metre-long wooden ruler beside the blackboard and began striking it against her palm. It meant punishment. The noise fell silent at once, and every girl who had joined the chant received a strike across her open hands. Only Erie and Lizzie did not hold out their hands for punishment.
"What are you waiting for?!" the nun shouted angrily.
"Why should I be punished when I did nothing?!" Lizzie protested.
"Hold out your hands!"
"No!"
"And you? Do you also believe you have done nothing?" the nun asked Erie.
"Where everyone is guilty, there is no guilty one. You should strike yourself first," Erie replied.
"Very well, then. Your punishment will come after lessons. And I promise you, it will not last a second like a stroke of the ruler, but much longer! Sit down and take out your paper, all of you!"
It meant an unexpected test. Everyone's faces fell, and their desire for teasing and fighting vanished like steam from a kettle. Such surprises, when Sister Lemoine was angry, always meant a difficult set of questions.
When the clock struck 2 p.m., the girls jumped up from their seats. However, the nun's heavy gaze kept them in the classroom. They knew they would not be going out for a break.
The next lesson was mathematics, where the nun immediately wrote a geometry problem on the board, while she herself began checking the Latin tests.
The classroom was silent, broken only by heavy sighs and the scratching of pencils against heads as the girls struggled to think. Sister Lemoine raised her eyes and scanned the room. Only one pencil moved without pause. It was Erie working out the problem, and it seemed she was about to finish. The nun narrowed her eyes.
"She cannot possibly be cheating," she thought, and returned to marking the tests.
Yet the moment she lowered her head, another sound distracted her.
Something struck one of the windows with great force. Sister Lemoine tightened her hand around the quill with which she was writing in irritation. The class stared at the middle window.
For as long as anyone could remember, entire flocks of birds had lost their lives here, crashing into the great windows of the orphanage. A moment later, a second impact echoed through the room as another bird struck the last window. Every head turned towards the back of the classroom. Unease hung in the air.
It was broken by Erie, who stood up to hand in her work. She walked between the desks and placed the completed solution on Sister Lemoine's desk. The nun glanced over it quickly and muttered:
"Write it on the board," she ordered, taking a box of chalk from the drawer and handing it to Erie.
Lizzie watched angrily as Erie wrote the solution on the board. In frustration, she scratched her head with her pencil. But it became caught in her hair. The girl pulled harder and yanked the pencil free. She ran her hand through her hair and felt a tangled mass within it.
Then she looked at her palm and saw a clump of hair lying there.
She rose abruptly and dragged her fingers through her entire head. She felt more tangled clumps, and around her feet on the floor appeared almost a moat of black hair.
The girl screamed loudly and then shouted:
"I told you she was a witch! She cast some kind of spell on me! Sister, look!" she cried through her tears, showing her hands full of hair.
Sister Lemoine opened her mouth in shock and dropped the quill from her hand. Erie, meanwhile, stood frozen with the chalk in her fingers, and her eyes alone seemed to say that she had done nothing wrong.
Then another impact shook the window. Erie dropped the chalk from her hand, and Sister Lemoine jumped in her chair. The third bird struck it with such force that a huge spiderweb of cracks spread across the glass, and if one more had done the same, the window would have shattered into pieces.
"It's her fault!" Lizzie cried. "She said that any day now knots would hatch in my hair and then it would all fall out! She said it an hour ago! Everyone heard her! Say something!" she shouted at the rest of the class, who now sat silent as stone.
Sister Lemoine slowly turned around and looked at Erie. The girl seemed no less surprised than the nun was. Yet Sister Lemoine still saw guilt in her.
"That is enough!" she hissed angrily, grabbing Erie by the wrist. "And none of you move from here!" she snapped at the rest of the class and dragged Erie out into the corridor.
"You are like a plague!" she whispered through clenched teeth. "Little witch!"
Sister Lemoine dragged her up to the first floor, muttering under her breath all the while. Erie struggled to free her hand from her grasp, crying out the whole time:
"It's not my fault! Why are you punishing me?!"
"I will teach you some manners! You are the worst little wretch ever brought here! In all my life, I have never seen a child as spiteful as you!" the nun said, gripping her wrist tighter and tighter as she dragged her towards the kitchen.
