The frigid breeze through the cemetery sent shivers up Mary Eunice's spine, sunlight and bright blue sky incongruous with the temperature; she flanked Lana, who wore a hat and dark sunglasses and glanced over her shoulder as they climbed the grassy hill to the mausoleum. Lana clutched a bouquet of pink carnations and white orchids. Her other hand wrapped around the strap of her purse with her knuckles whitening. I wish I could see her eyes. But Lana's face had become unreadable as she searched the deserted grounds for any sign of stalkers.

Leaves had accumulated in the open gray hallways of the mausoleum, but the walls shielded them from the wind, encroached upon them. These walls are weeping with forgotten souls. Many of the monuments did not have flowers or bore decayed stems with flaked petals on the cement floor. What will become of me? Would she, too, fit in a cheap box above ground with no one to mark her with flowers or remember her name? With no one to visit or mourn? The childish thought brought tears to her eyes. It won't matter. You won't care. You'll be dead. And the fewer people you hurt, the better.

The internal monologue quieted when Lana lifted her head and removed her sunglasses and hat, and Mary Eunice followed her gaze to the engraved name, Wendy Elaine Peyser. The wind outside echoed through the halls, straining the silence until Lana broke it. "Her real name was Winifred." She tucked the bouquet into the silver ring and crossed her arms tight; a shiver tossed her shoulders, but Mary Eunice held back, reluctant to intrude in Lana's personal space, her intimate moment with her lost lover. "She hated it so much. The day she turned eighteen, she told everyone—her family and her friends and her teachers—that if they called her Winifred, she would never speak to them again."

A smile quivered upon Lana's lips, wavering into a grimace and then back into the smile, fondness and grief mingled into such wretchedness that Mary Eunice tiptoed nearer. "I called her family the day I got home." The smile vanished, and her eyes closed against the pressure. "Her father answered the phone. I told him—" Her voice choked, but she hadn't begun to cry. She's trying so hard to be strong. Mary Eunice softened, tears upon her own cheeks. You're already the strongest person I've ever known. "I told him she was gone—she'd been murdered—" Lana shook her head. "He went all quiet. Just dead silent. And then he asked me if I was kidding, and I said, 'No, sir.' He didn't say anything else for awhile, and then he said, 'Okay,' and he hung up on me. Just like that. Just—okay."

Mary Eunice's tentative hand pressed to the small of Lana's back, fingers chilled and slow to bend; she could not feel Lana's body heat through her fleece jacket. "But if her mother knew it said Wendy, instead of Winifred—she would lose her mind. She would be furious." The red lower lip trembled. "She was always Wendy to me. I don't know how her family couldn't see her as that—as what she was—couldn't love her the way she came. She was never Winifred. I don't understand—as much as I loved her, as much as she was worth loving, why they couldn't see how amazing she was."

With the backs of her hands, Lana wiped her eyes, smearing the wet tears away from their corners across the bridge of her nose. "I don't understand family—how they love you so much one minute, and one thing changes, and suddenly they don't love you at all. You realize they never loved you. They loved the image they had created of you." She gulped and pinched the end of her nose. "They may have had you your whole life, but they don't know you. And their affection crumbles so easily."

A bitter curve sucked downward at Lana's lips. "The Peysers never loved Wendy. They loved Winifred. Winifred never existed. She was always my Wendy—my goddamned beautiful, perfect Wendy." A shudder wracked Lana's body, a suppressed sob, and she curled into the front of Mary Eunice's habit; Mary Eunice swept her into a hug and held her. "And I miss her—so much." Her choked voice coughed its last pathetic, weeping note as she brought the knuckles of her fist to her lips to stifle her cries.

No words came to Mary Eunice's lips; she held no comfort for Lana except the embrace of her own two arms and the unfathomable twisting guilt and grief and pity in her gut. She resented every word a priest had ever said against homosexuality, every curse treating it like a disease, its practitioners cast out of their families and communities like lepers. How can anyone see this and think their love was not real? She gripped Lana all the tighter. How can anyone see her and think she's anything less than perfect? Why can't they see her magic?

Her tears fell into Lana's hair in clear dribbles. When Lana's sobs stopped wracking her body, she lingered in Mary Eunice's folded arms, eyes closed. Exhaustion pinched their corners. "I'm sorry," she mumbled in her thick voice, croaking around her tears; her cheeks reddened and warmed as she shook her head. "I got snot all over your habit."

A muted, sheepish giggle followed from Mary Eunice's lips. "That's why I'm here." She smoothed Lana's hair back out of her face so the strands wouldn't stick to her face. "I'm your glorified tissue box." Lana snorted, and a wry smile touched her lips; she reached into her purse and found a handkerchief, blowing her nose. "Are you okay?" Mary Eunice pressed the question in a delicate way, knowing the answer, knowing she could do nothing to fix it.

Her arm found its way around Lana's waist as Lana nodded, facing the stone wall once again. She pressed one palm to the cold marble face. "I can't feel her here. I don't feel close to her. I thought, maybe, I could feel her—presence, or something silly like that."

"It's not silly." Mary Eunice knew better than most the feeling of craving the caress of someone long gone; she had wept through too many long nights as a child, wishing her mother would hold her one more time. "I understand."

Lana's tongue darted across her lips as she retracted her hand, folded it into her crossed arms to regain the warmth it had lost. "Do you pray for her? For her soul?"

"Hers and yours, every day."

