Vow of Chastity by Veronica Black

every direction at once. Not only central heating warmed the room but a huge fire burned in the cavernous fireplace above which a large photograph of Samantha, taken some years before, smiled coyly down, clutching a pink rabbit.
    ‘Coffee? Tea? I don’t suppose that I dare offer you a cocktail?’ She moved to a smart cabinet that looked small and incongruous against the faded grandeur of the room.
    ‘The point is that we wouldn’t dare accept it,’ Sister Joan said lightly. ‘All I came about was to enquire if we can ask for your co-operation in the matter of the school project.’
    ‘It’s a local project, isn’t it?’ Mrs Olive looked politely attentive. ‘Naturally my husband and I will give all the help we can, but as newcomers there isn’t very much we can add to the knowledge that people already have. We’re still finding our way round ourselves, you see. But if it’s a question of money –’
    ‘No, it really isn’t.’ Sister Joan felt the familiar blush of shame at the realization that most people associated nuns with collecting boxes.
    ‘Then I really don’t – my husband is fond ofphotography. He could take some photographs of local beauty spots, I suppose. He took that one of Samantha on her fifth birthday. We’ve always loved it.’
    ‘If the parents actually do the project it won’t be the children’s work,’ Sister Joan said. ‘I was hoping that we might have an open day at the school – invite people to come and see what the pupils themselves have produced.’
    ‘It sounds very exciting, don’t you think so, Samantha darling?’ The green eyes, so like the child’s save that they looked out between heavily mascara’d lashes, turned to where Samantha stood.
    ‘Yes.’ A flat monosyllable devoid of expression. Samantha’s lively welcome had flared and died.
    ‘Perhaps a folder about this house with drawings? I believe it’s quite an old building?’ Sister Joan suggested.
    ‘Now that’s a splendid idea,’ Mrs Olive said. ‘The house is eighteenth century, I believe. My husband is very keen on that period. He’s writing a book set in the – oh, darling, I was just about to boast of you.’
    She had turned as a man entered the room.
    ‘Then it’s fortunate that I came in to put an end to it,’ he said, advancing with outstretched hands to where the visitors still stood. ‘I’m Clive Olive, Samantha’s father. You will be Sister Joan and –?’
    ‘Sister Margaret. How do you do?’
    ‘As well as can be expected.’ He glanced down with raised eyebrows.
    Sister Joan, following his glance, found herself staring at a built-up shoe. A club foot? An accident?’
    ‘Sit down, won’t you?’ He nodded towards the armchairs scattered about the room. ‘Has anyone offered you anything yet?’
    ‘We did, Daddy, but they have to go,’ Samantha said.
    ‘But you will come again?’ His thin, clever face had bright, squirrel eyes. The greyish hair that grew thickly on the long head had the aspect of a squirrel’s pelt.
    ‘If we need help with the project,’ Sister Joan said. ‘As I was explaining to your wife the idea is for the children to produce work that can be mounted in a small schoolexhibition. Nothing very elaborate.’
    ‘It sounds charming.’ The squirrel eyes moved slowly over her. ‘Doesn’t it sound charming, Julia?’
    ‘We’ll certainly give Samantha all the encouragement we can,’ his wife said.
    ‘Fine. Then we won’t detain you any longer.’ Sister Joan turned away slightly from the probing, stripping gaze. ‘Samantha seems to be settling down in school very well.’
    Nobody had asked but she thought she might as well throw in the information.
    ‘Samantha is infinitely adaptable,’ her father said. ‘Aren’t you, darling?’
    ‘Yes, well – thank you again,’ Sister Joan said, wondering what exactly she was thanking them for. ‘Sister Margaret?’
    ‘Good evening.’ Sister Margaret, who had stood dumbly, gazing round, came to life