The girl dug her heels into the floor, but it did little good. She then began using her free hand to grab anything that came within reach: the curtains, the cords of the gas lamps on the walls, furniture, paintings, and the door handles of the rooms they passed. All in vain.
At last, they reached their destination. The nun pushed open the old kitchen door and almost threw Erie inside. The girl barely managed to keep her balance and avoid falling.
"You will spend your afternoon break here! Forget about your books and the common room!"
"Why?"
"Because I say so!"
"Why?!"
"Do not raise your voice at me, Erie!"
"Why?! Why?! Why?!" she screamed, rushing at the nun's habit.
Sister Lemoine struggled to push her away. Only with the help of the cooks and the rest of the servants were they finally able to separate them. The nun wiped her forehead and adjusted her habit.
Her eyes were suddenly drawn to something she had not noticed in the classroom. On Erie's white shirt, just below her left collarbone, were several tiny spots of blood. Yet the shirt itself showed no sign of damage, apart from the unevenly fastened buttons at the neck. It looked as though she had scratched the skin there too hard.
The nun was alarmed at the thought of an outbreak of scabies or some other contagious disease and fixed Erie with a stern look.
"When she's finished here, lock her in the storeroom! And no supper! Only water!"
"No!" Erie cried, her face flushing red.
"No?" Sister Lemoine replied triumphantly. "I'm not the only one who's had enough of you! The children hate you as well! I pray for the day someone finally takes you away from here!" she spat through clenched teeth before leaving the kitchen.
The housekeeper, Mrs Brahe—a stout, sweaty woman reeking of garlic and rancid cooking oil—still had Erie by the scruff of her dress. She dragged the girl to the darkest, filthiest corner of the kitchen and positioned her in front of a high sink that reached almost to the girl's chin.
Inside it stood a towering pile of dirty, soot-blackened pots, almost reaching the ceiling. It leaned so badly that Erie was afraid it would collapse onto her head at any moment.
It was obvious they had been left there for several days, perhaps even a fortnight.
"What are you waiting for?" the cook grunted, kicking a low, roughly knocked-together stool towards her. "Get up there and scrub!" she barked at the girl.
Erie climbed onto the stool and lowered her eyes to the floor for a moment. How many times had she been punished for something that was not her fault? At moments like these, the helplessness often robbed her of her faith in herself.
"And do it properly!" the cook grunted again, tossing two battered wire scourers into the sink.
The words snapped Erie out of her painful thoughts. She began sorting through the pile of greasy saucepans and cooking pots. Bravely, she set herself to the task fate had given her. But after several minutes, the skin on her hands began to wrinkle, and the water in the sink had turned into soup. All the while, she kept stealing glances at Mrs Brahe as the housekeeper strode about the kitchen, terrorising the kitchen staff and keeping a close eye on everything Erie did at the sink.
Then help came from an old friend.
As she scrubbed a soup cauldron almost as large as herself, she caught sight of a long snout and a damp nose with neat, springy whiskers poking out from between the mugs above the sink. It was a huge tortoiseshell rat, so fat that it looked more like an overfed cat than a rodent.
They had first met six years earlier, when Erie had been made to stand in the corner during one of Sister Lemoine's lessons as punishment for not learning her multiplication tables. She had been forced to remain there long after the lesson had ended, and the tricoloured rat had been the only one to keep her company.
His other distinguishing feature was the lack of fur across almost half his head. A strip of scarred skin ran from his nose, across the entire left side of his snout, and behind his left ear, as though he had suffered a severe burn. Erie had long suspected Mrs Brahe was responsible, which only made her hate the woman even more.
The only slightly amusing consequence of it was the rat's completely uneven ears. The healthy one was three-coloured, while the burnt one was bald and slightly shrivelled.
"Come here, Scar-Ear," she whispered, holding out her hand to him.
"What are you looking for over there?! I've given you everything you need!" Mrs Brahe shouted.
She rushed over to the sink and yanked the girl by the arm.
"Let go!" Erie cried, grabbing Scar-Ear by the scruff of the neck with her free hand.