Lana smiled again, this time more genuine, wistful and rueful but still grateful. "Thank you. For coming with me." She placed her hand over Mary Eunice's and squeezed it. Their cold fingers exchanged and shared the little warmth of their palms. "I don't think I could have come without you." A shadow crossed Lana's face; at the sight of it, Mary Eunice's heartbeat quickened. Lana wore the remembering look, the dark mask she donned when a memory haunted her. We need to leave now.

Lana's mouth dried when her hand brushed the frigid marble. The frost clung to it like it had clung to Wendy's still, pale body, skin preserved in ice and salt. And when she retracted, the blue skin did not disappear. The horrified face remained fixed on her, eyes open and unmoving. Where the purple lips had parted, bloody gums flayed and flopped beneath. No matter how far she fled, the purple lips and open eyes pursued her. "We're going to continue our therapy now, Lana. You can begin by kissing her cold lips."

The shuttering of a camera drove both standing women into a startled flinch. Mary Eunice's grip on Lana tightened as several men approached them, one with a camera around his neck. It flashed in their eyes. In the glare, his silhouette grew. Her breath hitched in her throat. Don't. Don't lose it here. But her tenuous grip on reality had already slipped. By the tips of her fingers, she clung to Mary Eunice, who looked back to her for guidance, shock and bewilderment blurring her blue eyes, and those blue eyes blurred into a frozen, toothless face—Lana gulped for fresh air. The cement walls tainted the flavor, made it dry and chalky.

"Miss Winters! Can you tell us about your friend? Are you a member of the Catholic church?"

This voice wormed its way through the others, mingling, as the crowd multiplied, first three men, then four and a woman, then six men and three women—Mary Eunice whispered, "Where did they all come from?" and Lana's bitter-laced voice spewed, "We're journalists—We teleport to the stories we want," in stifled fury, choking on bile in the back of her throat. Each flash became light reflected on horn-rimmed glasses. Each voice darkened and clipped like a snake striking, like a heartbroken psychopath of a cobra constricting around her ribcage—Stop it, stop it, stop thinking of him. You know where you are. You're with Mary Eunice. The corpse in her memory sprouted blonde hair, the snowy bits hardly a contrast from the golden hue; when she touched the shoulder, Mary Eunice didn't move.

The arm around her waist shifted to the small of her back, and a black curtain of fabric and flesh shrouded her from crowd of chattering voices. Her feet shuffled and staggered along with the ushered, bumping gait, occasionally interrupted by a low chime of, "Excuse us, please."

"Sister, can you tell us your name? Why are you with Lana Winters? Has she confessed?"

"Excuse us, please," she repeated, obstinate as she faced the man; Lana peered up through the sunglasses to the staring contest crackling between Mary Eunice and the reporter. He flashed a coy grin and took Lana's forearm. She jerked upright, tongue twisting to summon anything besides the scream threatening just inside her throat; Mary Eunice intervened, swatting his hand. "Don't touch her!" Her complacence vanished; the lamb of God dissolved into a lioness. The man withdrew like Mary Eunice had bitten him.

Another series of flashes blinded them. In the zapping of the bulbs, Lana saw the white of Wendy's teeth, pearly in a smile, dull in a mask of human flesh; her skin embraced Lana in the dark of their bedroom with the curtains drawn, but it tinged gray in the flourescent lights of Thredson's basement. Mary Eunice propelled her with more force and haste than before. Panic crinkled and reflected in her face. They spooked her. But Lana could not extend a comforting hand or word. She tucked back into her shell, lowering her head beneath the collar of her jacket.

They retreated across the grass graves, crunched through the dry leaves. Mary Eunice stumbled in a patch of overgrown wild onions, but Lana took her wrist and hauled her back to her feet. The flavor of nutmeg swelled on her tongue. "A perfect mommy snack," Thredson had said. She would never enjoy the taste of nutmeg again. Her purse slipped off of her shoulder, and she thrust it at Mary Eunice, not trusting her own shaking, sweating hands. "Keys are in—the front—"

The headlights became a vehicle in the highway, the asphalt scorching the soles of her feet. "Of course it's not your fault. Women are always the victims." The voice of the driver echoed there. "That's what you bitches do. You get out. You leave. You abandon ship at the smallest sign of a storm." His face evanesced in a crimson shower; the reflection of the Shachath in the mirror taunted her, reminded her she could still die, after all this—

Mary Eunice shivered above her, but her voice carried the echo of a memory. "Try not to move. You'll be in terrible pain." Her expression missed something, missed the tenderness Lana now recognized, but she hadn't known then—she expected anyone who had lived at Briarcliff for so long to look completely soulless, the way she felt. "You've had quite the adventure. The police said the car accident was horrific. I'm afraid it was fatal for the driver." Something sparked in her eyes, orange, inhuman; where Mary Eunice would have dissolved into tears at the horror, the demon celebrated. "But you're safe now. Back to Briarcliff, where you belong."

The motor cranked, and Mary Eunice reappeared in real time; Lana's throat constricted at the sight of her in full garb. She flattened reflexively against the car door with a thin cry. A hand fluttered to her lips, like she could grab the sound and shovel it back into her mouth. Mary Eunice jerked to face her, eyes round as saucers, fresh tear tracks on her cheeks. She cries all the time. She cries when she feels anything. "Could you—please—take that off?"

