A/N: Thank Bittah, not me, for making part 3 appear so freaking soon after part 2. She's a pain in my ass. And I say that in the best way possible, of course. :) I don't really have time to do individual SO's, so i'll just say thank you to alllll my reviewers, ya'll don't know how much your little notes mean to me! that's a hint to leave me more!

And that was how I found myself, every morning, standing in that stupid cart with Sister Agnes and sister Clarence , handing out bread and coffee even I wouldn't touch to these street kids, who took it like it was a gourmet meal. It tore me up inside, this constant confrontation with my not-so-distant past. The small ones especially made my throat tight. In every single little girl I saw myself, minus about ten years.

Sometimes the other Sisters asked why my eyes went all puffy and red when we did these morning excursions.

Allergies, I told them. So much dust in the air these days. I would never allow anyone to know how much they hurt me, those trips. Never in a million years.

I had been executing this duty for about three weeks when something—or rather, someone—caught my eye.

It was Jimmy Conlon.

Well, so I thought at first. Then I realized the age was all wrong. Jimmy must have been ancient by now—twenty-three, or something near that. And this boy, he was young. Younger then me, at least.

Maybe he was about thirteen. Fourteen, at the most, but that didn't stop him from looking exactly like Jimmy—from what I could remember. You'd have been surprised at what four years of constant suffering and solitude did to my state of mind, how the pain and the sorrow and the tedium of Convent life slowly beat all the happy memories, all the toughness and obstinance that I was so proud to possess, back into the cobwebbed corners of my head. The years had changed me, and I felt as if I was sitting helpless and bound in a chair, watching this new girl I had become, this girl who no longer had the energy nor the hope to fight the system as much as her spirit wanted her to.

The boy that had caught my eye had a round face and shaggy chocolate-colored hair that fell into smiling blue eyes. His lips curled into a haughty smirk, so reminiscent of the Conlon boys that it took my breath away, tugging up the corner of his mouth wickedly. Thirteen years old and already a lady-killer.

He would come to my cart just about every morning, flashing that grin and charming two (rather than the allowed one) chunk of bread out of my whicker basket. Then he'd hang around the street corner for awhile, shooting the breeze with his friends, chomping away at the cardboard bread and sucking down the watery coffee, until in the distance the newspaper distribution center bell tolled and he scampered off like a squirrel toward the noise. So he was a newsie, I realized, like so many other street kids. Like I used to be.

I watched this all with a painful, tight feeling in my chest, a feeling that made it hard to breath. What I would've given to step off that cart, to shed that long dark dress, that heavy rosary looped around my wrist like an iron chain. All the money in all the world wasn't worth the price I would pay.

As it happened, I didn't need to pay any money. Not one cent. It was a couple of thugs who turned out to be my ticket to freedom, one sunny, warm August morning.

My little boy, my little Jimmy-who-wasn't, was in a bit of trouble, or so it appeared from my perch on the cart. A threatening knot of three older boys were advancing upon him, and I could hear their deep voices shouting threats to the boy, who was attempting to look brave a few feet away. I could see in the way he held himself, in the way he lifted his chin and clenched his fists, that he wouldn't run. Not in a million years. Just like the Conlon boys would have done.

I watched this all, holding my breath. The cup of coffee in my hand was held suspended over the crowd of kids, who were gazing up at it like baby birds, hands outstretched. Sisters' Clarence and Agnes didn't seem to notice the impending violence about to take place nearby.

Typical.

The boys were drawing their weapons when a shout erupted from a nearby alley, and a lanky young man came swaggering over to them, slingshot in hand. The thugs' faces turned the color of the old bread I was holding. Little Jimmy's grin was as wide as the Mississippi.

'Ey!" The hero was advancing quickly toward the group of boys, who were trying their best to look innocent. It was a sorry act, to be honest. They still clutched their brass knuckles and knives in their fists. "What d'ya think your doin'?"

Rather then answering, the villains fled, disappearing down the street, the laugher of the crowd nipping at their heels. The older boy cuffed Little Jimmy's chin in a brotherly gesture as the pair strolled over to my cart. A throng was quickly forming around them, each face full of admiration and awe. This boy, obviously, was something special. Someone with power. He grinned up and me, and my heart stopped beating.

"Good Sisters, I'll need yer best cup 'a coffee for me cousin Charlie here, if ya please." Pete Conlon held out his hand as his gaze swept over the three women standing above him.

The cup I had clenched in my fingers went crashing to the ground with a metallic, harsh clatter.

"Oh Rose, this city is huge. You know that. It could have been anyone."

I sat back against my bed with a sigh, Becky hovering over me like a concerned mother. "No, you don't understand. It was him, Beck. It was Pete. I'd bet money on it."

Becky made a small noise of disdain. "Gambling is a sin."

I rolled my eyes. "It's just an expression, for Christ's sake." She winced again, but I ignored her. "Look, you have to help me. What do I do?"

Hades, who had thankfully been keeping herself out of the conversation up until that moment, sniffed slightly and peered up from her sewing to glare at me. "It's a lost cause, if ya ask me.

I sent a scathing glare in her direction. "I didn't ask you."

"He'll never come to that cart again," she continued as if I hadn't said anything, "that was your one chance, and you lost it. Let it slip right through your fingers." She sighed, a mockingly sympathetic tone affecting her words. "What a shame. Poor Rose, all alone once again."