A moment later, the rat landed on the wicked cook's head.
Mrs Brahe let out such a piercing screech that the windowpanes shrieked in answer, as though they had been showered with sand. She spun round and round, desperately trying to throw the rat from her hair. But he leapt off of his own accord and scampered onto the girl's shoulder.
Hidden among Erie's thick hair, he watched Mrs Brahe's hysteria together with her.
Even though the rat was no longer on her head, Mrs Brahe kept spinning in circles, tearing at her own hair. At last she crashed into the pile of unwashed saucepans, and one of them fell onto her head.
Under its weight, Mrs Brahe immediately collapsed onto the floor and stayed there, screaming at the top of her lungs:
"Help! Get it off me!!!"
The entire kitchen staff rushed to Mrs Brahe's aid.
"Toad in a helmet! Run!" Erie shouted, jumping down from the stool.
Almost on all fours, she darted across the grey stone floor as though weaving through a maze, skilfully following Scar-Ear as he raced ahead of her between rows of cupboards and shelves. Together they nimbly dodged the hands reaching out for them from between the cupboards. In no time, they reached the door—and that was the last anyone saw of them.
Once out of the kitchen, they tore down the corridor like the wind to the baths at the far end. Erie rushed to the mirror and unbuttoned her shirt. She carefully examined her collarbone.
There was no wound.
Scar-Ear sat on the washbasin, squeaking uneasily.
"What is it?" Erie asked, narrowing her eyes.
The rat rose onto his hind legs and began sniffing the air. His whiskers trembled like a divining rod over an underground spring.
A moment later, something startled him, and he bolted as though someone had shoved him off the basin. Erie called after him, but he did not return.
Without warning, the room grew darker. Black clouds had gathered over the coast once again.
Erie shuddered as the treetops, lashed by the wind, scraped across the shutters.
She looked over her shoulder.
Black branches swayed eerily, striking the windows again and again and creaking as they were forced against the thick walls of the orphanage.
Then she heard a tapping.
Rain had begun driving in from the sea, drumming harder and harder against the windows.
A moment later, the sky brightened for an instant as lightning tore across it. Then a clap of thunder shook the air so violently that every light went out.
Only a single lamp by the door flickered convulsively.
Erie froze and held her breath.
Beyond the window, a streak of sharp blue-violet light flashed unnaturally fast across the sky. She had seen the same thing the previous night, when she had woken shortly after midnight with a piercing pain beneath her collarbone.
A murmur spread through the corridors. Most likely, the lessons had been interrupted, and the nuns were already leading everyone back to the dormitories. The storm had been building since the day before. Thunder had been rumbling warningly from the direction of Shetland until late afternoon. Now the gale was beginning to stir the sea, while the storm lashed the trees and cracked the rain like a whip.
Erie ran out of the baths and hurried along the corridor. She slowed as she reached Sister Forsyth's office.
A beam of light spilled out through the doorway, falling across the floor in the shape of a cone.
Erie crept forward on tiptoe and slipped behind the heavy curtain beside one of the windows. Peering with one eye through the half-open door, she looked into the Mother Superior's office.
Mother Superior Forsyth was just throwing on her large, old cloak, while Sister Lemoine held up a gas lamp so that she could see the buttons.
"The children have already reached the harbour. I'll collect them and be back within the hour... if this storm doesn't delay us. God help us!" Mother Superior Forsyth crossed herself.
"God help us!" Sister Lemoine echoed, crossing herself twice. "Drive this storm away, or we'll never be rid of her! Does she know someone's coming to take her tomorrow?"
"No, and it must stay that way. I don't want her hiding somewhere again. Did you destroy it?"
"Er..." Sister Lemoine muttered uncertainly, lowering her eyes.
"What is it?" Mother Superior Forsyth asked.
"We... we tried."
"What do you mean?"
"It w... w... wouldn't burn..." Sister Lemoine stammered.
"What do you mean it wouldn't burn? It's made of wood!" Mother Superior Forsyth exclaimed.
"It was still in the fireplace this morning. Buried beneath the ashes. I don't want to know what's inside."