In a smooth sweep of her hand, Mary Eunice removed her coif and veil, but her hands jittered when she started on the buttons, too cold to fix upon each plastic bud and guide it through the hole. Lana closed her eyes until she heard the whoosh of fabric fall onto the seat beside them. Underneath, Mary Eunice wore a long-sleeved deep green T-shirt and a skirt. With her hair tousled and long, she did not fit into the demonic shell, and Lana could meet her eyes, could slide nearer into the stream of air through the vents and the hum of the radio.

They exchanged a glance, words on both of their lips, but they peered out the back windshield first to the river of people emerging from the mausoleum, some of them pointing at the car like weather vanes guiding the direction of the wind, and Mary Eunice pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street before the hoard could catch up with them. Her hands shivered, eyes darting back to Lana, silent pressed lips asking the question her words did not dare construct.

Lana answered it, quiet, not trusting herself to hold steady. "I'm okay." She gulped the remnants of the thickness in her throat. "Thank you." She rested one hand on Mary Eunice's knee, and with the contact, Mary Eunice relaxed, muscles loosening under her touch; alongside her, Lana released a pent breath of relief. We escaped. They had escaped, had run so far—far away from Bloody Face, from specters with black figures and crimson eyes, from prisons cloaked in false benevolence, from priests with kind words and underlying intentions, from greedy bosses, from reporters seeking a story like junkies sought a fix, and still they fled with their backs to the wind. I don't think we'll ever stop running. But as long as they flew together, Lana was okay with that.

Mary Eunice stopped at a sign and waited for the other car to go. "I'm sorry," she said, then, her apology offered with closed eyes as she took a tempered breath to calm herself before driving onward. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't. It wasn't—It was—" Lana's tongue tangled when she sought the moment the first haze had crossed her, the answer to the memories screaming at her, the trauma's echos as vibrant as the original voice. "It wasn't you. I just remembered—something—unpleasant." Mary Eunice didn't ask, but the tormented self-hatred had crossed her face once again, the corners of her eyes and lips pinching like she tasted something bitter. I shouldn't have mentioned it. Lana's heartbeat skipped, but it had begun to slow, no longer panicked by all the prying eyes and flashing bulbs. "About the car accident, and afterward. Seeing you like that is—hard." It's like my darkness crawls out of my eyeballs and walks around beside me. But Mary Eunice was not her darkness. She was the only light Lana knew anymore.

A hesitant silence followed before Mary Eunice ventured, "You were in a car accident?"

Lana turned her gaze out the window, watching the familiar houses as they passed; her tongue darted across her dry lips, chapped by the wind on the cemetery, as she struggled to find a way to summarize the suicidal man she had joined in the cab of the car when she escaped Thredson, when she thought she had found freedom at long last. I have to tell her. "When I got away from Thredson, I jumped in the first car I saw. The driver—he was out of his mind. Out of the fire and into the frying pan—going fifty miles an hour with a gun in his hand. He ate a bullet and let me kiss the trunk of a tree." With an acerbic snort, she curled her lip, muttering, "I'm a magnet for crazy people." She crossed her arms over her chest. At the next stop sign, a mother swung a young child on a tire swing in the front yard. "When I woke up, you were there. It wasn't you, but I didn't know that. You said I was back at Briarcliff. Where I belonged."

She glanced to Mary Eunice, mouth a thin line, and the car rolled onward, slow, blue eyes all around on the lookout for more children. "I'm sorry, Lana," she whispered. "I don't remember." A wrinkle appeared between her eyes. "I wish there were something I could—"

A black blur darted from across the street, and Lana shrieked, "Watch—" right as Mary Eunice slammed the brakes with so much force, she pitched forward and smacked her forehead on the steering wheel. Lana braced herself against the dash of the car. The long-legged form stopped in front of the car, cowering, and then it drew itself back up and dashed ahead, jowls hanging and tail tucked between its hind legs. "Is that a dog?" Lana peered past Mary Eunice, out the driver's window. "That's the biggest dog I've ever seen!"

Mary Eunice massaged the reddening place on her forehead, sprouting a welt between her fingers. "Did I hit it? Is it okay?" The large animal lingered in one of the other yards, smelling around, blocky face and round eyes peering around with pricked ears. "It doesn't look hurt—"

"The dog? Hell, it would've left a dent the size of Texas in my car!"

"I think we should make sure it's okay—"

As Mary Eunice reached to let herself out of the car, Lana dragged her back, arms coiling around her waist in a vice. "Fuck, no! That thing could tear out your throat or something! Leave it alone!"

"It looks lost. It's not drooling, it's not rabid. It's just scared."

Lana didn't relinquish her grip, but she swatted Mary Eunice's hand away from the door handle. "No. Let animal control do its job. If someone's missing it, they'll know exactly what to look for—giant, dangerous black dog." Another vehicle pulled up behind them and honked, and at the sudden blaring sound, the dog wheeled around, galloping off between houses. Mary Eunice took the clutch and drove onward. "Are you okay? That doesn't look good. It's swelling up."

"I just hope the dog's okay." At Mary Eunice's quiet words, Lana softened, gazing at the rising welt on her forehead. She's more compassionate toward a dog than she is toward herself. "Are you sure I didn't hit it?"

"Believe me, something that size, we would've felt it. It wasn't even limping when it ran off. That dog will go on to torment another neighborhood another day. It'll probably bite someone's child or something. Anything that size has got to be a menace." Lana frowned when Mary Eunice didn't relax, still glancing to the left as if seeking a black silhouette returning to haunt her. Why does she care so much? Why is she so gentle? Why does she love so much? The fond questions made her force her lips to curl into a reassuring smile. "It's fine. It's probably someone's hunting dog who ran off. They'll be looking for it now that the season is here. It'll find its home soon enough. You shouldn't worry about it." And with her reassurance, Mary Eunice brightened, eyes glowing as they darted to Lana; she nodded in agreement, consoled by the more plausible and positive arrangement of fictional events surrounding the dog.

