I saw the resentment in their faces about the requiem feast in three days’ time. Sitting next to me at the novices’ table, closest to the door, Sister Christina barely touched her soup or bread. I felt protective of her; I believed she was embarrassed by her father’s request. I knew that many novices and even nuns struggled with the desire of parents to remain in our lives, even though we must be shut up to the outside world. We did not wish to hurt them, we loved and honored them, but our lives must part from theirs. Contemplating Sister Christina’s father made me think of my own. The bread turned to dust in my mouth. No matter whether we lived together or apart, he was my only family. I so feared for him in the pitiless Tower, the place that haunted my dreams. But his liberation was nowhere near. The next day I had to deliver my letter to Bishop Gardiner, but I had little to report. I had failed my father. Sister Agatha may have thought she kept her words low enough so as not to be overheard, but our novice mistress’s grating voice carried over several tables.
