The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,46

had been blown off of shelves, and the room was freezing cold. She pushed at the door and it flew open wide, like her mouth. The bed was made, unslept in. Agnes’s desktop was still on, although toppled over, and her cell phone sat charging on her turquoise-painted bedside end table. Her clothes were left where they’d landed from the night before.

Martha grabbed the phone and scrolled through Agnes’s missed call list. She hit call on a contact name she recognized and moved over to the computer, checking her daughter’s e-mail, sent and received, which was still open on the screen.

“Hello, Hazel? This is Mrs. Fremont.”

She always used her married name, even though her marriage had long since ended. It was for Agnes’s sake. Having the same last name kept them connected in a way and looked better to strangers, however semidelusional it might have appeared to others who knew better.

“Oh, hi. I thought you were Agnes calling me.”

“Agnes isn’t with you?” Martha said, trying to hide the depth of her panic.

“She’s not at home?”

“No. Any idea where she might have gone?”

“I thought she might have gone to bed early to rest or whatever from her . . . you know . . . attempt.”

“Thanks,” Martha said worriedly, ignoring the lack of sensitivity. “If you hear anything . . . ”

“Don’t worry. She’s totally over Sayer. I’m sure she’ll be back later. She’s probably just trying to piss you off.”

“But the storm and her arms,” Martha complained. “It’s hideous outside; they say they are expecting a tornado. In Brooklyn! And she’s not in the right shape mentally or otherwise to be out there right now. Alone. In this.”

“I know. Can you believe it? We haven’t had power since last night. Trees are down everywhere. You can’t even get down the street.”

Martha couldn’t have cared less at that moment. “It’s just not like her to up and leave like that. I mean, we’ve had much worse arguments.”

“She’s just really fragile right now. I’ll text everyone. She’ll turn up.”

Yes, but hopefully not in a Dumpster, was all Martha could think.

Sebastian and Agnes opened the sacristy door and were startled to find Lucy and Cecilia standing there, about to knock and equally startled.

“Did you hear that thundercrack?” Lucy said, grabbing her arms in a shiver. “We were yelling for you.”

Agnes flushed at the momentary awkwardness and flipped her hair nervously over her shoulder, crossing her arms defensively and looking downward.

“We’re not interrupting anything are we?” Cecilia asked rhetorically.

“I was helping her with her wrists,” Sebastian said, as Agnes nodded her agreement.

“Cecilia woke up screaming. I’m surprised you didn’t hear it,” Lucy prodded.

“Good thing, too,” Cecilia said, still shaken.

“Bad weather or bad dream?” Agnes asked sympathetically.

“Nightmare.” CeCe nodded.

Agnes wasn’t sure if CeCe was talking about her actual dream or the compromising situation in which she found herself.

“It’s really hard to hear anything in there,” Agnes protested a little too much.

“Yeah, whatever,” Lucy said, instantly distracted by a glittering item poking out from a partially opened drawer she spied in the sacristy. “What is that?”

“It’s a vestment cabinet,” Sebastian explained.

“No, not the cabinet. Inside the drawer.”

She wasn’t absolutely sure it wasn’t floaties from the blow she’d taken to the head earlier, so she pointed, hoping the others saw it as well.

“Priest clothes?” he asked.

Lucy walked to the drawer and slid it open, revealing a neatly folded pile of the most elaborate garb she’d ever seen. Approaching the cabinet, she spied all manner of majestically embroidered linens in white, red, green, purple, and gold that had been left behind. Sewn with spun silver and gold thread. She admired their beauty even in the darkness, running her fingers over the fabric to feel the heft and detailed stitching. She beckoned the other girls over for a closer look.

“They don’t make ’em like this anymore,” she said. “These have got to be vintage.”

“Holy haute couture,” CeCe added, equally enthralled. “This is so tempting.”

“Bad girl,” Lucy said, flirtatiously thrusting her chest forward. “Good girl!” arching her back and recoiling.

“Is there a difference?” Cecilia said, unconsciously echoing her dreamspeak.

Sebastian smiled at her, as if he knew what she was thinking. Like he did in the hospital when they met.

Lucy pulled out the chasuble and swung it over her head and let it fall onto her shoulders and almost to the floor, striking holier poses. A beautiful, hand-sewn image of a young girl, crowned, holding a palm branch in one hand and a plate in the other, took up the entire