Our lives continued in much the same way, with walks in the Pyrenees and Arabic lessons, and I didn't press Mireille about her secret. But it rankled in the back of my mind. Sometimes I thought about asking one of the novices, Therese, Angelique, and Ursuline, because they obviously knew it. But the secret was Mireille's to tell, and it would feel like betrayal if I asked the novices.

Then, one day, Sister Agathe asked Mireille to join her in her study. "I think she might have news of the Abbess," said Mireille. I will probably be in her study until dinnertime. So it looks like we won't have our Arabic lesson today. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," I said. "It's much more important for you to find out where the Abbess is. I can find something to do for myself."

I went to the library and noticed a pile of newspapers stacked on the table. I saw they were from 1793, and as I picked one up, the name of Marat leapt out at me from the page. I had always hated Marat, almost as much as Robespierre, who killed my family, and when I learned of Valentine's death at his hands, I hated him even more. I thought he was one of the worst monsters who ever lived. I picked up the newspaper and read the article, which was an account of Marat's death. "He deserved it," I thought. "If anyone deserved to die, it was Marat. And Robespierre, too," I added.

The article told me only what I already knew, or thought I knew: that Charlotte Corday had stabbed Marat to death in the bathtub, where he spent all his time to relieve the itching from the hideous sores he had from some dreadful disease. The murder had been political: Charlotte Corday had been a supporter of the exiled Girondins, the moderates in the Convention. My family had been Girondins, too. I could understand why Charlotte Corday had done what she did, but the consequences were terrible: her act had made a martyr of Marat, and led to the deaths of many of the Girondins, including my family, at the hands of Robespierre and his friends. If she had wanted to put an end to the Terror, she should have killed Robespierre instead, I thought. But I had felt very sad when she had gone to the guillotine. I hadn't actually seen her, though. I was too afraid to watch the processions of people going to the guillotine. If I had seen her, I would have known she looked like Mireille.

But then, when I put that newspaper aside and picked up another, I stared at the page in shock. I couldn't believe what I was reading. I sat there for a moment in horror, and then I closed my eyes, wishing the horrifying story would go away, or that it had all been a huge mistake. When I opened my eyes, though, it was still there. It said:

"We have evidence that Charlotte Corday was not the assassin of Marat. The real murderer was Mireille de Remy, an 18-year-old novice of Montglane Abbey, who bears a strong resemblance to Charlotte Corday. Mireille killed Marat in a confrontation over the pieces of the Montglane Service, a chess set which once belonged to Charlemagne and which is believed to hold a secret of great power. She acted to avenge the death of her cousin Valentine, who died at Marat's hands, also for the sake of the Montglane Service."

My stomach churned, and I could hardly breathe. It couldn't be! My friend Mireille had committed a horrible murder. I threw the newspaper to the floor in disgust and picked up the next one, hoping it would retract the story. But it didn't:

"Charlotte Corday, as we now know, did not kill Marat. She went to the guillotine in place of her friend Mireille de Remy, a novice of Montglane Abbey in the Pyrenees, who was the real murderer of Marat."

And every newspaper in the pile told the same story: Mireille had killed Marat.

I desperately fought to find a way it could not be true. Hoping against hope that the newspapers were making up terrible lies, I went over Mireille's story in my head, trying to place Marat's murder into what she'd told me, hoping she'd been elsewhere at the time. But no, the brief time she'd come back to France from Algeria coincided exactly with Marat's murder and Charlotte Corday's execution: July 10-17, 1793. Of course! That had been the secret Mireille was going to tell me, the one she was afraid I'd hate her for if I knew.

I felt sick to my stomach as I thought of Marat's murder and all that blood. Mireille, my best friend, had stabbed a helpless, sick old man in the bathtub. If she had killed in self-defense, I would have understood, but this was cold-blooded murder. I couldn't believe it of my kind friend, but I knew the newspapers weren't lying. How could I have been so deceived in her? I wanted to get out of Montglane as soon as I could, so I'd never have to see her again.

And then I heard someone come into the library. I hoped it wasn't Mireille, and I was relieved to see it was Therese. "There you are, Sara," she said. "You're late for dinner again."

"I'm not hungry."

Therese came closer and said, "You're as white as a sheet! Are you sure you shouldn't go to the infirmary?"

I hesitated. I was tempted to, and I certainly didn't want to go to the refectory where I would see Mireille, but I also didn't want the nuns to worry about me. I decided to make my arrangements to leave Montglane as soon as possible. So I followed Therese to the refectory. But as we left the library, she saw what I had been looking at. "So you know, then, about Mireille's brave act," she said. "She's our hero, you know."

"Brave? A hero?" I shouted. "She killed a helpless old man in the bathtub. A cold-blooded murderer is what she is! How can you stand living here with her?"

