The warning to herself left her cold. Shea clutched the dark cloak to her shivering form, hating that it had rained yet again. I should have told someone where I was going, or at least left a note. It was too late to be angry at her own stupidity. However, telling a sister she attended a choral choir for the Holy Madonna Church far from their sanctuary would be met with condemnation. Shea quickened her pace, telling her overactive imagination to settle. She’d lived through worse. It was past dusk, and long dark shadows of the night stretched like the occasional tall buildings as she scurried down Huntington Avenue onto a smaller street. If Izzy knew she dared step foot inside a church, a Roman Catholic Church at that, Shea didn’t know what she’d say. Nor did she plan to find out. I need to sing. I need to hear the voices of others, always. It soothes my soul. She’d recited that to herself a dozen times but still lacked the courage to tell any of her sisters.Shea wished she’d grabbed a hat.