"Perhaps it's time we opened it."
"Sister Bloom tried. Even with an axe," Sister Lemoine said, her voice trembling.
"And?"
"She chipped the blade. I'm telling you, Sister. Send that child away! Can't you see all these evil omens?! What else has to happen before we finally get rid of her?!"
Outside, the branch of a mighty sessile oak howled in the wind before slamming against the window overlooking the steep cliffs of Cove Bay.
A blast of icy wind burst into the room with a shrill whistle.
The inkwell toppled from the lectern, spilling ink across it, black streams running down onto the stone floor.
The paintings were torn from the walls by a single gust and smashed upon the floor.
The books on the shelves trembled under the force of the wind until several crashed from their places, meeting the same fate as the paintings.
The gale grew more and more violent.
A moment later, it tore down the curtain completely and sent the chandelier spinning so violently that it flickered on the verge of going out.
Sister Lemoine pulled Mother Superior Forsyth towards the wall, fearing that the old iron chandelier would come crashing down on their heads with the next gust.
From the old watchtower, converted into the bell tower in the west wing, the loud tolling of a bell rang out. It was the superstitious Sister Bloom, who always rang it during storms. People believed that the sound of church bells scattered the clouds and drove away the demons responsible for storms and hail.
Sister Lemoine stood staring through the shattered window, her eyes wide with fear, while Mother Superior Forsyth, holding onto her bonnet to stop it from being blown away, listened to the sinister howl of the wind.
Sister Lemoine pulled her away from the window, and the two of them ran out into the corridor. The lock clicked shut behind them, and they disappeared down the staircase leading below.
Erie stepped out of her hiding place and pressed down the handle of the office door.
It did not move.
She was certain that the hidden object belonged to her—that it was the very thing she had arrived here with.
Suddenly, the crash of breaking glass raced along the corridor. A shower of sparks burst from every gas lamp on the walls, and a moment later darkness fell as though it were night.
In the darkness came the thunderous bang of shutters flung open.
The gathering hurricane had burst them open in the refectory with a deafening crash.
A violent gust tore through the corridor and hurled Erie against the window curtain. She grabbed hold of it to keep from falling.
When the worst of the blast had swept on through the upper floors, she stepped into the refectory.
The open shutters gaped with an eerie menace, and every time another shard of glass broke loose and struck the stone walls, the crash grated on the ears. The wooden beams beneath the ceiling let out long, mournful groans. The whistle of the wind through the cracks grew louder. Erie could smell damp stone and scorched parchment, where candles had toppled over onto scattered papers.
The tables were in disarray. Stains from food and drink speckled the floor and walls. Broken crockery glinted in the darkness.
Erie could not shake the feeling that something was watching her from every direction.
The pain beneath her collarbone returned. She pressed a hand against it, trying to massage away the cramp spreading through her chest.
Outside, the world suddenly brightened.
A great bolt of lightning tore across the sky.
Beyond the horizon, a band of blue-violet light was creeping upwards, shimmering in the distance.
What is that? Erie narrowed her eyes as she stepped towards the window. It looks like the Northern Lights... but at this time of year?
The aurora seemed to move, drifting closer to the bay.
Then she heard something—a whisper mingled with a faint hiss... followed by the sound of something cracking.
She ran out into the corridor.
It lay drowned in darkness, filled only with the echoes of the crashing from the refectory.
There it was again.
A crack.
Erie listened.
The faint hissing was coming from the baths.
A moment later, Scar-Ear shot out of them like an arrow and darted past her like a ghost.
Erie called after him, but he kept running as though possessed.
Another crack echoed from beyond the bend in the corridor.
An icy shiver ran through Erie as she heard shallow breathing.
She broke into a run, almost as fast as her rat had moments before.
She reached the great atrium and threw herself at the heavy oak entrance doors. Grasping the massive brass handle, she almost hung from it as she forced it down.
When the old, stubborn lock finally gave way and the doors creaked open with a dreadful groan, she slipped through as nimbly as a snake and quickly pulled them shut behind her.
The moment she turned around, she walked straight into Sister Lemoine's enormous belly.
The nun seized her at once and dragged her back inside.