MOON FALL by Tamara Thorne Page B

m , were also the same. Sara suspected that the nun, whom she remembered as being compulsive about punctuality, had kept her there for the sole purpose of producing feelings of awe and anxiety before the meeting. But all it did was make Sara remember how much she had hated the woman.
    Six wooden straight-backed chairs designed to become unbearably uncomfortable within five minutes of use were the only furnishings in the waiting room. There were no tables, no magazines; it was a claustrophobic room meant for frightening young girls who were sent to see the Mother Superior. Some of Sister Elizabeth's most vile saintly effigies adorned the dark paneled walls as further insurance against any future misbehavior.
    Each portrait bore a small bronze plaque identifying its saint. During the long wait, drowsy from boredom. Sara had examined all four paintings several times. One depicted a naked St. Pelegia falling from a roof. Another portrayed St. Genevieve, also nude, trying in vain to shield a burning candle as the devil 's fingers reached out to extinguish the flame . The other two were of St. Denis, a headless man unclad except for a cross, carrying his own mitered head on top of a book, and St. Margaret of Cortona, contemplating a rotting corpse that lay at her feet while a dog nipped her thigh. The paintings were of poor to mediocre quality and reminded Sara of the ones from Rod Serling's old Night Gallery series.
    Now, in the inner office, sitting on another hard, straight chair facing Mother Lucy at her massive scrolled desk, Sara tried to keep her eyes off the two paintings that framed the Mother Superior. They were the worst of all. The largest, in a gilded frame, was of Lucy's namesake, St. Lucille, and with each furtive glance, Sara became more convinced that the Mother Superior had actually posed for the nude portrait, which showed the martyred St Lucille, gashed throat and dark eye sockets as prominent as her breasts, proffering a platter. On the platter were her own eyes, which seemed to follow you around the room. To Lucy's left was a smaller painting in a matching frame. It depicted St. Gertrude, the school's namesake. Unlike saints in the other paintings, St. Gertrude was dressed; she wore the robes of an abbess. Her face was somber and gaunt, and in her outstretched hand she held a flaming heart. At her feet were a dozen gray rodents that were supposed to be mice, but looked to Sara more like rats, with their long pink tails and protuberant teeth.
    After opening the door and waiting silently for Sara to enter, Mother Lucy returned immediately to her large crimson leather desk chair. Ignoring Sara's outstretched hand, she told her to be seated, then wasted no time on pleasantries. "Why did you apply for work here, Miss Hawthorne, when you were so eager to leave us before?"
    Sara stared at the woman, at a loss for words. Even though she had a story prepared, Lucy's bluntness stunned her.
    "Well?" Lucy demanded.
    "I've spent many many hours in church, praying about this decision," Sara began. This was an out-and-out lie - she had never been a believer, and any leanings she might have had had been destroyed by the acrimonious nuns of St. Gertrude's, with their grim stories of devils and demons and the endless hours of indecipherable Latin recitations. There had been no warmth here, only chill judgment and disapproval; St . Gertrude's was truly a little piece of Hell on Earth.
    "Miss Hawthorne? Continue, please."
    Lucy was buying it, and that gave Sara more confidence. "I've felt guilt and great remorse since the time I ran away. I knew I was a coward, and no matter what I achieved, the feelings wouldn't go away. I thought they would disappear after I began my career, but they didn't; instead, the feelings grew stronger. I had to come back." She paused, keeping her gaze on Mother Lucy's beady little eyes, half believing her own tale, she'd rehearsed it so often. She took a deep breath. "I was called here, Mother, to serve