Later in the evening, a record spun onward. Mary Eunice worked on a tuna casserole in the kitchen while Lana opened her column for next week's edition; she had sat with the intention of opening the next chapter of her book, but after the morning's events, she dared not press her luck with her memories. Once she had a rough draft, she stood and stretched. "Sister? I'm going to put a load of clothes to wash."

"Okay. I've got about ten minutes left in here."

Lana gathered all of their laundry from the hamper and poured it into the washer. Among the garments were Mary Eunice's habit and coif. Does this get dried? She flipped the hood back and looked for the instructions on the tag. But the white sewn fabric attached to the habit had no instructions, only the handwritten name, "Sr. Jude Martin." Lana's eyebrows quirked. "Er—Sister?"

At her call, Mary Eunice appeared without question or complaint, wiping her hands off on a dish towel. White powder sprinkled under her fingernails. When she met Lana's eyes, she beamed with a full smile. Christ almighty. Lana's heart flopped, a beached fish seeking air, at the expression, complete with her scrooked eye teeth and perfect nude pink lips. Lana cleared her throat to ground herself. She is so beautiful. "Did you know…?" She held her thumb beneath the title scrawled on the tag.

She stepped nearer to read the cursive loops, and the comprehension crossed her face, smile falling and perplexed frown replacing it; she shook her head. "I—I hadn't paid any attention, until now," she admitted. Her eyebrows knitted together. "Why would the Monsignor give me Sister Jude's habit?"

"Maybe she donated it." Mary Eunice detected Lana's false optimism, eyes narrowing at her, and Lana cleared her throat, arching an eyebrow. "Right. I don't know. Could he have stolen it from her?"

"The Monsignor wouldn't steal from Sister Jude. They're the best of friends. They've been together since Sister Jude joined the church. They took on Briarcliff together. He wouldn't do that to her." Mary Eunice's lower lip pursed, but it hadn't begun to tremble; the thoughts in her head traveled through her eyes. Each twitch of her mouth and nose indicated some other whisper in her mind. She is so expressive. "Do—Do you think something bad happened to her?"

Lana snorted, shaking her head. "No. I think Jude might've happened to something bad, but not the other way around." At her words, Mary Eunice chuckled, gaze averting, but the concern didn't dissipate from her expression. "The Monsignor told me Sister Jude was returned to her position after you left. Is it possible she decided to leave?"

"Returned to her position?" Mary Eunice echoed, disbelieving. "What—What do you mean? What happened to her?"

Eyes widening, Lana's lips fluttered. Oh, shit. She had never told Mary Eunice about her brief rule over the asylum with an iron fist, Jude's removal from her position and placement in the madhouse alongside the other loonies, the electroshock treatment that had fuddled all of her memories and thoughts into jumbles, leaving her with brief spans of sanity and grasping at straws the remainder of the time. At her silence, Mary Eunice's dismayed voice pressed, "Lana!" with an agape mouth of distress.

Reaching, Lana took one of her hands and squeezed it, the dry powder smooth between them. "Jude was removed from her position and incarcerated after Leigh Emerson attacked her. She accused you and Dr. Arden of trapping her with him, but the Monsignor didn't believe her." Her face drained of all color as it crumpled, pinching closed, mouth wrinkling against the tears. "You were appointed head of the asylum in her stead, and she was treated as a patient."

Do I stop here? Lana hesitated, considering, as Mary Eunice's mouth quivered. No. She deserves to know. "When she was unruly, you and Dr. Arden gave her electroshock treatment." A muffled whimper came from Mary Eunice's mouth, and she brought a hand to her lips, covering them. Lana's belly twisted into knots. Oh, Mary Eunice, please don't cry. It hurts to see you cry. "When the Mother Superior visited, Jude made my case to have me freed. I didn't know what became of her—but when the Monsignor contacted me about taking you, he assured me she had been restored to her proper place as staff. I'm sure she's fine. She might have given you this as some way to make amends."

Sniffling silence followed. Mary Eunice dabbed her eyes and nose. Lana predicted the question before it came, but she waited for Mary Eunice to ask it. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I—I don't know. I didn't think about it." I didn't want to hurt you. The fearsome, sadistic creature who had run the asylum had disappeared from Mary Eunice's body, hopefully forever, and Lana resented having to consider them one and the same. Her meek, humble friend had never harmed anyone. You already carry so much on your conscience, so much you don't deserve, so much that isn't your fault. I couldn't add to that, not willingly.

Lana took the habit away from her and dropped it in the wash with the rest of the clothes, and she closed the lid, cranked the motor so it began to churn. Mary Eunice avoided eye contact, arms wrapping around her middle, shaking her head in disbelief. "If you're worried about her," Lana ventured, "you could always call and ask to speak with her."

"Do you think she wants anything to do with me now?"

No. The immediate answer died on her tongue. It didn't make any sense. "There's a reason you have her habit." Mary Eunice's teary eyes and streaked cheeks were not inspired by the single sentence, but Lana had a journalist's insatiable curiosity. "Then I'll call them. Okay?"