Therese looked shocked. "She avenged her cousin Valentine's death. You never knew Valentine, but they were closer than most sisters are. Mireille was absolutely devastated by her death. And she saved all our lives. Marat was going to come after all of us and send us to the guillotine, just for being nuns. And can you imagine what he would have done if he'd gotten his hands on the secret of the Montglane Service? None of us knows exactly what that is yet, but from what we've heard, whoever figures out the formula can control the world. Can you imagine would would have happened if the formula had fallen to that monster's hands? It could have meant the end of the world! She saved all of us. And you call her a murderer?"

I sighed. I knew all that, but still... "I understand, but what she did was murder, pure and simple. I can't condone that."

She shook her head. "After all her kindness to you, you're willing to believe the worst of her?"

"What else can I believe?"

"Do you see everything in black and white?"

I thought for a minute. "Perhaps I do."

"There are plenty of shades in between, you know. You just have to learn to see them."

"And what right have you to lecture me? You're younger than me."

"I'm not lecturing. I'm just stating the facts."

But by that time we had reached the refectory. I sat as far from Mireille as I could and refused to look her in the face. I could tell the nuns were surprised, because we had always sat together before. I found myself sitting next to Angelique, who asked, "Have you and Mireille quarreled?"

"Something like that," I replied. "I don't want to talk about it." Angelique shrugged and didn't say anything more during the whole meal. But I could hardly eat a bite, and I felt my stomach churning. I couldn't wait to get out of the room, and Mireille's presence.

As soon as dinner was over, I went to bed and pretended to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I didn't want any of the novices to ask me questions, and, above all, I didn't want to see Mireille. Since I was not a nun or a novice, I didn't have to get up in the middle of the night to pray, and I had always been glad of that. Usually I got a good night's sleep at Montglane. But not that night. Although I pretended to be asleep, I didn't actually sleep at all. I kept thinking of the horrible murder Mireille had committed.

In the morning, as I heard the bell ring for Prime, I didn't want to leave my bed. I wanted to lie there all day. And then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I cringed as soon as I saw it was Mireille. Too disgusted to look her in the face, I turned over in bed and pretended to ignore her.

"Sara?" she asked. "What's wrong? Are you ill?"

I said nothing.

"Do you need to go to the infirmary?"

I ignored her.

"Don't you want your Arabic lesson?"

No reply.

"Or would you like to go for a walk in the mountains? It's a beautiful day."

I finally managed to growl, "Go away!" And I stayed in bed and didn't go to breakfast. My appetite had not returned, and I still felt sick to my stomach. But I knew I couldn't lie in bed forever. I had to speak to Sister Agathe and make my arrangements to leave Montglane as soon as possible. Did Sister Agathe know what Mireille had done? I wondered. She was so pious and so strict with the novices when they broke the rules, I coudn't imagine her condoning Mireille's act. But from what Therese had said, it sounded like everyone at Montglane knew-and approved. It was hard to fathom that.

Meanwhile, I had to start going to meals again, or the nuns really would send me to the infirmary. All I could do was sit as far from Mireille as possible and not look her in the face. But once I caught a glimpse of her face, and I could tell she looked puzzled and hurt. I was sure she wondered why I was avoiding her.

For the next few days, after she realized I wouldn't have anything to do with her, she spent her time helping the younger novices with their lessons. She was so patient with them, and kind when they made mistakes, it was hard to believe she was the same person who'd stabbed a man to death. And yet she had.

Then, one evening as we were leaving the refectory after dinner, and all the nuns and novices had gone to pray, she caught up with me. "Sara, why have you been avoiding me?" she asked.

I took a deep breath. "I found out about Marat," I said.

She nodded. "I thought so. That day in the library, wasn't it? You saw the newspapers?"

"Yes."

"I was going to tell you, you know. That time we were interrupted. You hate me, don't you?"

I saw tears well up in her eyes, but I couldn't help myself. "Murderer!" I shouted. "How could you have done such a thing?"

The tears were flowing down her cheeks now. "I didn't mean to," she said, her voice breaking. "Honestly, I didn't mean to kill him. But one thing led to another... I'll tell you what happened, if you'd like me to. It's painful to speak of it, but you need to know how it was."

"How could you not have meant to kill him? You brought a knife with you, didn't you?"

"To defend myself. After what he did to Valentine, I needed all the protection I could get."

"But he was helpless, in the bathtub." I felt my blood boiling. "You're a murderer! Go away! I don't want to see you again."

"You know, I hate myself for it. It's been two years now, but I still feel such overwhelming guilt."

"And you should. Killer!"

"Sara, I'm still the same person I was before you found out what I did."

"No, you're not the person I thought you were. Not at all. I'm going to leave Montglane so I'll never have to see you again."

With her face red, and tears running down her cheeks, she turned away and walked towards the dormitory. I waited in the library until I was sure she must have fallen asleep, before I went to bed.