I was well on my way to getting to my feet to belt her, but Becky put her hand on my shoulder, a warning look accompanying the gesture. The punishment for fighting, I had already found out, was particularly nasty. "At least I don't have a family that hates me so much they ship me off to a convent!" I spat to Hades, who then turned pink to the tips of her ears with anger.

"You're right, you worthless, rude little street rat. You don't have a family at all!" She threw her mending at me and stood up in a huff.

Becky, ever the peacemaker, stepped between us just in time. "Girls! Please, stop. I don't want to be the one to explain to Mother Superior again why the two of you have matching black-eyes…as fun as that was the first few times."

We both complied, our love for Becky and her kind manner triumphing over other, less pleasant emotions. Poor Becky. The only one out of our trio who actually wanted to become a nun. Why, exactly, was beyond me but…she had a good soul. She was cut out for the job.

Hades retreated to the far side of the room in angry silence, and I collapsed back onto the bed, hugging my knees to my chest. "Becky, I can't just forget about this. It was Pete. Pete, Beck. I have to talk to him—or at least see him again. God, I have to do something."

Becky sat down beside me, stroking my hair. "Okay. So you want to do something. But what? I mean, you could talk to him, sure. But what'll that lead to?" She paused, letting the question sink in. "Nothing," Becky finally continued, "because you can't leave this place. You know that, Rose. As much as you'd like to ignore it."

I closed my eyes, chewing on my bottom lip. She was right, of course. When was Becky ever wrong? But to simply ignore the fact that I saw Pete again…and to let the chance of talking to him, asking him just what happened that night just slip through my fingers like sand…

"No," I said, lifting up my head and looking at her. "I have to. I can't let it go, Becky. I just can't."

She looked at me in silence for a long time before sighing and getting to her feet. "Fine," she said. "But I refuse to help you on this one. You're on your own."

I grinned at her turned back. Becky would always help me. It was her nature.

The next few weeks of my task were executed, surprisingly, with a light heart. Mother Superior, I can sufficiently say, was stumped. I do believe it was the first time I had ever done anything in the convent without putting up a fight.

Every morning I would stand like a soldier at attention on my humble cart, eyes darting around the streets around me, searching for Pete as a hawk sought out its prey. For weeks, this torture endured without so much as a hint of his return, and I had just about given up…until one day, like a miracle, he came strolling up to my cart again, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Got a little better grip on those cups today, eh?" He said with a smirk, accepting the coffee I handed him with a stunned expression. I blinked at him.

"Huh?"

"Last time I was here you were quite a butterfingers, droppin' everythin' everywhere. Not to mention mute. So you -do- speak, huh?"

I finally found my voice, but it was shaky and unstable. "Oh. Oh right…with Jimmy." The name had rolled off my tongue out of habit. Pete narrowed his eyes at me.

"Jimmy, Sister?"

I froze. Jimmy? Had I said that out loud? Jesus, I think I had. Stammering, I shook my head. This was not going as planned, not at all. "I mean—your cousin. The little boy. And um—I'm not a Sister. Not by a long shot."

His bright blue eyes bore into me, and I couldn't help but stare back. My heart was jumping around my chest like a rabbit.

"Not a Nun, huh? You look...familar." His eyes darkened suddenly, forehead furrowing. "What's your name?"

I swallowed hard. It was now or never. "Rose," I said. It was barely a whisper. "Rose Nolan."

Pete's jaw went slack, eyes wide and blinking dumbly. "Rose?"

In one swift and graceful movement he seized my arm and yanked me off the cart. Sister Agnes and Sister Clarence, busy with the clamoring crowd of children eager to be fed, failed to notice my rather obvious descent. I silently thanked God I was paired with two of the most senile—not to mention blind and deaf—sisters in the convent.

Pete's face was inches from mine, his hand still tight on my arm. "Cut the bullshit. Tell me the truth. Who are you? And how the hell d'ya know about Rose Nolan?"

"Pete, please," I whispered, trying in vain to pry myself free of his vice-like grip, "I'm not lying. For Christ's sake."

"Rose Nolan is dead. She's been dead." His voice was confident, assured, but he looked as if he had come face to face with a ghost.

"No! No, She'sI'm not dead…Pete, I'm standing right here in front of you! See? I ain't a ghost. Flesh and blood! See? Alive and well." Grabbing his wrist, I put his palm to my face. He pulled it away like it had been burnt, shaking his head.

"No. No. You're...you're dead. Rose Nolan is dead."

A sudden noise from the cart made my head snap up. The sisters were packing up, getting ready to leave. Sister Clarence was gathering the reins of the two ancient mares that pulled us to our daily chore of charity. I cursed softly.

"Listen," I hissed to Pete, climbing back on the cart, "if you believe me–hell, even if you don't–you'll meet me back here. Tonight, at midnight." The words slipped out before I had even finished thinking them. Details would come later.

With a creak, the cart began to move, and Pete nodded. "Right on this corner!" He shouted as I retreated down the street. "Midnight sharp!"

Midnight sharp. I tilted my face up toward the sun and focused on the warmth, trying desperately to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach that was growing by the second. What had I been thinking? Spitting those absurd words out before my mind could process them. Midnight…and I would be locked in like a death row inmate in the cold gray building I called home.