Sister Julienne stroked the marking on her palm as she waited for the new postulant. The X-shaped mark had been there since birth, and led her to her current path. Many people were no longer sure they believed in soulmarks, but she always had. It was why she knew that though she had cared for Charlie, all those years ago, she was on the right path: though her old name marked him, his name was nowhere on her skin.
Of course, she knew that the marks were different for everyone. Though some orders were strict about those whose marks they'd accept into their walls, Nonnatus House allowed for a wealth of interpretations, as they knew God called each in a different way. Sister Monica Joan's was a name in a language she only now recognized as Sanskrit; the nun claimed her soulmate was the hero of an epic called the Ramayana, born several generations too early to whisk her away to warmer shores. Sister Evangelina had been Enid before joining the order, taking the name that had been tattooed on her inner arm since before she could remember. Mother Jesu Emmanuel had always been without one. And hers, she assumed, as she could find no other, must be the scar-like mark on her palm. She traced it instinctively when she crossed herself, like now, as the thunder cracked outside Nonnatus House.
The sister checked her watch; nearly time for vespers. The new girl should have arrived half an hour ago. She gazed out anxiously into the rain, hoping wherever she was she'd have an umbrella.
She didn't, as it turned out. The train from Edinburgh had arrived late, and the poor young nurse had made her way as best she could, slowed by the torrential downpour. When Sister Evangelina finally answered the door, it was to a tiny, apologetic young thing dripping rainwater from her skirts into her utility shoes.
"Get in out of the rain, girl!" Sister Evangelina had nearly shouted at the poor postulant, shunting her in off the step and into the kitchen for a hot cup of tea. Swaddled in blankets, the little Scot turned red in the ears as Sister Monica Joan plied her with cake and Sister Mary Frances urged her to take another sweater from the charity box. She just looked so delicate in her big wooly sweater and foggy specs, Sister Julienne thought, it was hard not to want to take care of her.
Despite all the sisters' care, though, the new Novice Bernadette had caught a cold. Sister Evangelina sent her straight back upstairs when she came to lauds sniffling and suppressing a chesty cough.
"Honestly, how will the girl ever learn to take care of her patients when she won't even look after herself, Sister," Evangelina scoffed as she held open the door for Sister Julienne to enter. The grumpy nun closed the door with a grumble and a promise to bring a fresh pot of tea and a hot water bottle.
"I'm terribly sorry, Sister. I didn't want to keep you all waiting but I'd left my umbrella in the station when I transferred." Novice Bernadette twisted her hands. "I hate to cause a fuss, when you're all so busy."
"Think nothing of it," said Sister Julienne gently, taking supplies from her medical bag. "Caring for others is what we do-what you will do-and we take pride and pleasure in it. Despite what Sister Evangelina's demeanor might sometimes lead you to believe." The novice rolled up her sleeve to allow Sister Julienne to take her pulse, trying not to wince at her ice-cold fingers.
The name was just above her wrist. A flicker of the sister's eyes were all that betrayed her, but Novice Bernadette was quick to offer an explanation.
"He died in the war," she said softly.
"You must have been so young," Sister Julienne laid a hand on her arm.
"Yes," Bernadette admitted.
"I'm sorry, it's not my place to ask questions," said Sister Julienne, reaching around to listen at her back. "I've seen those with marks of all sort, in and out of the religious life."
The young nun nodded. "I know many people don't believe in them anymore, but I do. I suppose I have it to thank for leading me here."
"Well, your pulse is normal, and we're very happy to have you." Sister Julienne indicated to Novice Bernadette she should make herself comfortable once more.
The new nun burrowed further into the warm blankets as the Sister took her leave. She felt at home here, even with the grumpy one, and the nun who'd quoted her what seemed to be poetry from another language. Close to drifting off, she moved to roll down her sleeves, but not before performing the habit that was near instinctual, touching a hand to her wrist to feel the name that marked her: Patrick.