Mary Eunice bobbed her head in reply. Lana reached for a hug, but a buzzer split the air from the kitchen, and Mary Eunice raced off to save her casserole; the vacant space in her arms astonished Lana, the heaviness of the empty air. Pull yourself together. You've got to call Briarcliff. Her innards gnarled at the prospect of calling back to that awful place, of seeking out Sister Jude. She regretted having offered to do it for Mary Eunice, tip of her tongue tracing the tops of her teeth, their ridges and edges. She deserves it. She deserves to know what happened. You're already broken. Nothing can hurt you anymore. The cold reminder dropped into her belly and sank like a heavy stone to the floor of a pond; the sand rose off of the bottom and muddied the water of her conscience.

Mary Eunice set the table, cheeks pink, eyes bloodshot, and placed the casserole in the center; she had washed her hands, the white powder gone from her skin but not from her shirt. It's for her. She saved your life. You owe her a damn phone call. Her heartbeat quelled into a bundle of nerves, but Mary Eunice shadowed her into the office. The presence made her steel herself as she reached for the telephone and asked the operator, "Could you connect me to the Briarcliff sanitarium?"

The line rang several times before an unfamiliar woman's voice answered, "You've reached Briarcliff sanitarium, Sister Catherine speaking. How can I help you today?"

Sister Catherine? Lana glanced over her shoulder and mouthed the name to Mary Eunice, who frowned and shrugged, before she returned to the call. "Hello. Could I speak with Sister Jude?"

"Sister Jude? No such person works here."

Lana pursed her lips. "Are you sure? She was in charge just a few months ago." They've got a new nun. The newcomer sent a shiver down Lana's spine. What had happened to Jude? Who had replaced her? Had they reassigned her? Or had she left the church entirely?

"Oh, her! Yeah, no, she doesn't work here anymore. We had a new head for awhile—Sister Margaret or something—" Mary, Lana corrected internally, but she bit her lip to keep from interrupting. "—but she was reassigned." No, she wasn't. Lana's brows quirked, and at her puzzled, concerned expression, Mary Eunice mirrored it, fear crossing her mouth in a twisted shadow. "A lot of nuns were reassigned, actually," mused Sister Catherine.

"Do you know where Jude is now?"

"No, really, I haven't a clue. I never met her. Now, the Mother Superior might have an idea, assuming she was reassigned. I'm sorry I can't help you, ma'am."

"Right. Thank you."

Lana dropped the phone back into the cradle and closed her eyes to consider the fragmented information the nun had given her. Many nuns reassigned, she hummed in her own head. But where is Jude? Would Jude have voluntarily given up her position, even if the Monsignor offered it to her? She didn't know Jude well enough to have a certainty in the answer. You have to talk to Mary Eunice. When she opened her eyes, she met Mary Eunice's gaze. "Is she dead?"

The dread dissipated for a moment into a dry chuckle, Lana's chest and shoulders shaking at the innocent, pessimistic question. "She's not dead." The Angel of Death took one look at that bitch and said, "Thanks, but no thanks." Lana restrained the sarcastic thought from emerging. Mary Eunice shrank in relief and did the Sign of the Cross; in her other hand, she clutched her rosary like a shield. "She doesn't work there anymore. The resident nuns were reassigned en masse and replaced. That one didn't even know who I was talking about. She probably got a different position." Mary Eunice's mouth still formed a straight line, and Lana, desperate to see her smile once again, soothed, "I'm sure she's fine. The habit was probably a leftover that someone found in the closet. She's off somewhere reading to children."

The line wavered. Please don't cry more. Lana braced herself, but the lips curled upward into a weak smile. "Those poor children." At the utterance, both of them dissolved into laughter, Mary Eunice giggling with nervous jitters; her hands quivered, and she avoided eye contact with Lana, sacred beads wrapped around her hand, clutched until her knuckles whitened.

Lana touched the back of her fist and unwove the rosary from around her fingers. She tucked it into Mary Eunice's front pocket, watched those fingers coil around empty air, seeking the comfort the item provided. Temptation rose in Lana's chest to replace the rosary with her own hand. She squelched it. You're rebounding. You don't love her. You're lonely. You miss Wendy. You don't know how to be alone. Mary Eunice is untouchable. "Let's eat dinner."

They ate at the table while the record spun onward, the harmonic voices of Simon and Garfunkel chiming about a miserable sparrow with no friends. Mary Eunice pushed her casserole around her plate with her fork. Whenever she took a bite out of it, her nose scrunched up, eyes crinkling at the corners, and she swallowed without chewing and gulped from her water glass.

"Why did you make tuna casserole if you don't like it?" She's made better meals, but it's not worth choking over. Lana had no intention of criticizing the food Mary Eunice prepared; she didn't ask her friend to cook every meal they consumed, and she was grateful she didn't have to take time out of her day to set fires in the kitchen.

Mary Eunice's lips squirmed while she sought an answer. "We had tuna and noodles. I forgot how gross it is, I guess." She shrugged as she chopped her slice into smaller bits, like cutting it up would make it disappear from her plate. "What do you want tomorrow?"

"Er—" Lana frowned. "I'll eat anything. You know that."

"But tomorrow's your birthday. I should make something you like." Lana's lips parted, struggling to form the question, How did you know? but Mary Eunice nodded to the wall. "It's written on the calendar." The date had a glaring red circle around it, and read in Wendy's handwriting, "Lana's b-day." Her cheeks warmed, chest flushed with embarrassment and affection for Wendy. "What kind of cake do you want?"

