people around, but when else was I supposed to do it? The postulants were expected to participate.
The bell tower chimed, announcing midday, and we all stood up. ‘Yes,’ I said, but two whole days passed and I still hadn’t seen Marguerite, and I started to feel a little anxious with the passing time. She was like a spectre in the night and in the corridors, her voice always loud and echoing, though never seen. I worried I’d bump into her again unexpectedly like I did at the parade, and I was constantly looking for her, fearing I’d have to apologize while in a rush.
Mavis must have asked me ten times if I had made amends with her since talking in the cloister, which didn’t help. On the second day I knew that if I didn’t see Marguerite during craft time, I’d have set out to find her.
I stood at the craft table. We had a choice to either make ashtrays out of clay or paint on canvases outside. Neither sounded enjoyable. I decided to paint, since the conservatory was too hot, and I picked through the brushes.
Mavis walked up, whispering. ‘Today?’
‘Today,’ I said, glancing around the room as the girls gathered their painting supplies, listening for Marguerite’s husky voice, and looking for her plain face. ‘If she doesn’t show up, I’ll personally go find her.’ I must find her.
Mavis patted my shoulder so lightly I barely felt it. ‘Good,’ she said.
I held the door open as the girls shuffled outside with their canvases and brushes. Claire stopped in the doorway, canvas under her arm, not giving a second thought to those behind her. ‘Mademoiselle,’ she said. ‘I—’
‘Move on,’ a girl said from behind, which I think Claire would have been happy to ignore, but when she saw it was Victoria, the girl with the ginger hair and freckly face. She stood her ground.
‘I’m talking,’ Claire said, glaring, but by now she’d backed up the line four girls deep, all trying to balance their painting supplies in their arms.
‘We can talk outside,’ I said to Claire, and she huffed, giving Victoria another glare before finally walking over to where Sister Mary-Francis told them set up their easels.
‘I don’t like her,’ Claire said.
‘Who?’ I said, setting up my canvas.
‘That one,’ she said, pointing with her head. ‘With the red hair.’
‘You were holding up the door,’ I said.
‘It’s not just that,’ Claire said.
Mavis brought out chairs for everyone and we got settled on the eastern slope of the convent grounds, in a field of swaying grass that popped with white wildflowers, partially shaded by the willow trees. Claire painted on with zest, first with a glop of green paint and then smearing it all over the canvas, spreading it from edge to edge, talking to me about everything and anything. ‘And who likes chicory coffee?’ she said, which came out of nowhere.
I looked around for Marguerite, over my canvas, and behind my back, but she was nowhere in sight. I dabbed my brush into some paint. ‘I don’t like chicory,’ I said, starting my painting, thinking about Marguerite, her snarling face, that beige skirt she wore on the train to go with her beige face, and all the trouble she could cause me if I didn’t find her.
‘We’re in the Free Zone,’ Claire said. ‘You’d think we’d have better—’
‘Claire!’ Sister Mary-Francis yelped, and Claire dropped her brush in the grass. She ran over, almost tripping on her long, black habit. Her mouth gaped open, staring at Claire’s painting. ‘We… We…’ She scolded her immediately, pointing to the canvas and then to Claire’s palette where she’d swirled her brush through every colour, making a mess. ‘We can’t sell this!’
‘Sorry, sister,’ Claire said, shrinking. ‘I got carried away.’ She ran a cloth over the canvas, taking off some of the paint. ‘I’ll fix it. You’ll see.’ She smiled.
Sister Mary-Francis looked briefly toward the sky, folding her arms, but then noticed my canvas. ‘And what’s this?’ She was pleased this time, smiling.
Claire whipped her head around.
‘Oh,’ I said, pulling my brush away. ‘It’s nothing…’
‘No, Adèle,’ Sister Mary-Francis said, ‘this isn’t nothing. This is—’ Her raised face took on a questioning expression. ‘You never painted like this before.’
Girls set down their brushes and ran over to see what the commotion was all about.
‘I… I have a sister who paints,’ I said as if that was an explanation. ‘She taught me,’ I said, which was a complete lie. I’d never had a lesson in my life. In fact,