"You don't have to make me a cake. We had cake two weeks ago, with Barb and Lois. You don't even eat cake—I can't eat a whole cake by myself." Lana cleared the rest of her casserole from her plate and wiped her mouth with her napkin. She took a sip of her wine. "I'll order a pizza, and we can go to the drive-in."

Mary Eunice's eyes widened, her mouth forming a small, gaping O. "I've never been to the movies before," she mumbled. She glanced down at the plate of casserole, considering it, before she dropped her fork back into the plate. She had forfeited the match. The tuna casserole emerged victorious.

"Then you'll get to say you've been to the movies." Lana stood and took their plates, scraping off the remnants into the trash while Mary Eunice ran the hot water to wash the dishes. "I don't even know what's playing. I'll check the paper tomorrow when I read what they managed to make of our fiasco in the cemetery."

Sleeves rolled up to her elbows, Mary Eunice squeezed a gratuitous amount of soap onto the sponge and lathered up the pan in which she had baked the casserole. Her teeth worried her lower lip. On her exposed arm, Lana spied the ridged, scabbed dots where she had picked wounds into her flesh. "Couldn't you ask your boss not to run the article?"

Lana puffed a snort and took the pan when Mary Eunice deemed it clean enough, drying it with a clean dish towel. "Asking Walter Emmerman not to run an article is like asking a businessman to throw away a fifty dollar bill. He thinks with his wallet. People want to read about me, so he'll sell it to them."

"But—earlier, he defended you. Isn't he your friend?"

No, he isn't. I don't have any normal friends. Ordinary people don't mix with our kind. Lana fought those words; Mary Eunice wouldn't understand. She loved everyone. She knew no kind other than humankind. "He wants to keep me around so he can milk my story as long as possible. I'm the best thing that has ever happened to him." Lana's lip curled, and Mary Eunice paused her scrubbing to look back at her. Her bitterness crept through in spite of her best attempts to stifle it. "He doesn't support me more than any of the others. There are only two kinds of straight people—normal people." She dried another plate. "Some of them hate you to your face, and some of them hate you behind your back."

With a pursed lower lip, Mary Eunice tucked away the forks into the silverware drawer. "I don't hate you." Lana's heart sank when she reconsidered her own words, but her jaw set, reluctant to revoke the conviction. "I love you. I don't want anyone to ever treat you differently."

"You don't count. You're married to God." Married to God isn't an exemption, she reminded herself. Those people married to God locked you up in that place. The vows didn't make Mary Eunice different from the others, from the haters. But then what did? What made her so compassionate and loving and accepting where Lana had never found those things? What made her soft? "But—thank you. I appreciate it."

The wry puff that left Mary Eunice's nose startled Lana, sarcastic in its demeanor, and her eyes narrowed. Goddamn, if she isn't acting like me. "You shouldn't have to appreciate being treated like a human being." I've created a cynical nun. How did I manage to do that? But in spite of the dark thoughts coursing through her head, the mocking voices, she knew no amount of prodding commentary could ever alter Mary Eunice's golden heart, dipped in naivete and rolled in compassion like a chocolate covered cherry. "You didn't tell me what kind of cake you want."

"I told you, I don't want a cake." Lana mopped up the flour with a wet rag from the counter and wrung it out. "C'mon, there are Bonanza reruns playing tonight. I know you don't like horses, but maybe you'll catch on." Mary Eunice's hands worried in the air, seeking another duty, eyes scanning the counter for something she may have missed, some chore she hadn't performed. "Let's go."

The night passed in a soft silence for Lana, who awoke the next morning with pale sunlight streaming through the window. "Mm… What time is it?" The chilly air of the bedroom pressed upon her face, and she rolled over onto her side, one arm grappling for Mary Eunice. "It's cold." Her hand patted empty covers, sheets drawn back, and she peeked one eye open to find the other side of the bed vacant. "Sister?" The clock on the wall told her it was nearly nine—later than they liked to sleep, but no great leap from their typical rising between seven-thirty and eight.

Her heart fluttered into her throat as she crawled out of bed, bare toes touching the shag carpet, and she turned to the bathroom, but the door stood wide open, the light off. Lana tiptoed into it anyway; she flicked the switch and glanced around, peeked behind the shower curtain, to no avail. "Sister?" Her voice, intended to project into a call, shriveled into a whisper. Don't be silly; she's got to be here. She wouldn't have just left without telling you. Her skipping chest, however, refused to hear her reason. It insisted something had come in the night and swept Mary Eunice away in complete silence, abandoning Lana without even disturbing her sleep.

She fought her dark thoughts with a sword. The lump in her throat didn't dissipate, no matter how she gulped around it, and into the hallway, she proceeded; her hand hovered over the light switch while she considered if she should turn it on or leave it off. The living room, bathed in golden morning light, held the illusion of innocence. What if someone murdered her? Her lips trembled.

Don't be ridiculous. "Sis—" Her voice choked off at the sound of something clattering in the kitchen. He's putting away the knives now. He's getting rid of the evidence. He killed her with her own knives. On the balls of her feet, Lana prowled, cat-like and fearful as she rounded into the living room and toward the kitchen. A shadow cast out of the room, long upon the carpet, inhuman. It wielded something. The faucet cranked on with water pouring out of it, and Lana flinched at the sound of the spray.

Steeling herself, she stepped past the pictures on the walls, the ones of Wendy smiling at her. Somewhere inside of her, she reached for Wendy, for some guidance, for some strength. An uncomfortable warmth ground inside her. With it, her courage surged. "Sister?"

The shadow wriggled on the shag carpet, but Mary Eunice came around the corner, flour smattered across her face and hair and shoulders like some ghost drenched in white. "Er—good morning." Lana ogled at her, frozen somewhere between terror and humor and utter confusion. "Are you okay? Did you have a dream?"

Lana forced her tongue to loosen from the flat place in the bottom of her mouth, raked it across the rim of her upper teeth, not certain how to answer or what to ask. "I—No—I just, you were gone—why are you—what happened?"

"Oh, dear—it looks pretty bad, doesn't it?" Mary Eunice plucked at the front of her shirt. Flour rose up in a fine cloud of dust before settling back into the fabric. She winced and lifted her eyes back to Lana with a sheepish smile, tucking her arms in.

Lana's uneven breath fought to measure her heart, still pounding in preparation to battle a nonexistent foe. In a breathless voice, she said, "You look like you showered in flour."

Mary Eunice ducked her head. "I—I didn't put it away right. It was propped against the cabinet door. When I opened it, it poured all over me." Lana's gnarled lips found the first hints of a smile and curled upward at the edges when she heard the nun's ashamed reflection. "But I got most of it cleaned up, I think, out of the floor and off the counter—and the pancakes are almost done—" Mary Eunice scrambled back to the frying pan and flipped a stack of golden brown pancakes onto a plate; in another pan, she had eggs sizzling, and in another, bacon. The timer on the oven ticked, twenty minutes left. Good god. "Happy birthday, Lana!" Mary Eunice chimed, like an afterthought, harried but bright with a grin.

Of course. She couldn't just accept no cake as an answer. She had to freak out. When isn't she freaking out? "I suppose you've given yourself this aneurysm for me, haven't you?" Under the haze of flour upon her face, Mary Eunice blushed, averting her eyes; her hands tittered in front of her, awaiting a rebuke. Her lips twisted downward at one corner with guilt, and Lana swore she could hear the chanting in Mary Eunice's mind, berating herself. Lana approached her with open arms. Mary Eunice shuffled into the embrace, and Lana pecked her upon the cheek with dry lips. "Thank you." Nestled so close, Mary Eunice's unique rainy smell mingled with the mask of flour, now clinging to Lana's clothes as well. "You didn't have to do this. I didn't expect anything." And it makes it harder to keep from loving you to death. Lana forced herself to separate first, to sever before her mind galloped with free images of the modest curves pressing against her.

"It's your birthday. It's supposed to be special." Mary Eunice flipped the bacon and scraped the eggs out of the frying pan. The pancakes had brown dots on their surfaces, a smattering of chocolate chips in each one, and beside the refrigerator, she had set out the can of whipped cream. She made a breakfast feast. "The chocolate cake recipe was circled in the cookbook, and there were some changes to it—I followed those—"

Lana wet one of the washcloths under a stream of water from the faucet and returned to Mary Eunice, catching her by the chin. "I didn't know you used the cookbook." She mopped the white powder off of her face and dusted it from her shirt.

"I—I don't, usually, but I didn't know how to make a cake." Mary Eunice scrunched up as Lana scrubbed her face and swiped the wet rag over her hair to loosen the powder from its snowy hold upon her golden locks. "It might be a little flat—I guess we'll just find out."

"I'm sure it will be fine," Lana soothed. "Put chocolate on anything, and I'll think it's the best thing since sliced bread." Her lips curled upward into a smile as her pulse quieted from the rapid firing squad style back down to the typical pace, skipping beside Mary Eunice, but steady all the same.

They ate at the table, Lana enjoying a glass of orange juice while she struggled through the decision-making processes—which food to eat first, how much whipped cream and syrup to drizzle on the pancakes, busting through the bacon and eggs. This is how you become fat in a single meal. It's like Thanksgiving, but breakfast. Oh god, I'm going to have Mary Eunice for Thanksgiving. That's going to be fun. She couldn't resist the grin tempting her lips at the prospect; in her mind, Mary Eunice scrambled over a turkey, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, dressing, green beans, corn, brussels sprouts, cranberry sauce—more food than either of them could ever eat.

At the expression on her face, Mary Eunice perked up, and Lana cleared her throat; she had managed to muck her way through the eggs and bacon, but she still had a pancake left, oozing chocolate and syrup and whipped cream. "I'm just thinking about Thanksgiving," she explained, "and you, overreacting at the prospect."

Mary Eunice masked her smile behind a glass of milk. She hadn't managed through as much of her plate as Lana; her pile of eggs hadn't dwindled, nor had her supply of bacon, and she sawed through the last bit of her pancakes. "Do you want to do something for Thanksgiving?"

Lana shook her head. "Lois and Barb go back to their families. I suppose I could talk to Earl, but he would inevitably have some teenager to drag around like a trophy prize. It would be all kinds of uncomfortable." Mary Eunice bobbed her head as she shoveled the eggs around upon her plate, like she expected them to vanish the more she moved them. After a few more scrapes, she took another fork full of food. Her eyes darted back up to Lana with a shy question, but she didn't press it, and Lana didn't ask. Once she had emptied her plate, she stood and washed it off.

"I'll get it—"

"I eat the food, I clean up the mess." Lana took the empty pans from the stove. "You can shower, if you want. You've got flour in places no person should have flour." Mary Eunice looked to her, uncertain, asking her intentions, and Lana returned the look with a smirk, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Go. I won't start a fire or break something." When Mary Eunice approached, her lips began to form a question, and Lana waved her off. "Yes, I'm sure."

A giggle burbled to Mary Eunice's mouth. "How do you always know what I'm thinking?" She had the soft glow on her face, the admiration which dawned over her expression whenever Lana made her feel validated.

"You wear it on your face." Lana took her plate and dropped it into the steaming dish water. But Mary Eunice's eyebrows quirked in confusion, pleading for a little more, a clearer clue, and Lana continued, "Reading people is in my job description. And you're very expressive. Even if you don't realize it." I can always see how much you care. Lana plucked her lower lip between her teeth to keep from speaking the last bit.

"Is—Is that a good thing?"

Lana chuckled at the uncertainty in Mary Eunice's voice. "Yes. It's a good thing. I like watching your face." The blush tinged upon her round cheeks, and Lana resisted the urge to peck her there once more, to watch her flush and fluster, all gobsmacked and speechless and grateful, the way that never failed to warm the inside of Lana's belly. "Go on. I've got this."

Mary Eunice shuffled out of the kitchen, belly and chest equal parts full; she had filled the first with food, and the second never failed to swell in Lana's presence. You didn't get her anything. But Mary Eunice had no money, nor did she know how to make anything. So she cooked, sprinkling bits to make it special, questioning if she had done enough, as if anything could ever be enough to thank Lana for everything she had done. Mary Eunice had a friend for the first time in her life, and she couldn't give it back.

Once she had showered, deeming herself cleansed of all remnant flour, she donned a turtleneck and a long pair of pants, anticipating the chilly weather; she didn't want to shiver her way through a movie because she hadn't had the forethought to wear something appropriate. Combing through her hair, she let it lie flat and straight. She had wrung it out after the shower, but it retained water. She had grown accustomed to wearing wet hair at Briarcliff, stuffed beneath her coif like the rest of her body.

Hair rid of tangles and dressed in new, clean clothes, Mary Eunice emerged from the bathroom to find Lana, back to her, wearing nothing but her underwear. Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle her squeak of surprise, so in silence, she waited and watched. The twin swells of Lana's breasts expanded from her figure, the smooth skin exposed but nipples not visible. Her old panties had stretched into bagginess, but the curve of her thighs gave way to her masked buttocks. The plains of her back held a motley of scars. Her ribs and shoulder blades protruded where she hadn't yet regained the weight Briarcliff had stolen from her. She's the most beautiful person I've ever seen before in my life.

A dizziness flooded Mary Eunice; she feared she would faint on the spot at the sight of Lana. But then her lungs involuntarily gasped for air. She had forgotten to breathe with all the glory before her. For hours, she could have stared at that outline, imagined her fingers tracing the lines of bones and scars. Her fingertips yearned to kiss Lana's exposed skin. She wanted the story of every scar read aloud to her. She wanted to protect every inch of Lana's body from harm. I am so blessed to have her as my friend. She is God's finest creation.

Lana continued to dress, and when she turned to Mary Eunice, fully clothed, she flinched in surprise. "Oh! I didn't hear you come out." Under her gaze, shame inundated Mary Eunice's chest and her face; her hands wrung, searching for an explanation for her spying in silence. Stupid pervert. You're worse than Spivey. Lana's skin flushed as well when she noted the redness dawning over Mary Eunice. You embarrassed Lana. Stupid stupid stupid.

Having embarrassed Lana counted as a sin in itself, and the instinctive guilt burbled in her gut, telling her she had done something wrong, even if she did not recognize the commandment forbidding it. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare." It was not envy, for she did not yearn to make Lana her own, nor did it feel lustful; she had no craving to perform any dark act on Lana's person. The emotions Lana created inside her, she had not felt before, but they did not taint her. They were the purest thing within her.

Lana wore a self-deprecating smirk, and in the blink of an eye, the embarrassment faded from her face, replaced by a certain ease with which she regarded Mary Eunice. "Some things are just too hideous to take your eyes off of," she teased.

Brow furrowing, Mary Eunice dug her toes into the shag carpet; they held the chipping layer of polish Lana had given them. "But—that's not it." She did not recognize Lana's quip as a joke and sought to rectify the words, to craft the proper words telling Lana what she thought. "I think you're beautiful." Her tongue darted across her lips, wondering how far to push, how much to reveal. "Probably the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

A weak snicker rose from Lana's mouth, but nervousness gave it a wheezy texture, and one hand fluttered to her collar bones as she approached Mary Eunice. "You must not have seen very many beautiful things, then." Her index finger stopped Mary Eunice's lips from conjuring another honest response. "I'm joking."

Why am I so stupid? I'm an idiot. "But—thank you." Lana's brown eyes fluttered to her face and scoured it with the soft depths like hot chocolate. "That's very kind of you to say." I'm not flattering you. I mean it. Something else rested in Lana's face, somewhere in the crinkles of her eyes and lips, some emotion, but she did not speak upon it; Mary Eunice's heart, pounding along in her throat, refused to slow enough for her to question.

When the coy smile returned to Lana's face, Mary Eunice anticipated the change in subject. "I got the cake out of the oven. It's cooling." She searched the room for the clock. "The newspaper should be here by now. Let's see what they had to say about us." Mary Eunice eased with the words, and she brightened, agreeing with a jerk of her head. In the blink of an eye, the sinful, shameful pangs faded, lost somewhere between the teeth of Lana's smile.